TWELVE  «:::.:.  TUB IHS 
■  •■  .•  C!:ji:il'.A2^D  PROSl- 


MCWCi. .' .::  ANDREWS 


Prof.   John  3.    Tatlock 


^/Xx^^^-^r^^ 


TWELVE   CENTURIES 


OF 


ENGLISH  POETEY  AISTD  PROSE 


SELECTED   AND   EDITED 
BY 

ALPHONSO    GERALD    NEWCOMER 

PROFESSOR    OF    ENGLISH    IN    THE    LELAND    STANFORD    JUNIOR    UNIVERSITY 

AND 

ALICE    E.    ANDREWS 

TEACHER    OF    ENGLISH    IN    THE    CLEVELAND    HIGH    SCHOOL,    ST.    PAUL 


CHICAGO 
SCOTT,  FORESMAN  AND  COMPANY 


^/7 


COPYKIGHT    1910 
BY 

SCOTT,  FORESMAN  &  CO, 


■^?^s^ 


J^"7Xbi*v6 


p.  F.  Pkttibosk  &  Co. 

Frlntem  and  Binders 

Chicago 


INTRODUCTION 


This  book  was  undertaken  in  response  to  the  desire,  expressed  by  many  teachers, 
for  a  large  body  of  standard  English  literature  in  an  accessible,  compact  form,  to 
accompany  and  supplement  the  manuals  of  literary  history  in  use.  As  the  project 
gradually  shaped  itself  in  the  editors'  hands,  it  took  on  something  like  the  following 
threefold  purpose: 

First,  to  include,  as  far  as  possible,  those  classics  of  our  literature — the  ballads, 
elegies,  and  odes,  the  U Allegros  and  Deserted  Villages — which  afford  the  staple  of 
school  instruction  and  with  which  classes  in  English  must  be  supplied. 

Second,  to  supplement  these  with  a  sufficient  number  of  selections  from  every 
period  of  our  literature  to  provide  a  perspective  and  make  the  volume  fairly  repre- 
sentative from  a  historical  point  of  view. 

.  Third,  to  go  somewhat  outside  of  the  beaten  track,  though  keeping  still  to 
standard  literature,  and  make  a  liberal  addition  of  selections,  especially  from  the 
drama  and  prose,  to  enliven  the  collection  and  widen  its  human  interest. 

This  comprehensive  character  is  indicated  by  the  title  of  the  volume.  A  some- 
what unusual  feature  is  the  inclusion  of  both  poetry  and  prose.  The  two  forms 
have  not  been  indiscriminately  mingled,  but  they  have  been  deliberately  set  side  by 
side  in  the  belief  that  both  will  gain  by  their  conjunction.  It  is  scarcely  to  be 
denied  that  at  the  present  time  a  volume  made  up  wholl}'  of  verse  gives  the  impres- 
sion of  a  collection  of  enshrined  "classics,"  meant  either  to  be  admired  from  a 
distance  or  studied  with  tedious  minuteness.  On  the  other  hand,  a  miscellaneous 
collection  of  unrelieved  prose  lacks  attractiveness  by  seeming  to  lack  emotional  appeal. 
Putting  them  together  will  not  only  afford  the  relief  of  variety,  but  should  lead  to  a 
better  understanding  of  both  by  showing  that  the  difference  between  them  is  often 
more  formal  than  real — that  poetry,  with  all  its  concern  for  form,  is  primarily  the 
medium  of  the  simplest  truth  and  feeling,  and  that  prose,  though  by  preference 
pedestrian,  may  at  times  both  soar  and  sing. 

In  making  the  selections,  it  was  considered  best  to  exclude  the  modern  novel, 
a  form  of  literature  that  scarcely  lends  itself  to  selection  at  all.  With  this  exception, 
pretty  much  the  whole  field  has  been  covered,  though  it  is  not  maintained  that  every 
important  man  or  movement  has  been  represented.  The  Restoration  drama  can, 
for  obvious  reasons,  have  no  place  in  these  pages :  nor  should  the  omissions  be 
regarded  with  surprise  if  a  volume  of  confessedly  rather  elementary  purpose  fails  to 
include  such  men  as  Burton,  Browne,  Locke,  and  Xe\\i;on,  voyagers  "on  strange 
seas  of  thought,  alone.''  The  endeavor  was  simply  to  secure  the  widest  repre- 
sentation consistent  with  the  intended  service  of  the  book  and  compatible  with 
a  due  regard  for  both  amount  and  proportion.  Inconclusive  fragments  have  been 
studiously  avoided.  Here  and  there,  where  a  specimen  of  form  only  was  desired — 
of  Surrey's  blank  verse,  for  example,  or  of  Thomson's  Spenserian  manner — this 
principle  has  not  been  adhered  to.     But  apart  from  such  exceptional  cases,  even 

ill 


iwsoos'rs 


jy  INTRODUCTION 

where  wholes  could  not  be  given,  enough  has  still  been  given,  not  only  to  set  the 
reader  going,  but  to  take  him  somewhere. 

The  order  is  chronological,  and  the  division  into  periods  corresponds  in  general 
to  the  division  adopted  by  the  senior  editor  in  his  history  of  English  Literature. 
The  adherence  to  chronology,  however,  has  not  been  rigid,  either  in  the  order  of 
names  or  in  the  order  of  selections  under  the  names.  Prose  has  usually  been  sepa- 
rated from  verse,  and  minor  poems  have  often  been  placed  together.  In  fact, 
wherever  an  unpleasant  juxtaposition  could  be  avoided,  or  a  more  effective  grouping 
secured,  there  has  been  no  hesitation  to  exercise  some  freedom.  The  dates  of  the 
various  selections  will  in  most  instances  be  found  in  the  table  of  contents. 

Selections  from  Old  English,  from  Latin,  and  from  Middle  English  down  to 
Chaucer,  are  given  in  translation.  After  Chaucer,  the  original  text  is  followed,  but 
fcpelling  and  punctuation  are  modernized — a  course  which  is  almost  necessary  if  a 
writer  like  Mandeville  is  to  be  read  with  any  ease,  and  which  has  every  reason  to 
support  it  in  writers  of  a  much  later  date.  To  this  rule  the  customary  exceptions 
in  poetry  are  made:  Chaucer,  Langland,  the  Ballads,  Everyman,  and  Spenser's 
artificially  archaic  Faerie  Queene,  are  kept  in  the  original  form.  Much  care  has 
been  bestowed  upon  the  text.  It  is  really  a  matter  of  somewhat  more  than  curiosity 
whether,  in  the  poet's  fancy,  the  lowing  herd  ivind  over  the  lea,  or  winds  over  the 
lea,  and  he  ought  by  all  means  to  be  reported  faithfully.  At  the  same  time  it  has 
seemed  equally  important  in  a  few  instances  to  correct  a  manifest  and  misleading 
error  or  to  remove  an  extremely  offensive  epithet.  The  instances  of  such  changes 
are  perhaps  not  a  dozen  in  all. 

The  notes  have  been  placed  at  the  bottom  of  the  page,  primarily  for  convenience, 
but  also  to  insure  brevity.  It  will  be  observed  that  they  serve  other  purposes  than 
those  of  a  mere  glossary.  Every  care  has  been  taken  to  make  them  pertinent  and 
really  explanatory,  and  to  avoid  unduly  distracting  the  reader's  attention  or 
affronting  his  intelligence.  It  seemed  fair  to  assume,  on  the  reader's  part,  the 
possession  of  a  dictionary  and  a  Bible,  and  some  elementary  knowledge  of  classical 
mythology.  It  is  altogether  too  common  an  editorial  mistake  to  regard  every 
capital  letter  as  a  signal  for  a  note.  Allusions  to  matters  of  very  slight  rele- 
vancy are  purposely  left  unexplained.  For  example,  in  such  an  isolated  poem  as 
Dear's  Lament,  it  seemed  more  to  the  purpose,  at  least  of  the  present  volume,  to 
give  a  bit  of  literary  comment  than  to  weight  down  the  poem  with  notes  on  events 
in  remote  Germanic  tradition.  On  the  other  hand,  wherever  a  note,  of  whatever 
nature,  seemed  absolutely  demanded,  no  pains  have  been  spared  to  provide  it.  In 
the  case  of  selections  hitherto  not  specially  edited,  this  frequently  involved  great 
labor,  and  the  editors  learned  how  much  easier  it  is  to  make  an  anthology  than  to 
equip  it  for  intelligent  use.*  Details  of  biography,  as  well  as  the  larger  matters  of 
literary  history  and  criticism,  have  necessarily  been  left  to  the  manuals  of  literary 
history.  For  the  convenience  of  those  who  use  the  English  Literature  referred  to 
above,  exact  page  references  to  that  volume  have  sometimes  been  added.  Finally, 
there  are  frequent  cross-references  within  the  present  volume,  and  these  may  be 

^  •  For  instance,  one  note  is  still  fresh  in  mind — the  next  to  the  last  in  the  book — which 
required  the  reading  of  nearly  two  volumes  of  Stevenson,  to  say  nothing  of  the  labor  spent  in 
searching  on  the  wrong  track.  Even  in  such  a  classic  as  Everyman,  there  remained  obscuri- 
ties to  be  cleared  up,  and  apparently  no  editor  had  yet  hit  upon  the  explanation  of  so  simple 
a  matter  as  to  "take  my  tappe  in  my  lappe"  (page  93,  line  801),  the  meaning  of  which  the 
editors  guessed  and  subsequently  verified  by  Jamieson's  Scottish  Dictionary.  The  word 
"kenns. "  as  used  by  Scott  in  Old  Mortality  (see  page  504),  is  not  recorded  in  any  of  the 
standard  dictionaries,  including  Jamieson.  These  examples,  which  are  typical  of  many 
others,  will  serve  to  show  that  the  preparation  of  the  notes,  slight  as  they  may  seem,  has  been 
no  perfunctory  or  uncritical  task. 


INTBODUCTION  ^ 

further  extended  by  the  use  of  the  index  to  the  notes.  It  is  believed  that  this  index 
will  be  found  extremely  useful. 

Manifestly  many  advantages  are  to  be  derived  from  having  so  much  material 
in  a  single  volume.  The  book  may  even  be  used  as  a  source-book  for  the  study  of 
English  history,  in  a  liberal  interpretation  of  that  subject.  From  the  Anglo-Saxon 
period,  for  example,  a  sufficient  diversity  of  literature  is  presented  to  give  body 
and  reality  to  that  far-away  time.  In  a  later  period,  the  constantly  recurring 
terms  and  manners  of  feudalism  and  chivalrv-  make  that  age  also  historically 
real,  and  the  archaism  of  Spenser,  as  the  age  passes  away,  does  not  appear  such 
a  detached,  unintelligible  phenomenon.  The  concentric  "spheres"  of  the  old 
Ptolemaic  astronomy  may  be  seen  revolving  about  this  earth  as  a  centre  through  all 
the  poetry  down  to  Milton,  when  science  steps  in  with  its  inexorable  logic  and  man 
is  constrained  to  take  a  humbler  view  of  his  station  in  the  universe.  On  the  other 
hand,  Utopia  may  change  to  Arcadia,  and  Arcadia  to  El  Dorado,  but  the  dream 
itself  refuses  to  die.  A  juster  conception  of  the  writers  themselves  is  likewise  made 
possible.  Shakespeare  is  removed  from  his  position  of  lonely  grandeur.  Milton,  so 
fallen  on  evil  days,  finds  ample  justification  for  his  poetic  complaint  in  the  graphic 
prose  descriptions  of  Pepys  and  Evelyn.  Johnson  is  humanized  by  being  presented 
as  the  friend  of  Boswell. 

Again,  in  the  detailed  study  of  the  literature  there  is  the  immense  advantage 
of  often  having  at  hand,  where  each  student  can  see  it  for  himself,  the  source  of  an 
allusion,  the  echo  of  a  sentiment,  or  the  different  play  of  diverse  imaginations 
about  the  same  theme.  One  passage  of  Milton  can  be  set  by  the  side  of  a  similar 
passage  in  Caedmon,  another  can  be  paralleled  in  Marlowe,  a  third  in 
Spenser.  The  story  of  the  last  fight  of  The  Revenge  can  be  read  first  in  Ealeigh's 
circumstantial  narrative  and  then  in  Tennyson's  martial  ode.  Malory's  Arthur 
reappears  in  Tennyson,  Scott's  Bonny  Dundee  in  Macaulajr's  account  of  the 
battle  of  Killiecrankie.  If  the  line  in  Browning's  Saul  about  the  *1ocust-flesh 
steeped  in  the  pitcher"  reminds  us  of  an  incident  in  the  life  of  John  the  Baptist, 
we  turn  with  interest  to  Wyclif's  curious  version  of  that  story.  An  unusual  word, 
**T3rede,"  occurring  in  one  of  Keats's  odes,  is  found  to  have  been  used  in  an  ode  by 
Collins,  and  its  literary  genealogy  can  scarcely  be  doubted.  The  paths  of  Addison 
and  Carlyle  lie  far  apart,  and  yet  both  appear  to  have  been  indebted,  the  one  for  a 
quaint  fancy,  the  other  for  a  striking  figure,  to  the  same  record  of  a  shipwreck  on 
the  frozen  shores  of  Xova  Zembla  more  than  three  centuries  ago.  By  the  discerning 
teacher  these  cross-references  can  be  multiplied  indefinitely,  and  for  nearly  every 
cross-reference  there  will  be  a  decided  gain  in  understanding  and  appreciation.  The 
student  will  see  what  a  network  a  national  literature  is,  and  get  some  conception  of 
the  ever  increasing  enjoA'ment  that  attends  upon  an  increasing  familiarity  with  it. 

Indeed,  it  has  been  one  of  the  chief  pleasures  in  making  this  compilation  to  feel 
that  along  with  the  so-called  English  classics,  of  finished  form  and  universal  content, 
so  much  was  being  gathered  which,  though  less  familiar,  is  scarcely  less  worthy,  and 
frequently  of  a  more  intimate  human  appeal.  It  may  not  be  desirable  to  teach  all 
this  matter,  nor  would  it  be  possible  at  any  one  time  or  place.  The  important 
thing  is  to  have  it  in  hand.  The  teacher  is  thus  given  a  real  freedom  of  choice  and 
enabled  to  teach  literature,  as  it  should  be  taught,  with  the  personal  touch.  For 
the  student,  too,  there  will  always  remain  some  tracts  of  terra  incognita,  with  the 
delight  of  wandering,  of  his  own  free  will,  along  unfrequented  paths.  To  share,  for 
example,  in  the  early  Northmen's  vague  terror  of  nickers  and  jotuns,  to  listen  to 
the  words  of  Alfred  the  Great,  to  observe  the  concern  of  the  good  bishop  of  Tarente 
for  the  spiritual  welfare  of  the  nuns  under  his  charge,  to  stand  by  at  the  birth  of 
the  first  printed  English  b6ok  and  note  the  aged  Caxton's  enthusiasm  in  spite  of 


Vi  INTRODUCTION 

worn  fingers  and  weary  eyes,  to  join  with  Jonson  in  mourning  and  praising  the 
great  fellow-craftsman  whom  he  knew,  to  watch  with  Pepys  the  coronation  of  the 
king  or  hear  him  piously  thank  God  for  the  money  won  at  gaming — these  are 
things,  it  should  seem,  to  arouse  the  most  torpid  imagination.  If,  from  excursions 
of  this  nature,  the  student  learns  that  good  literature  and  interesting  reading 
matter  meet,  that  the  one  is  not  confined  to  exalted  odes  nor  the  other  to  current 
magazine  fiction,  a  very  real  service  will  have  been  done  by  widening  the  scope  ol 
this  volume. 

It  is  obvious  that  in  pursuing  the  study  of  such  diverse  material,  no  single 
method  will  suffice.  Sometimes,  as  has  already  been  hinted,  reading  is  all  that  is 
necessary.  But  when  a  writer  like  Bacon,  let  us  say,  or  Pope,  writes  with  the 
deliberate  purpose  of  instruction,  his  work  must  be  studied  with  close  application 
and  may  be  analyzed  until  it  yields  its  last  shade  of  meaning.  On  the  other  hand, 
when  Keats  sings  pathetically  of  the  enduring  beauty  of  art  and  the  transient  life  of 
man,  or  when  Browning  chants  some  message  of  faith  and  cheer,  a  minutely 
analytical  or  skeptical  attitude  would  be  not  only  futile  but  fatal.  And  when  the 
various  purposes  of  instruction,  inspiration,  and  aesthetic  delight  are  combined  in 
one  work,  as  in  the  supreme  example  of  Paradise  Lost,  the  student  who  hopes  to 
attain  to  anything  like  full  comprehension  must  return  to  it  with  various  methods 
and  in  various  moods.  It  is  from  considerations  like  these  that  the  teacher  must 
determine  his  course.  One  thing,  however,  cannot  be  too  often  repeated.  The  most 
successful  teacher  of  literature  is  he  who  brings  to  it  a  lively  sympathy  springing 
from  intimate  knowledge,  assured  that  method  is  of  minor  moment  so  long  as  there 
is  the  responsive  spirit  that  evokes  response. 

For  ourselves,  we  would  say  that  while  we  have  divided  the  labor  of  preparing 
both  copy  and  notes,  there  has  been  close  cooperation  at  every  stage  of  the  work. 
We  owe  thanks  for  suggestions  and  encouragement  to  more  friends  than  we  may 
undertake  to  name.  To  Dr.  Frederick  Klaeber,  in  particular,  of  the  University  of 
Minnesota,  we  are  indebted  for  advice  upon  the  rendering  of  certain  passages  in 
Beowulf,  and  to  Professor  Lindsay  Todd  Damon,  of  Brown  University,  for  a 
critical  vigilance  that  has  worked  to  the  improvement  of  almost  every  page.  By 
courtesy  of  The  Macmillan  Company  the  translations  which  represent  Cynewulf  have 
been  reprinted  from  Mr.  Stopford  A.  Brooke's  History  of  Early  English  Literature; 
and  by  a  similar  courtesy  on  the  part  of  Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  who  hold 
copyrights  in  the  works  of  Stevenson,  we  have  been  able  to  include  the  selections 
which  close  the  volume. 

A.  G.  N. 

A.  E.  A. 


CONTENTS 


Introduction    Hi 

AXGLO-SAXOX    PERIOD 

i/Beowclf    (c.    700) 1 

Deob's   Lament 18 

Caedmox  (fl.  670) 

Paraphrase  of  the  Scriptures 

From  Genesis  :    The  Garden  of  Eden  ; 

The  Fall  of  Satan 18,  19 

From   Exodus  :     The  Cloud  by  Day  ; 

The  Drowning   of  Pharaoh 19 

Bede   (673-735) 

From  the  Ecclesiastical  History   (finished 
731)  : 
The    Britons    Seek    Succor    from    the 

Romans.      The   Roman  Wall 20 

A  Parable  of  Man's  Life 21 

The  Storv  of   Csedmon 21 

Cyxewclf   (fl.  670) 

Riddles  II.   VI.  XV 23 

From    the   Christ 24 

From  the  Elene    24 

Axglo-Saxon  Chronicle   (begun  about  850) 

Extracts 2.5 

0         The  Battle   of  Brunanburh 26 

Alfred  the  Gkeat  (849-901) 

Ohthere's    Narrative 27 

AXGLO-XORMAX   PERIOD 

Geoffbey  of  MoxMorTH  (c.  1100-1154) 

From   the   Ilistoria   Britonum   Regum    (c. 
1135)  : 

The  Story  of  King   Leir 29 

Arthur  Makes  the  Saxons  His  Tribu- 
taries          31 

Axcbex  Riwle,  From  the  (c.  1225) 32 

Pbovebbs  of  Kin'g  Alfred,  From  the 35 

Cuckoo  Song  (c.  1250) 36 

FOURTEENTH   CENTURY— AGE    OF   CHAUCER 

Pearl,  From  the  (c.  1350) 37 

William   Laxglaxu   (1332?-1400?) 

From  The  Vision  of  Piers  the  Plowman 
(1362  onward)  : 

The  Prologue    (B  text,  1377) 39 

From  Passus  I 40 

The    WrcLiF    Bible    (c.    1380).      The    Kino 

James   Bible    (1611) 41 

Geo.-frey  Chacceb  ( 1.340 'M400) 

From  The  Canterbury  Tales  (c.  1386  on- 
ward) : 

The  Prologue    43 

The  Xonne  Preestes  Tale 53 

From    the    Legend    of    Good    Women    (e. 
1385)  :       The     Story     of    Thlsbe    of 

Babylon,    Martyr 60 

The  Compleyut  of  Chaucer  to   His  Purse 

(1399)    62 

Travels  of  Sir  John  Maxdeville,  From  the 
(written  c.  1356:  English  trans- 
lation after  1400) 63 

THE    FIFTEEXTH    AXD    EARLY    SIXTEENTH 

CEXTURIES 
Ballads 

Robin  Hood  and  the  Monk  (MS.  c.  1450).  69 

The  Hunting  of  the  Cheviot 73 

Sir  Patrick  Spens 77 

^<  Johnie    Cock 77 


Bonnie   George  Campbell 79 

The  Wife  of  Ushers  Well 79 

Katharine   Jaffray 79 

The  Xutbrown  Mayde 80 

Everyman-    (before    1525) 84 

William  Caxtox  (1422  7-1491) 

The  Recuyell  of  the  Histories  of  Troy  (c. 
1474)  :     Prologue,  and  Epilogue 

to    Book    III 95 

Sir  Thomas  Maloky   (died  1471) 

From   Le   Morte   Darthur    (finished  1470 ; 

printed    1485) 96 

Sir  Thomas  More  (1478-1535) 

From    Utopia    (in    Latin,    1516;    English 

translation,    1551,    1556) 110 

Roger  Ascham   (1515-1568) 
Toxophilus    (1545) 

From   the   Foreword 119 

The  Ways  of  the  Wind 121 

The  Schoolmaster   (1570) 

From  A  Preface  to  the  Reader 122'' 

A  Gentle  Teacher  and  Pupil 124 


THE   ELIZABETHAN   AGE— POETRY 

Sir  Thomas   Wyatt    (1503-1542;   poems  pub- 
lished  1557) 

The   Lover    Having   Dreamed,    etc.    (Son- 
net)         125 

Of    His    Love    that    Pricked    Her   Finger 

with   a  Needle 125 

The    Lover    Complaineth    the   Unkindness 

of  His  Love 125 

Hexry    Howard.    Earl    of    Surrey     (1517?- 
1547 ;  poems  published  1557) 

Description  of  Spring,  etc.    (Sonnet)....   126 

A  Praise  of  His  Love,  etc 126 

Departure  of  iBneas  from  Dido 126 

Edmuxd  Spenser  (1552-1599) 

The     Faerie     Queene.       Dedication,     and 

parts  of  Book  I   (1590) 127 

Prothalamion    (1596) 139 

Elizabethan  Sonnets 

Edmund  Spenser :  Amoretti  XV,  XXXVII, 

LXI    (1595) 142 

Sir  Philip  Sidney  :     Astrophel  and  Stella 

I,   XXXI    (1591) 142>^ 

Samuel  Daniel:  To  Delia  LI    (1592) 142 

Michael  Drayton:     Idea  LXI    (1619) 143 

William     Shakespeare:     Sonnets     XXIX, 
XXX.      LXIV.      LXV,      LXXIII, 

LXXIV    (1609) 143 

Elizabethax  Lyrics 

Sir  Philip  Sidney :     Astrophel  and  Stella, 

First    Song    ( 1591 ) 144 

George  Peele :  Fair  and  Fair  (c.  1581)..   144 

Thomas     Lodge :        Rosalind's     Madrigal 

(1590)    145 

Robert    Southwell :      The    Burning    Babe 

(1595)    145 

Christopher    Marlowe :      The    Passionate 

Shepherd  to  His  Love  (1590)  .  .  .    146 

Sir  Walter   Raleigh    ( ?)  :      The   Xymph's 

Reply  to  the  Shepherd   (1590)..    146 
Pilgrim    to   Pilgrim 14« 

William  Shakespeare :     Under  the  Green- 
wood Tree    (c.  1599) 147v' 

Blow.   Blow,    Thou   Winter   Wind    (c. 

1599)    147 

Take.     O,    Take    Those    Lips    Away 

(1604)    147 

Come  Away,  Come  Away,  Death   (c. 

1600)    147 


CONTENTS 


How  Should  I  Your  True  Love  Kncv 

(1602)    147 

Hark.    Hark  !    the   Lark  at   Heaven's 

Gate  Sings   (c.  1610) 148 

Thomas  Dekker  :     Art  Thou  Poor   (1599)    148 
Thomas  Campion:     Clierry-Ripe  (c.  1617)    148 

Michael    Drayton:    Agincourt    (1606) 148 

Ben    Jonson :    To    Celia     (1616;    written 

1605)    149 

The  Triumph  of  Charis  (1616) 150 

THE  ELIZABETHAN   AGE— DRAMA 

o  Christopher  Marlowe   (1564-1593) 

From    The    Tragical    History    of    Doctor 

Faustus    (1604,    1616) 151 

William  Shakespeare  (1564-lbl6) 

The  Tempest   (c.  1610) 164 

Ben  Jonson  (1573  7-1637) 

To  the  Memory  of  Shakespeare  (1616) . .    191 

From  Volpone ;  or.  The  Fox  (1605) 192 

Beaumont  (1584-1616)  and  Fletcher  (1579- 
1625) 
From  The  Knight  of  the  Burning  Pestle 

(c.  1611)   197 

THE    ELIZABETHAN    AGE— PROSE 

Sir  Philip  Sidney  (1554-1586) 

From  the  Countess  of  Pembroke's  Arcadia 

(1590)    206 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh  (1552?-1618) 

The  Last  Fight  of  the  Revenge   (1591)..  208 
Francis  Bacon  (1561-1626) 

Essays  :  Of  Studies  (1597) 212 

Of  Discourse    (1597)     212 

Of  Friendship  (1612)    213 

Of  Riches    (1612) 216 

Of  Revenge   (1625)    217 

0  Of  Gardens   (1625) 218 

THE   SEVENTEENTH   CENTURY 

Caroline  Ltrics 

George  Herbert:     Virtue   (1633) 220 

Thomas  Carew  :     Ask  Me  no  More  Where 

Jove  Bestows   (1640) 220 

Sir   John   Suckling :      Why    so    Pale    and 

Wan.  Fond  Lover   (1637) 220 

Richard  Lovelace :     To  Lucasta.  Going  to 

the  Wars  (1649) 220 

To  Althea,  from  Prison   (1649) 221 

Robert  Herrlck  :     Corlnna's  Going  A-May- 

Ing    (1648)    221 

To    the    Virgins,    to    Make    Much    of 

Time  (1648)    222 

To  Electra    (1648) 222 

How  Roses  Came  Red    (1648) 222 

Edmund  Waller:  Go,  Lovely  Rose  (1645)  222 

On  a  Girdle   (1645) 223 

KHenry  Vaughan  :     The  Retreat    (1650)..  223 
John  Milton   (1608-1674) 

On    the    Morning    of    Christ's    Nativity 

(1629)    223 

On  Shakespeare   ( 1630) 226 

L'Allegro    (16.34)    227 

II   PenseroHO    (1634) 228 

Lycldas    (1638)    230 

Sonnets :      When    the    Assault    was    In- 
tended to  the  City   (1642) 233 

On   the  Late   Massacre   in   Piedmont 

(le-W)    233 

On  His  Blindness   (after  1(^52) 234 

To  Cyrlack   Skinner    (leS.-S?) 234 

Paradise  Lost :     Books  I,  II,  etc.   (1667) .  234 

0    On    Education    (1844) 2.59 

From    Areopagltica    (1644) 202 

Izaak  Walton    (1. "593-1 083) 

From  The  Complete  Angler  (1653) 204 

John  Blnyan   (1028  1688) 

From    The    Plldrim's    Progress 207 

Sami-el  Pepys    (1033-1703) 

From    niK    Diary 271 


John  Evelyn   (1620-1706) 

From    His    Diary 274 

John  Dryden   (1-631-1700) 

From  Absalom   and  Achitophel    (1681)..   277 

Mac    Flecknoe     (1682) 280 

A  Song  for  St.   Cecilia's  Day    (1687) 282 

Alexander's    Feast :    or,    The    Power    of 

Music    (1697)    283 

Lines   Printed   under   the    Engraved   Por- 
trait of  Milton   (1688) 285 

Song  from  The   Indian  Emperor   (1665).   285     . 

Song    of    Thamesis    (1685) 286'^ 

Song   from    Cleomenes    (1692) 286 

The  Secular  Masque  (written  for  the  year 

1700)    286 

On  Chaucer   (1700) 288 

EARLY    EIGHTEENTH    CENTURY 

Sir  Richard  Steele   (1672-1729) 

Prospectus.      The    Tatler,    No.    1     (April 

12,   1709)    290 

Memories.     The  Tatler,  No.  181   (June  6, 

1710)     291 

The  Club.     The  Spectator,  No.  2   (March 

2,   1711)     292 

Joseph  Addison   (1672-1719) 

Sir  Roger  at  Church.     The  Spectator,  No. 

112    (July   9,    1711) 295 

Ned  Softly.     The  Tatler,  No.   163    (April 

25,    1710)     296 

Frozen     Words.       The     Tatler,     No.     254 

(Nov.    23,    1710) 298 

A  Coquette's  Heart.     The   Spectator,  No. 

281    (Jan.    22,    1712) .300 

The  Vision  of  Mirza.     The  Spectator,  No. 

159    (Sept.   1,   1711) 3010 

Matthew   Prior    (1664-1721) 

To    a    Child    of   Quality    Five    Years   Old 

(1704)     303 

A    Simile   (1707)    304 

An    Ode    (1709) 304 

A  Better  Answer   (1718) 304 

John  Gay   (1685-1732) 

The    Hound    and    the    Huntsman.      Fable 

XLIV    (1727)    305 

The    Poet    and    the    Rose.      Fable    XLV 

(1727)     305 

Alexander  Pope   (1688-1744) 

Ode  on  St.  Cecilia's  Day   (written  1708).   805 
From    An     Essay    on    Criticism     (1711; 

written  1709)    307 

The  Rape  of  the  Lock    (1712,   1714) 310 

An    Essay    on    Man.      Epistles    I    and    II 

(1733)     319   / 

The  Universal  Praver  (1738) 325  »/ 

Daniel  Defoe   (16.59-1731) 

From    Robinson    Crusoe    (1719) 326 

Jonathan  Swift  (1667-1745) 

From   Gulliver's   Travels :      A   Voyage   to 
Lilliput,     Chapters     I,     II,     and 

III    (1726)     330 

JAME.S  Thom.son    (1700-1748) 

The  Seasons.     From  Spring   (1728) 342 

From   the  Castle  of   Indolence    (1748)...    344 
Rule,    Britannia    (1740) 345 

LATER  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

William  Collins   (1721-1759) 

A    Song    from     Shakespeare's    Cymbeline 

(1744)    346 

Ode.     How  Sleep  the  Brave   (1746) 346 

Ode  to  Evening   (1747) 346 

Thomas  Gray   (1716-1771) 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard 

(1751)    347 

The  Progress  of  Poesy  (1757) 349 

James  Macpherson    ("Ossian")    (1736-1796) 

Olna-Morul    (1762)    ••   S.'Sl '^ 

From   Carthon :    Ossian's   Address   to  the 

Sun  (1762)    3.52 

Thomas  Chatterton  (17.52-1770) 

Epitaph    on    Robert    Canynge 3n2 

An  Excelente  Balade  of  Charltie 353 

From  The  Buttle  of  Hastings 354 


CONTENTS 


Samuel  Johxson   (1709-1784)    .  ^     .,  ^, 

From  the  Plan  of  an  English  Dictionary 

(1747)     3oa 

Letter   to   Lord   Chesterfield    (1755) do7 

From  the  Preface  to  the  English  Diction-       _ 

ary    (1755)     •   3o( 

From     the     Preface     to     an     Edition     of 

Shakespeare's   Plays    (1768). —   358 
From    the    Lives    of    the    English    Poets : 
The       Character       of       Addison 

(1779)    360 

James  Bos  well   (1740-1795) 

From  The  Life  of  Samuel  Johnson,  LL.D. 

(1791)    363 

Olivek  Goldsmith   (1728-1774) 

The  Citizen  of  the  World.     Letters  I,  II, 

.  Ill,  and    IV    (1760) 368 

^The    Deserted    Village    (1770) 373 

The  Haunch  of  Venison   (written  1771)..    377 

From    IJetaliatlon    (1774) 379 

Edward  Gibbon   (1734-1794) 

The   Fall    of   Constantinople    (1788) 381 

GiLBKBT  White   (1720-1793) 

From    The    Natural    History    of    Selborne 

(1789)    384 

Edmund  Bukke  (1729-1797) 

From  the  Speech  at  Bristol    (1780) 387 

From    Reflections    on    the    Revolution    in 

France   (1790)    388 

William  Cowpeb  (1731-1800) 

Light    Shining    out    of    Darkness,    Olney 

Hymns,    XXXV    (1770) 391 

On     the     Loss     of     the     Royal     George 

(written    1782)     392 

The   Jackdaw    (1782) 392 

On    the    Receipt   of  Mv    Mother's    Picture 

(written    1785)     392 

,  To  Mrs.    Unwin 394 

^he  Castaway    (written   1799) 394 

George  Crabbe  (1754-1832) 

The  Borough.      From  Letter  I    (1810)...    395 
William  Bl.vke   (1757-1827) 

Song.     How  Sweet  I  Roamed   (1783) 397 

To  the  Muses   (1783) 398 

Introduction      to      Songs     of     Innocence 

(1789)    398 

The  Tiger    ( 17'.»4)    398 

Ah.    Sunflower    (1794) 398 

Scottish  Lyrics 

Robert   Fergusson  :      Elegy   on   the   Detfth 

of  Scots  Music    (c.  1773) 399 

Lady   Anne    Lindsay :    Auld   Robin    Gray 

(1771)     399 

Isobel  Pagan  :  Ca'  the  Yowes   (c.  1787) . .   400 
Lady    Xairne :      The    Land    o'    the    Leal 

(1798)     401 

Robert  Burns  (1759-1796) 

v'The  Cotter's   Saturday   Night    (1785) 401 

Address  to  the  Deil    (1785) 404 

Address  to  the  Unco  Guid  (1786) 405 

To  a   Mouse    (1785) 406 

To  a  Louse   (1786) 407 

To  a  Mountain  Daisy   (1786) 407 

Tam    OShanter    (1791) 408 

Green   Grow   the   Rashes    (1786) 411 

Auld  Lang   Syne    (1788) 411 

John  Anderson   Mv  Jo   (1789) 411 

Whistle  o'er  the  Lave  o't   (1789) 411 

To  Mary  in  Heaven   (1789)    412 

*^Iy  Heart's  in  the  Highlands   (1789) 412 

The  Banks  o"  Doon   (1791  ?) 412 

Afton    Water    (1789?) 412 

Highland    Marv    (1792) 413 

Banncckbuin   (1793)    413 

Contented  wi'  Little  and  Cantie  wl'  Mair 

(1794)    413 

A  Man's  a  Man  for  a'  That   (1795) 414 

O,  Wert  Thou  in  the  Cauld  Blast  (1796) .   414 


THE    ROMANTIC    REVIVAL 

William  Wordsworth  (1770-1850) 

Dear  Native  Regions    (written  1786) ....   415 

We  Are   Seven    (1798) 415 

xLines  Written  in  Early  Spring  (1798) .  .  .    416 


Lines  Composed  a  Few  Miles  above  Tin- 
tern   Abbey    (1798)    416 

Strange   Fits   of  Passion   I   Have   Known 

(1799)    418 

She   Dwelt   Among   the    Untrodden   Ways 

(1799)    418 

I  Travelled  Among  Unknown  Men  (1799)  418 
Three  Years  She  Grew  in  Sun  and  Shower 

(1799) 418 

A  Slumber  Did  My   Spirit  Seal    (1799)..    419 

Lucy   Gray    (1799) 419 

The    Prelude ;    or.    Growth    of    a    Poet's 
Mind.     From  Book  I,  Childhood 

(1799)    420 

My     Heart    Leaps     up    when    I    Behold 

(1802)    422 

The   Solitary    Reaper    (1803) 422 

To  the  Cuckoo   (1804) 422i/ 

She  Was  a  Phantom  of  Delight  (1804)..  423 
I  Wandered  Lonely  as  a  Cloud  (1804) . . .   423 

Ode  to  Dutv   (1805) 423 

To  a  Skvlark    (1805) 424 

To  a   Skylark    (1825) 424 

Ode:     Intimations  of  Immortality   (1803- 

1806)    424 

Sonnets :      Composed    upon    Westminster 

Bridge    (1802)    426 

It  is  a  Beauteous  Evening,  Calm  and 

Free    (1802)    427 

On    the    Extinction    of    the    Venetian 

Republic    (1802)     427 

London,   1802    (1802) 427 

The    World    is    Too    Much   With    Us 

(1806)    427<< 

After-Thought    (1820)     427 

Samuel  Tavlor  Coleridge  (1772-1834) 

Kubla    Khan    (written    c.    1798;    printed 

1816)    428 

The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner  (1798)  428 
Christabel.  Part  the  First  (written  1797; 

printed  1816)    436 

France:   An   Ode    (1798) 440 

Hymn  Before  Sunrise  in  the  Vale  of  Cha- 

mounl   (1802)    441 

The   Knight's    Tomb    (1817?) 442 

Song  from  Zapolya    (1817) 442 

Youth    and    Age    (1823-1832) 442 

Work    Without   Hope    (1827) 443 

Sib  Walter  Scott  (1771-1832) 

Lochinvar.      From   Marmion    (1808) 443 

Soldier,    Rest !      From  The   Lady    of   the 

Lake   (1810)    444vr 

Coronach.     From  The  Lady  of  the  Lake 

(1810)    444 

The  Battle  of  Beal  an'  Duine.     From  The 

Lady  of  the  Lake    (1810) 445 

Jock  of  Hazeldean    (1816) 447 

Proud  Maisie.      From  The   Heart  of  Mid- 
lothian  (1818)    448 

County     Guy.       From    Quentin    Durward 

(1823)    448 

Bonny  Dundee   (written  1825) 448 

Here's  a  Health  to  King  Charles.     From 

Woodstock    (1826)     449 

Lord  Bteon  (1788-1824) 

From     English     Bards    and    Scotch     Re- 
viewers   (1809)     449 

Maid  of  Athens.  Ere  We  Part   (1812)...   451 

She  Walks  In  Beautv   (1815) 452  O 

The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib  (1815)..  452 
So  We'll  Go  No  More  A-Roving  (1817)..  452 
Stanzas    Written    on    the    Road    between 

Florence  and  Pisa   (1821) 453 

To  Thomas  Moore   (1S17) 453 

Sonnet  on  Chillon   (1816) 453 

The  Prisoner  of  Chillon   (1816) 453 

From   Childe   Harold,    Canto   III    (1816)  : 

Waterloo    457 

Night  on   Lake   Leman 458 

From  (Thilde  Harold,  Canto  IV  (1818)  : 

Venice    460 

Rome    461 

The  Coliseum    462  o 

The  Ocean  463 

From  Don  Juan.  Canto  II   (1819)  : 

The  Shipwreck   464 


CONTENTS 


Prom  Don  Juan,  Canto  III   (1821)  : 

The  Isles  o£  Greece 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley   (1792-1822) 

Alastor,  or  The  Spirit  of  Solitude  (1816). 

Ozymandias   (Sonnet)    (1819) 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind   (1820) 

The  Indian  Serenade   (written  1819)..... 
From   Prometheus  Unbound    (1820)  : 

Song ; 

Asia's  Response    

The  Cloud  (1820) 

Hto  a  Skylark   (1820) 

From    Adonais     (1821)  :    The    Grave    of 

Keats   

Chorus  from   Hellas    (1822) 

To  .     Music,   when   Soft  Voices  Die 

(written  1821)    

To  .     One  Word  Is  Too  .Often   Pro- 
faned   (written  1821) 

A  Lament  (written  1821) 

When    the    Lamp    Is    Shattered    (written 

1822)    

A  Dirge  (written  1822)    

John  Keats  (1795-1821) 

From  Endymlon,  Book  I:    Proem  (1818). 

The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes   (1820) 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale   (1820) 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn   (1820) 

i4)de  on  Melancholy   (1820) 

To  Autumn   (1820)    

Lines  on  the  Mermaid  Tavern   (1820) . . . 
In  a  Drear-Xlghted  December   (c.  1818) . 

La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Mercl   (1819) 

Sonnets :    On    First    Looking    into    Chap- 
man's  Homer   (1817) 

On  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket  (De- 
cember,   181«;)    

On  Seeing  the  Elgin  Marbles  (1817). 

On  the  Sea  (1817) 

When  I  have  Fears  that  I  may  Cease 

to   be    (1817) 

Bright  Star !  Would  I  were  Stedfast 

as  Thou  art   (1820) 

IjATE  Georgian  Ballads  and  Lyrics 

Kllobert    Southey :      The    Battle    of    Blen- 
heim  (1798)    

Thomas  Campbell :     Ye  Mariners  of  Eng- 
land  (1800,  1809). 

Hohenlinden    (1802)    

Charles  Wolfe:     The  Burial   of   Sir  John 

Moore    (1817)     

Thomas    Moore :      The    Harp    that    Once 
through  Tara's   Halls    (1808)... 

The  Minstrel  Boy   (1813) 

Oft,  in  the  Stilly  Night   (1815) 

Charles  Lan'b  :     The  Old  Familiar  Faces 

(1798)    

Walter    Savage    Landor :      Rose    Aylmer 

(1806) 

Leigh    Hunt :      To    the    Grasshopper    and 
the  Cricket    (December,    1816)  .  . 

Rondeau    (1838)     

Abou  Ben   Adhem    (1844) 

Wlnthrop     Mackworth     Praed :       Letters 
from  Telgnmouth.      I — Our   Ball 

(1820)    

Thomas  Lovell   Beddoes  :     Dream-Pedlary 

(c.   182.') :   printed   18.51 ) 

ThomaBlIood:     The  Death-Bed   (1831).. 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt  (1843) 

Robert    Stephen    Hawker :      The    Song   of 

the  Western  Men  (182.5) 

The  Silent  Tower  of  Bottreau  (1831) 
Sir  Walter  Scott  (1771-1832) 

From    Old    Mortality.      Chapter    I,    Pre- 
liminary   (i816)    

Charles  Lamb  (177.5-1834) 

From   Ella    (1822-24):     Dream-Children: 

A   Reverie    

A  Dissertation  T^pon   Roast  Pig 

From  The   Last   EssayB  of   Ella    (1833)  : 
Old  China    


465 

468 
476 
476 

477 

478 
478 
478 
479 

480 
481 

482 

482 
482 

482 
483 

483 
483 
488 
48!) 
400 
490 
490 
491 
491 

492 

492 
492 
492 

492 

493 


493 

494 
494 

494 

495 
495 
495 

495 

496 

496 
496 
496 

497 

498 
498 
498 

499 
500 

500 

504 
506 

509 


Walter  Ravaoe  Landor  (1775-1864) 
0   From  Imaglnnrv  Conversations ; 
luH  and  MarluR  (1829) . 
Leofrlc  and  Godlva  (1820) . . 


Metel- 


512 
614 


Thomas  db  Quincey  (1785-1859) 

From  Confessions  of  an   English  Opium- 

Eater    (1821-1822)    516 

From    Susplrla    De    Profundis    (1845)  : 

Levana  and  Our  Ladies  of  Sorrow. .    519 

Savannah-la-Mar    522 

From  Joan  of  Arc  (1847) 523 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

Thomas  Carlyle   (1795-1881) 

From  Sartor  Resartus    (1833-1834)  : 

The  Everlasting  Yea 526 

Natural  Supernaturalism    529 

From  the  French  Revolution   (1837)  : 

Storming  of  the  Bastlle 532 

Thomas  BabingtoNj   Lord   Macaulay    (1800- 
1859) 
From    The    History    of    England     (1848- 

1860)  :     London  in  1685 539 

The  London  Coffee   Houses 541 

The  Battle  of  Killiecrankie 543 

John  Henry,  Cardinal  Newman   (1801-1890) 

Site  of  a  University  (1854) 548^ 

Charles  Dickens  (1812-1870) 

A  Christmas  Tree    (18.50) .551 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray  (1811-1863) 

From    The    English     Humourists    of    the 

Eighteenth       Century       (1851)  : 

Goldsmith    559 

From  Roundabout  Papers  (1860-63)  :     De 

Juventute 564 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson   (1809-1892) 

The   Lady   of   Shalott    (1833) 567 

CEnone   (1833)    569 

The  Lotos-Eaters  (1833) 572 

Saint   Agnes'   Eve    (1837) 572 

Sir  Galahad    (1842)    573 

The  Beggar  Maid  (1842) 574 

You  Ask  Me  Why,  Tho'  111  at  Ease  (1842)    574 
Of    Old    Sat    Freedom    on    the    Heights 

(1842)    .574V-" 

Morte  D' Arthur    (1842) 574 

Ulysses    (1842)     577 

Locksley    Hall    (1842) 578 

A   Farewell    (1842) 583 

Break,  Break,  Break    (1842) 583 

Songs  from  the  Princess   (1847,  1850)  : 

Sweet  and   Low 583 

The  Splendour  Falls 583 

Tears,  Idle  Tears 584 

From  In  Memoriam  (1850) 584 

In  the  Valley  of  Cauteretz    (1861) 587 

In    the    Garden    at    Swainston     (written 

1870)    588  , 

Song  from  Maud    (1855) 588*^ 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade  (1854).   589 

The  Captain    (1865) 589 

The  Revenge  (1878) 590 

Northern  Farmer,  Old  Style   (1864) 592 

Rizpah    (1880)    594 

Milton    (1863)     596 

To  Dante   (1865)    596 

To  Virgil   (1882) .596 

Frater  Ave  atque  Vale  (1883) 596 

Flower  In  the  Crannied  Wall   (1870) 597    , 

Wages     (1868) 597*/ 

By  an  Evolutionist   (1889) 597 

Vastness     (1885) 597 

Crossing  the  Bar  (1889) 598 

Robert  Browning  (1812-1889) 

From  Plppa  Passes   (1841)  :     New  Year's 

Hvmn  :  Song 598 

Cavalier  Tunes  (1842) 599 

Incident  of  The  French  Camp  (1842)...   600 

My  Last  Duchess  (1842) 600 

In  a  Gondola   (1842> 601 

The  Pled  Piper  of  Hamelln    (1842) 603 

How  Thev  Brought  the  Good  News  from 

Ghent  to  Alx    (1845) 606     , 

The  Lost  Leader    (1845) 607j 

Home-Thoughts,  From  Abroad   (1845)...   608 
Home-Thoughts,  From  the  Sea    (1845)...    608 

The  Bov  and  the  Angel   (1845) 608 

Saul   ( r845-.55)    609 


CONTENTS 


Evelyn  Hope  (1855)  .^.. 616 

Pra   Lippo   Llppi    (18oo) «lb 

Up  at  a  Villa— Down  in  the  City  (1855).  621 

Memorabilia    (1855)    62J 

Popularity   (1855)    b^g 

The  Patriot  (1855) %:•••.•.  ^■^^ 

'Childe  Roland  to  the  Dark  Tower  Came 

(1855)    624 

v^abbi  Ben  Ezra   (1864)    ■■■■■■■■■■x-:-   ^^6 
Prospice    (written    1861,   printed   1864) . .   620 

Herve   Kiel    (1871) 629 

Wanting  Is— What?    (1883> 631 

Whv   I   Am  a  Liberal    (1885) 631 

Epilogue    (1889)    631 

Elizabeth    Barrett    Browxiko    (1809-1861) 
Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese  (ISoO)  :     I, 

III,   IV,   XIV,   XXII,   XLIII 632 

Edward  Fitzgerald  (1809-1883) 

Rubaivilt     of     Omar     Khayyam      (18a9, 

■      1873)    633 

Abthcr  HrGH  Clocgh  (1819-1861) 

In  a   Lecture-Room    (1849) 639 

Qua  Cursum  Ventus   (1849) 630 

Say    Not    the    Struggle    Nought   Availeth 

(1862)    640 

Ite     Domum     Saturae,     Venit      Hesperus 

(1862)    640 

,     All  Is  WeU   (1869)    640 

Matthew  Arxold  (1822-1888) 

The  Forsaken  Merman   ( 1849) 641 

Sonnets  :     To  a  Friend  (1849) 642 

Shakespeare    tl849)    642 

Austerity  of  Poetry 643 

Memorial    VeVses    (1850) 643 

Self-Dependence    (1852)    643 

Lines     Written     in     Kensington     Gardens 

(1852)    644 

Requiescat  (1853)    644 

Sohrab  and  Rustum  (1853) 64.. 

Philomela    (1853)    6.j4 

y^aiser  Dead   (1887) 6oo 

Dover  Beach  ( 1867) 6o6 

The  Last  Word    (1867) 656 

Culture  and  Human  Perfection  (1867) .  .  .   6o6 
Natural  Magic  in  Celtic  Literature  (1866)   059 

Wordsworth    (1879)     660 

James  Axthony  Frocde   (1818-1894) 

The     Sailing     of     the     Spanish     Armada. 
From  History  of  England  (1856- 

1870)    662 

Defeat  of  the  Armada    (1895) 663 

Thomas  Hexrt  Huxley  (182.5-1895) 

On  a  Piece  of  Chalk  (1868) 669 

John  Ruskix  (1819-1900) 

From  The   Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture 

(1849)  :     The  Lamp  of  Memory.   674 
From   The   Stones   of   Venice    (1851-53)  : 

The  Throne.  Vol.  II.  Chapter  1 677 

The  Mediaeval  and  the  Modern  Work- 
man.    From  Vol.  II.  Chapter  VI.   681 
^Prom   Modern   Painters,    Part    IV,   Chap- 
ter VI  (1856)  :  Of  the  True  Ideal  683 


Daxte  Gabriel  Rossetti  (1828-1882) 

The  Blessed  Damozel    (1850) 686 

Sister    Helen    ( 1853) 688 

La    Bella    Donna    (1870) 691 

The   Woodspurge    (1870) 692 

The  Song  of  the  Bower   (1870) 692 

The  Cloud  Confines   (1872) 692 

From  The  House  of  Life   (1870,  1881)  : 

The  Sonnet   693 

IV.     Lovesight   693 

XIX.      Silent  Noon 693 

XLIX-LII.      Willowwood    693  ^ 

LXV.     Known  in  Vain 694< 

LXVL     The  Heart  of  the  Night 694 

LX VII.     The  Landmark 694 

LXX.     The  Hill  Summit 695 

LXXIX.     The   Monochord 695 

Chbistixa  Rossetti   (1830-1894) 

Goblin   Market    (1862) 695 

The  Three  Enemies  (written  1851) 701 

An  Apple  Gathering  (written  1857) 701 

Monna    Innominata    (1896)  :      Sonnets   I, 

II.  and  XI 701 

Up-HiU    (1861)     702 

William  Morris   (1834-1896) 

The  Gilliflower  of  Gold  (1858) 702^ 

The  Sailing  of  the  Sword  (1858) 703*^ 

The  Blue  Closet   (1858) 704 

From  The  Earthly  Paradise :  An  Apology 

(1868)    705 

From  Love  is  Enough :     Song  for  Music 

(1872)    705 

From  Sigurd  the  Volsung :     Of  the  Pass- 
ing Away  of  Brynhild   (1876)..    705 

The  Voice  of  Toil   (1885) 710 

Algerxox  Charles  Swixburxe   (1837-1909) 

Chorus  from  Atalanta  in  Calydon  (1865)   710 

A  Leave-Taking    (1866) 711 

Hymn  to  Proserpine   (1866) 711 

Prelude  to  Songs  Before  Sunrise   (1871).    713 
Lines  on  the  Monument  of  Giuseppe  Maz- 

zini   (1884)    715K 

The  Pilgrims  (1871)    716 

A  Forsaken  Garden  (1876) 717 

A  Ballad  of  Dreamland   (187C) 718 

Upon  a  Child  (1882) 719 

A  Child's  Laughter   (1882) 719 

A  Baby's  Death   (1883) 719 

From    Tristram    of    Lyonesse :       Prelude 

(1882)    720 

Walter  Pater  (1839-1894) 

The  Child  in  the  House  (1878) 723 

Robert  Lons  Stevf.xson  (1850-1894) 

El  Dorado   (1881) 730 

The   Maroon    (1891) 731  / 

The  Vagabond   (c.  1888) 734^ 

The  Morning  Drum-Call  on  My  Eager  Ear 

(c.  1888)    735 

Evensong  (after  1890) 735 

Requiem  (1887)  735 

IxDEX  to  Notes,  axd  Glossary 737 

IXDEX  to  Titles  a.hd  First  Lines 746 

Index  to  Authors 755 


TWELVE  CENTURIES  OF  ENGLISH 
POETRY  AND  PROSE 


ANGLO-SAXON  PERIOD 


BEOWULF  (c  700)* 

I.    The  Passing  of  Scyld 

Lo,  we  have  heard  of  the  fame  in  old  time 
of  the  great  kings  of  the  Spear-Danes, 
how  these  princes  valor  displayed. 
Oft  Scyld,  Scef 's  son,  from  robber-bands, 
from  many  tribes,  their  mead-seats  took, 
filled  earls  with  fear,  since  first  he  was 
found  aU  forlorn.    Howe  'er,  he  won  comfort, 
waxed    great    'neath    the   welkin,   in    dignities 

throve, 
until  every  one  of  those  dwelling  near  9 

over  the  whale-road,  was  bound  to  obey  him 
and  pay  him  tribute:  that  was  a  good  king. 

To  him  a  son  was  afterward  bom, 
a  child  in  his  courts  whom  God  sent 
to  comfort  the  i)eople ;  He  felt  the  dire  need 
they  erst  had  suffered,  how  they  had  princeless 
been  a  long  while.    Therefore  the  Lord  of  Life, 
Glory-prince,  gave  to  him  worldly  honor. 
Benowned     was     Beowulf,     widely     the     glory 

spread 
of  Scyld 's  offspring  in  the  Scanian  lands. 
So  shall  a  prudent  man  do  good  works         20 
with  bountiful  gifts  in  his  father's  haJl, 
that  in  his  old  age  still  may  surround  him 
willing  companions,  and  when  war  comes 
the  people  may  follow  him.     By  praiseworthy 

deeds 

•  Of  the  three  large  sections  into  which  the  story 
of  Beowulf  falls — the  fight  with  Grendel  in 
Denmark,  the  fight  with  Grendel's  mother,  and 
the  subsequent  deeds  of  Beowulf  in  Geatland 
(Sweden) — the  first  is  here  given  practically 
entire,  and  the  second  in  part.  It  should  be 
noted  that  the  Beowulf  mentioned  in  the  open- 
ing canto  is  a  Scylding.  or  Dane  ;  Beowulf  the 
Geat,  or  Weder-Geat.  for  whom  the  poem  is 
named,  is  not  introduced  until  the  fourth 
canto.  The  translation  is  virtually  the  literal 
one  of  Benjamin  Thorpe  (1855),  relieved  of 
some  of  its  harsher  inversions  and  obscurities 
and  made  more  consistently  rhythmical,  also 
occasionally    altered    to    conform    to    a    more 


40 


man  shall  flourish  in  every  tribe. 

Scyld  then  departed  at  his  fated  time, 
the  very  bold  one,  to  the  Lord 's  keeping. 
Away  to  the  sea-shore  then  they  bore  him, 
his  dear  companions,  as  himself  had  bid, 
while    his    words    had    sway,    the    Scylding 's 
friend,  30 

the    land's    loved    chief    tiiat    long   had   pos- 
sessed it. 
There  at  the  hithe  stood  the  ring-prowed  ship, 
icy  and  eager,  the  prince's  vessel. 
Then  they  laid  down  the  beloved  chief, 
the  dispenser  of  rings,  on  the  ship's  bosom, — 
by   the  mast  laid  him.    There  were  treasures 

many 
from  far  ways,  ornaments  brought. 
I  have  heard  of  no  comeUer  keel  adorned 
with  weapons  of  war  and  martial  weeds, 
with  glaves  and  bymies.    On  his  bosom  lay 
many  treasures  which  were  to  go  with  him, 
far  depart  into  the  flood's  possession. 
Not  less  with  gifts,  with  lordly  treasures, 
did  they  provide  him,  than  did  those  others 
who  at  the  beginning  sent  him  forth 
alone  o'er  the  wave,  a  little  child. 
They  set  moreover  a  golden  ensign 
high  o'er  his  head;  let  the  sea  bear  him, 
gave  him  to  ocean.     Their  mind  was  sad, 
mournful  their  mood.     No  man  of  men, 
counsellors  in  hall,  heroes   'neath  heaven, 
can  say  for  sooth  who  that  lading  received. 

probable  interpretation.  No  attempt  is  made  to 
preserve  the  original  alliteration.  For  thlz 
feature,  as  well  as  for  the  continual  repetition 
or  "parallelism"  of  phrase,  and  the  poetic 
synonyms  or  "kennings."  like  whale-road  for 
ocean,  see  Newcomer's  English  Literature,  p. 
20.  Certain  recurring  archaic  words  are : 
atheling,  prince  nicker,  orken,  sea- 

monster 

»ark,  cnirass 

»c6p,  poet   (Eng.  Lit.,  p. 
18) 

thane,  war-companion, 
retainer. 

tcyrd,  fate 


50 


brand,  sword 
bymie,   corslet 
hithe,  harbor 
jotun,  giant 
mere,  sea.  lake 
n€9»,  headland 


ANGLO-SAXON  PEBIOD 


II.    The  Building  of  Heoeot 
Then     in     the     towns     was     Beowulf,     the 

Scyldings ' 
beloved  sovereign,  for  a  long  time 
famed  among  nations   (his  father  had  passed 

away, 
the  prince  from  his  dwelling),  till  from  him  in 

turn  sprang 
the  lofty  Healfdene.    He  ruled  while  he  lived, 
old  and  war-fierce,  the  glad  Scyldings. 
From  him  four  children,  numbered  forth, 
sprang  in  tlie  world,  from  the  head  of  hosts :    60 
Heorogar     and     Hrothgar     and     Halga     the 

good; 
and  I  have  heard  that  Elani  was  wife 
of  Ongentheow  the  Heathoscylfing. 

Then  was  to  Hrothgar  war-prowess  given, 
martial  glory,  that2  his  dear  kinsmen 
gladly  obeyed  him,  till  his  young  warriors  grew, 
a  great  train  of  kinsfolk.  It  ran  thro '  his  mind 
that  he  would  give  orders  for  men  to  make 
a  hall-building,  a  mighty  mead-house, 
which  the  sons  of  men  should  ever  hear  of; 
and  therewithin  to  deal  out  freely  71 

to  young  and  to  old,  whatever  God  gave  him, 
save  the  freeman's  share  and  the  lives  of  men. 
Then  heard  I  that  widely  the  work  was  pro- 
claimed 
_to  many  a  tribe  thro'  this  mid-earth 
that  a  folk-stead  was  building,    Befel  him  in 

time, 
soon  among  men,  that  it  was  all  ready, 
of  hall-houses  greatest ;  and  he,  whose  word  was 
law  far  and  wide,  named  it  Heorot.* 
He    belied    not    his    promise,    bracelets    distri 

buted,  80 

treasures  at  the  feast.     The  hall  arose 
high  and  horn-curved;  awaited  fierce  heat 
of  hostile  flame.     Nor  was  it  yet  long 
when  Bword-hate  'twixt  son-  and  father-in-law, 
after  deadly  enmity,  was  to  be  wakened.f 

Then  the  potent  guest  who  in  darkness  dwelt 
with  difficulty  for  a  time  endured 
that  he  each  day  heard  merriment 
loud    in    the    hall.      There    was   sound    of   the 

harp, 
loud   song   of    the   gleeman.      The   scop,    who 

could  90 

the  origin  of  men  from  far  back  relate, 
told  how  the  Almighty  wrought  the  earth. 


1  Perhaps  the  fourth  child. 

2  HO  that 

•  "The  Hart"— probably  so  named  from  gable 
decorations  resemblinK  a  deer's  boms. 

t  HrotbKar'R  son-in-law.  TnKdd.  tried  to  avonge 
upon  him  the  death  of  his  father,  and  It  may 
have  been  he  who  gave  the  ball  to  "hostile 
flame." 


the  plain  of  bright   beauty  which   water  em- 
braces ; 
in  victory  exulting  set  sun  and  moon, 
beams  for  light  to  the  dwellers  on  land; 
adorned  moreover  the  regions  of  earth 
with  boughs  and  leaves;  life  eke  created 
for  every  kind  that  liveth  and  moveth. 
Thus  the  retainers  lived  in  delights, 
in  blessedness;  till  one  began  100 

to  perpetrate  crime,  a  fiend  in  hell. 
Grendel  was  the  grim  guest  called, 
great  mark-steppers  that  held  the  moors, 
the  fen  and  fastness.     The  sea-monsters'  dwell- 
ing 
the  unblest  man  abode  in  awhile, 
after  the  Creator  had  proscribed  him.* 
On  Cain's  race  the  eternal  Lord 
that  death  avenged,  the  slaying  of  Abel; 
the  Creator  joyed  not  in  that  feud, 
but    banished    him     far    from    men    for    his 
crime.  110 

Thence  monstrous  births  all  woke  into  being, 
jotuns,  and  elves,  and  orken-creatures, 
likewise  the  giants  who  for  a  long  space 
warred  against  God:    He  gave  them  requital. 

III.    The  Grim  Guest  of  Heoeot 

When  night  had  come  he  went  to  visit 
the  lofty  house,  to  see  how  the  Ring-Danes 
after  their  beer-feast  might  be  faring. 
He  found  therein  a  band  of  nobles 
asleep  after  feasting;  sorrow  they  knew  not, 
misery  of  men,  aught  of  unhappiness.  120 

Grim  and  greedy,  he  was  soon  ready, 
rugged  and  fierce,  and  in  their  rest 
took  thirty  thanes;  and  thence  departed, 
in  his  prey  exulting,  to  his  home  to  go, 
with   the   slaughtered   corpses,  his  quarters  to 
visit. 

Then  in  the  morning,  at  early  day, 
was  Grendel 's  war-craft  manifest: 
after  that  repast  was  a  wail  upraised, 
a  great  morning  cry.     The  mighty  prince, 
the  excellent  noble,  unblithe  sat;  130 

the  strong  thane  sufferetl.  sorrow  endured, 
when  they  beheld  the  foeman's  traces, 
the    accursed    sprite's.      That    strife    was    too 

strong, 
loathsome  and  tedious.    It  was  no  longer 
than  after  one  night,  again  he  perpetrated 
greater  mischief,  and  scrupled  not 
at  feud  and  crime;  he  was  too  set  on  them. 
Then  were  those  easily  found  who  elsewhere 
sought  their  rest  in  places  of  safety, 

3  roamer  of  the  marches,  or  land-bounds 
•  That   is,   Orendel   Is  of  the  monstrous  brood  ol 
Cain.   The  passage  is  one  of  the  Christian  ad- 
ditions to  a  legend  wholly  pagan  in  origin. 


BEOWULF 


on  beds  in   the  bowers,i   when  it  was  shown 
them,  140 

truly  declared  by  a  manifest  token, 
the  hall-thane's  hate;  held  themselves  after 
farther  and  faster  who  the  fiend  escaped. 

So  Grendel  ruled,  and  warred  against  right, 
alone  against   all,  until  empty  stood 
that  best  of  houses.    Great  was  the  while, 
twelve  winters'  tide,  the  Seyldings'  friend 
endured  his  rage,  every  woe. 
ample  sorrow.     Whence  it  became 
openly  known  to  the  children  of  men,  150 

sadly  in  songs,  that  Grendel  warred 
awhile  against  Hrothgar,  enmity  waged, 
crime  and  feud  for  many  years, 
strife  incessant;  peace  would  not  have 
with  any  man  of  the  Danish  power, 
nor  remit  for  a  fee  the  baleful  levy; 
nor  any  wight  might  hold  a  hope 
for  a  glorious   satisfaction  at  the  murderer's 

hands. 
The  fell  wretch  kept  persecuting —  159 

the  dark  death-shade — the  noble  and  youthful, 
oppressed  and  snared  them.    All  the  night 
he  roamed  the  mist-moors.     Men  know  not 
whither  hell-sorcerers  wander  at  times. 

Thus  many  crimes  the  foe  of  mankind, 
the  fell  lone-roamer,  often  accomplished, 
cruel  injuries.     Heorot  he  held, 
seat  richly  adorned,  in  the  dark  nights; 
yet  might  not  the  gift-throne  touch,  that  treas- 
ure, 
because  of  the  Lord,  nor  knew  His  design. 
'Twas  great  distress  to  the  Seyldings'  friend, 
grief  of  spirit;   often  the  wise  men  171 

sat  in  assembly;  counsel  devised  they 
what  for  strong-souled  men  it  were  best 
to  do  against  the  perilous  horrors. 
Sometimes  they  promised  idolatrous  honors 
at  the  temples,  prayed  in  words 
that  the  spirit-slayer  aid  would  aflford 
against  their  affictions. 

Such  was  their  custom, 
the  heathen's  hope;  hell  they  remembered, 
but  the  Creator,  the  Judge  of  deeds,  180 

they  knew  not— knew  not  the  Lord  God,  knew 

not 
how  to  praise  the  heavens'  Protector, 
Glory's  Buler.     Woe  to  him  who 
thro'  cruel  malice  shall  thrust  his  soul 
in  the  fire's  embrace;  let  him  expect  not 
comfort  to  find.     Well  unto  him  who 
after  his  death-day  may  seek  the  Lord, 
and  win  to  peace  in  his  Father 's  bosom'. 


IV.    Beowulf's  Besolve 


1  Apartments  used  mainly  by  the  women. 


So  Healf dene's  son  on  sorrow  brooded; 
for  all  his  wisdom  the  hero  could  not  190 

avert  the  evil;   that  strife  was  too  strong, 
loathsome  and  tedious,  that  eame  on  the  people, 
malice-brought  misery,  greatest  of  night-woes. 
Then  Hygelac's  thane,*  a  Geatman  good, 
heard  from  his  home  of  Grendel's  deeds; 
he  of  mankind  was  strongest  in  power 
in  that  day  of  this  life,  noble  and  vigorous. 
He  bade  for  himself  a  good  wave-rider 
to  be  prepared;  said  he  would  go 
over  the  swan-road  to  seek  the  war -king,        200 
the  prince  renowned,  since  men  he  had  need  of. 
Dear  though  he  was,  his  prudent  liegemen 
little  blamed  him  for  that  voyage, 
whetted  him  rather,  and  notetl  the  omen. 

Then  the  good  chief  chose  him  champions 
of  the  Geat-folk,  whomso  bravest 
he  could  find,  and,  fourteen  with  him, 
sought  the  vessel.     Then  the  hero,  208 

the  sea-crafty  man,  led  the  way  to  the  shore. 
Time  passed;  the  floater  was  on  the  waves, 
the  boat  'neatli  the  hill;  the  ready  warriors 
stepped  on  the  prow;  the  streams  surged 
the  sea  'gainst  the  sand ;  the  warriors  bare 
into  the  bark's  bosom  bright  arms, 
a  rich  war-array.     The  men  shoved  out 
on  the  welcome  voyage  the  wooden  bark. 

Most  like  to  a  bird  the  foamy-necked  floater, 
impelled  by  the  wind,  then  flew  o  'er  the  waves 
till  about  the  same  time  on  the  second  day 
the  twisted  prow  had  sailed  so  far  220 

that  the  voyagers  land  descried, 
shining  ocean-shores,  mountains  steep, 
spacious  sea-nesses.    Then  was  the  floater 
at  the  end  of  its  voyage.    Up  thence  quickly 
the  Weders'  peonle  stept  on  the  plain; 
the  sea-wood  tied;  their  mail-shirts  shook, 
their  martial  weeds;  thanked  God  that  to  them 
the  paths  of  the  waves  had  been  made  easy. 
When  from  the  wall  the  Seyldings'  warder, 
who  the  sea-shores  had  to  keep,  230 

saw  bright  shields  borne"  over  the  gunwale, 
war-gear  ready,  wonder  arose 
within  his  mind  what  those  men  were. 
Hrothgar 's  thane  then  went  to  the  shore, 
on  his  horse  riding,  stoutly  shook 
the    stave    in    his   hands,    and    formally    asked 
them: 
' '  What  are  ye  of  arm-bearing  men, 
with  byrnies  protected,  who  thus  come  leading 
a  surgy  keel  over  the  water-street, 
here  o'er  the  seas?    I  for  this,  240 

placed  at  the  land 's  end,  have  kept  sea-ward, 

•  Beownlf.    Hygelac  was  his  uncle,  and  king  of  the 
Geats,  or  Weder-Geatg,  who  lived  in  Sweden. 


ANGLO-SAXON  PEBIOD 


that  no  enemies  on  the  Danes'  land 

with  a  ship-force  might  do  injury. 

Never  more  openly  hither  to  come 

have  shiehl-men  attempted;  nay,  and  ye  knew 

not 
surely  the  pass-word  ready  of  warriors, 
permission  of  kinsmen.     Yet  ne'er  have  I  seen 
earl  upon  earth  more  great  than  is  one  of  you, 
or  warrior  in  arms:    'tis  no  mere  retainer 
honored  in  arms,  unless  his  face  belies  him, 
his  aspect  distinguished.     Now  your  origin 
must  I  know,  ere  ye  farther,  252 

as  false  spies,  into  the  Danes'  land 
hence  proceed.     Now  ye  dwellers 
afar,  sea-farers,  give  ye  heed  to 
my  simple  thought:  best  is  it  quickly 
to  make  known  whence  your  coming  is. ' ' 

v.    The  Mission  op  the  Geats 

Him  the  chief  of  them  answered  then, 
the  band's  war-leader  his  word-hoard  unlocked: 
"We  are  of  race  of  the  Geats'  nation,  260 

and  hearth-enjoyers  of  Hygelac. 
Well  known  to  nations  was  my  father, 
a  noble  chieftain,  Ecgtheow  named; 
abode  many  winters  ere  he  departed 
old  from  his  courts;  nigh  every  sage 
thro'  the  wide  earth  remembers  him  well. 
We  in  kindness  of  feeling  have  come 
to  seek  thy  lord,  the  son  of  Healfdene, 
the  folk-defender.   Be  a  kind  informant. 
We  have  a  great  errand  to  the  illustrious      270 
lord  of  the  Danes.     Naught  shall  be  secret 
whereof  my  thought  is.     Thou  knowest  whether 
it  be  in  sooth  as  we  have  heard  say, 
that    with    the    Scyldings    1    know    not    what 

wretch, 
a  secret  ill-doer,  in  the  dark  nights 
displays  thro'  terror  unheard-of  malice, 
havoc  and  slaughter.    For  this  may  I  teach, 
thro '  my  large  mind,  counsel  to  Hrothgar, 
how  he,  wise  and  good,  shall  o'ercome  the  foe, 
if  ever  a  change  is  to  befal,  280 

if  relief  from  evil  should  ever  come 
and  that  care-welling  calmer  grow. 
Else  he  ever  after  oppression  will  suffer, 
a  time  of  trouble,  while  standeth  there 
in  its  high  place  the  noblest  of  houses." 

Then  spake  the  warder,  astride  of  his  horse, 
the  officer  fearless:     "Between  these  two 
should  a  sharp  shield-warrior  who  thinketh  well 
the  difference  know — 'tween  words  and  works. 
This  band,  I  hear,  is  a  friendly  one  290 

to  the  Scyldings'  lord.    Pass  ye  on 
with  weapons  and  weeds,  I  will  direct  you. 
Likewise  will  I  give  to  my  fellow- 
liegcmeii  orders  in  honor  to  keep, 


'gainst  every  foe,  your  new-tarred  ship, 

your  bark  on  the  sand,  till  back  o'er  the  water 

the  vessel  with  twisted  neck  shall  bear 

to  the  Weder-march  the  man  beloved. 

To  such  a  warrior  shall  it  surely  be  given 

the  rush  of  war  to  escape  from  whole.  300 

Then  they  set  forth ;  the  vessel  still  bode 
firm  in  her  berth,  the  wide-bosomed  ship, 
at  anchor  fast.     A  boar 's  likeness  sheen 
'bove    their    cheeks    they    bore,    adorned    with 

gold; 
stained  and  fire-hardened,  it  held  life  in  ward.* 
In  warlike  mood  the  men  hastened  on, 
descended  together,  until  the  well-timbered 
hall  they  might  see,  adorned  all  with  gold. 
Unto  earth's  dwellers  that  was  the  grandest 
of    houses     'neath    heav'n,    where    the    ruler 

abode;  310 

the  light  of  it  shone  over  many  lands. 
To  them  then  the  warrior  pointed  out  clearly 
the  proud  one's  court,  that  they  might  thither 
take  their  way;  then  did  the  warrior 
turn  his  steed  and  speak  these  words: 

"  'Tis  time  for  me  to  go  on  my  way. 
May  the  all-ruling  Father  with  honor  hold  you 
safe  in  your  fortunes.     I  will  back  to  the  sea, 
ward  to  keep  against  hostile  bands." 

VI.    The  Arrival  at  Heorot 

The  street  was  stone-paved,   the  path   gave 
guidance  320 

to  the  men  in  a  body;  the  war-byrnie  shone, 
hard,  hand-locked;  the  ringed  iron  bright 
sang  in  their  gear,  as  they  to  the  hall 
in  their  arms  terrific  came  striding  on. 
Their  ample  shields,  their  flint-hard  bucklers, 
the  sea-weary  set  'gainst  the  mansion's  wall, 
then  stooped  to  the  benches;  their  byrnies  rang, 
the  war-gear  of  men.    In  a  sheaf  together 
the  javelins  stood,  the  seamen's  arms,  329 

ash-wood,  grey-tipped.     These  ironclad  men 
were  weaponed  well. 

Then  a  proud  chief  asked 
these  sons  of  conflict  concerning  their  lineage: 
"Whence  do  ye  bear  your  plated  shields 
and  grey  sarks  hither,  your  visor-helms 
and  heap  of  war-shafts?     I  am  Hrothgar 's 
servant  and  messenger.     Never  saw  I 
strangers  so  many  and  proud.     I  ween 
that  ye  out  of  pride,  of  greatness  of  soul, 
and  not  for  exile,  have  sought  Hrothgar. ' ' 

Him  then  answered  the  famed  for  valor ;       340 
the  Weders'  proud  lord,  bold  'neath  his  helmet, 
spake  words  afterward:    "We  are  Hygelac 's 
table-enjoyers — my  name,  Beowulf. 
I  my  errand  will  relate 

*  Boar-Images  surmounted  the  helmets. 


BEOWULF 


to  the  great  lord,  son  of  Healfdene, 
to  thy  prince,  if  he  will  grant  us 
graciously  to  greet  him  here." 

Wulfgar  spake  (he  was  lord  of  the  Wendels; 
known  to  many  was  his  spirit,  348 

his  valor  and  wisdom):     "I  will  therefore 
ask  the  Danes'  friend,  lord  of  the  Scyldings, 
mighty  prince  and  ring-distributor, 
about  thy  voyage,  as  thou  requestest, 
and  make  quickly  known  the  answer 
that  the  prince  thinks  fit  to  give  me." 

He  then  vent  quickly  where  Hrothgar  sat, 
old  and  gray,  among  his  earls; 
the  brave  chief  stood  before  the  shoulders 
of  the  Danes'  lord — he  knew  court-usage. 
Wulfgar  spake  to  his  friendly  lord:  360 

"Hither  are  borne,  come  from  afar 
o'er  ocean's  course,  people  of  the  Geats. 
Beowulf  these  sons  of  conflict 
name  their  chief.   They  make  petition 
that  they  may  hold  with  thee,  my  lord, 
words  of  converse.    Decree  not,  Hrothgar, 
denial  of  the  boon  of  answer. 
Worthy  seem  they,  in  their  war-gear, 
of  earls'  esteem — at  least  the  chieftain 
who  has  led  the  warriors  hither."  370 

VII.    Hrothgab's  Welcome 

Hrothgar  spake,  the  Scyldings'  shield: 
"Lo,  I  knew  him  when  he  was  a  boy. 
His  old  father  was  named  Ecgtheow, 
to  whom  in  his  home  gave  Hrethel  the  Geat 
his  only  daughter.     Now  his  offspring 
bold  comes  hither,  has  sought  a  kind  friend. 
For  sea-farers — they  who  bore  gift-treasures 
unto  the  Geats  gratuitously — 
were  wont  to  say  of  him,  the  war-famed, 
that  he  the  might  of  thirty  men  380 

has  in  his  hand-grip.     Holy  God 
hath  in  his  mercies  sent  him  to  us, 
to  the  West  Danes,  as  I  hope, 
'gainst  Grendel's  horror.     For  his  daring, 
to  the  good  chief  gifts  I  '11  offer. 
Be  thou  speedy,  bid  these  kinsmen, 
assembled  together,  come  in  to  see  me. 
Say  moreover  they  are  welcome 
guests  to  the  Danes.     [Then  to  the  hall-door 
W^ulfgar  went.]     He  announced  the  words:     390 
' '  My  victor-lord,  O  prince  of  the  East  Danes, 
bids  me  tell  you  he  knows  your  nobleness ; 
that,  boldly  striving  over  the  sea-billows, 
ye  come  to  him  hither  welcome  guests. 
Now  ye  may  go  in  your  war-accoutrements, 
'neath  martial  helm,  Hrothgar  to  see. 
Let  your  battle-boards,  spears,  and  shafts, 
here  await  the  council  of  words." 


Arose  then  the  chief,  his  many  men  around 
him, 
a    brave     band     of    thanes.     Some    remained 
there,  400 

held  the  war-weeds,  as  the  bold  one  bade  them. 
They  hastened  together  where  the  warrior  di- 
rected, 
under  Heorot's  roof;  the  valiant  one  went, 
bold  'neath  his  helmet,  till  he  stood  on  the  dais. 
Beowulf  spake;  his  byrnie  shone  on  him, 
his  war-net  sewed  by  the  smith's  devices: 

"Hail  to  thee,  Hrothgar;  I  am  Hygelac's 
kinsman    and    war-fellow;    many    great    deeds 
in  my  youth  have  I  ventured.     To  me  on  my 

native  turf 
Grendel's  doings  became  clearly  known.        410 
Seafarers  say  that  this  most  excellent 
house  doth  stand,  for  every  warrior, 
useless  and  void  when  the  evening  light 
under  heaven's  serenity  is  concealed. 
Then,  prince  Hrothgar,  did  my  people, 
the  most  excellent  men,  sagacious, 
counsel  me  that  I  should  seek  thee, 
because  they  knew  the  might  of  my  craft. 
Themselves    beheld — when   I   came    from    their 

snares, 
blood-stained     from    the    foes — where    five     I 
bound,  420 

the  jotun-race  ravaged,  and  slew  on  the  billows 
nickers  by  night;  distress  I  suffered, 
avenged  the  Weders  (they  had  had  misery), 
crushed  the  fell  foe.    And  now  against  Grendel, 
that  miserable  being,  will  I  hold  council, 
alone  with  the  giant. 

"Of  thee  now,  therefore, 
lord  of  the  bright  Danes,  Scyldings'  protector, 
will  I  make  this  one  petition: 
now  that  I  come  so  far,  deny  not, 

0  patron  of  warriors,  friend  of  people,  430 
that  I  alone  with  my  band  of  earls, 

with  this  bold  company,  may  purge  Heorot. 

1  have  learned  this,  that  the  demon-like  being 
in  his  heedlessness  recketh  not  of  weapons. 

I  then  will  disdain  (so  may  Hygelac, 

my  liege  lord,  be  to  me  gracious  of  mood) 

to  bear  a  sword  or  round  yellow  shield 

into  the  battle;  but  shall  with  the  enemy 

grip  and  grapple,  and  for  life  contend, 

foe  against  foe.    And  he  whom  death  taketh 

there  shall  trust  in  the  doom  of  the  Lord.      441 

' '  I  ween  that  he,  if  he  may  prevail, 
will  fearlessly  eat,  in  the  martial  hall, 
the  Geat's  people,  as  oft  he  has  done 
the  Hrethmen'si  forces.    Thou  wilt  not  need 
to  shroud  my  head,  for  he  will  have  me, 
stained  with  gore,  if  death  shall  take  me; 

1  the  Danes 


6 


ANGLO-SAXON  PERIOD 


irill  bear  off  my  bloody  corse  to  feast  on  it; 
lonely,  will  eat  it  without  compunction; 
will  mark  out  my  moor-mound.    Thou  wilt  not 
need  450 

care  to  take  for  my  body's  disposal. 
If  the  conflict  take  me,  send  to  Hygelac 
this  best  of  battle-coats  shielding  my  breast, 
of  vests  most  excellent;   'tis  Hrsedla's  legacy, 
Weland  '32  work.  Fate  goes  aye  as  it  must. ' ' 

VIII.    Heothgae's  Lament 

Hrothgar  spake,  the  Scyldings'  shield: 
"For  battles  thou,  my  friend  Beowulf, 
and  for  honor,  us  hast  sought. 
Thy  father  fought  in  the  greatest  feud: 
he  was  of  Heatholaf  the  slayer,  460 

with  the  Wylfings,  when  the  Weder-Geats 
for  fear  of  war-feud  might  not  harbor  him. 
Thence  he  sought,  o'er  the  rolling  waves, 
the  South  Danes'  folk,  the  noble  Scyldings, 
when  first  I  ruled  the  Danish  people 
and  in  my  youth  held  spacious  realms, 
the  hoard-burg  of  heroes.      Dead  was  Heregar, 
my  elder  brother,  son  of  Healfdene, — 
passed  from  the  living;  he  was  better  than  I. 
Later,  that  quarrel  I  settled  with  money;      470 
over  the  water's  back  old  treasures 
I  sent  to  the  Wylfings:  he  swore  to  me  oaths. 

"Sorry  am  I  in  my  mind  to  say 
to  any  man  what  Grendel  has  wrought  me 
in  Heorot  with  his  hostile  designs, 
what  swift  mischiefs  done.     My  courtiers  are 

minished, 
my  martial  band;  them  fate  has  off -swept 
to  the  horrors  of  Grendel.   Yet  God  may  easily 
turn  from  his  deeds  the  frenzied  spoiler. 
Oft  have  promised  the  sons  of  conflict,        480 
with  beer  drunken,  over  the  ale-cup, 
that  they  in  the  beer-haJl  would  await 
with  sharp  sword-edges  Grendel 's  warfare. 
Then  at  morning,  when  the  day  dawned, 
this  princely  mead-hall  was  stained  with  gore, 
all  the  bench-floor  with  blood  besteamed, 
the  hall  with  sword-blood:    I  owned  the  fewer 
of  dear,  faithful  nobles,  whom  death  destroyed. 
Sit  now  to  the  feast,  and  joyfully  think 
of  victory  for  men,  as  thy  mind  may  incite. ' '    490 

For  the  sons  of  the  Oeats  then,  all  together, 
in  the  beer-hall  a  bench  was  cleared. 
There  the  strong-souled  went  to  sit, 
proudly  rejoicing;  a  thane  did  duty, 
who  bare  in  bis  hand  the  ale-cup  bedecked, 
poured  the  bright  liquor.    Clear  rose  the  glee- 
man 's 
song  in  Heorot.     There  was  joy  of  warriors, 
a  Doble  band  of  Danes  and  Weders. 

3  The  divine  smith,  or  Vulcan,  of  northern  legend. 


IX.    Hunferth's  Taunt.    The  Eeply 

Hunferth  spake,  the  son  of  Ecglaf,  499 

who  sat  at  the  feet  of  the  Scyldings '  lord, 
unloosed  his  malice.     To  him  was  the  voyage 
of  the  bold  sailor,  Beowulf,  a  great  displeasure, 
because  he  grudged  that  another  man 
should  ever  'neath  heaven  more  glories  hold 
of  this  middle-earth,  than  he  himself. 

"Art    thou    the    Beowulf    who    strove    with 

Breca 
on  the  wide  sea,  in  a  swimming-strife, 
where  ye  from  pride  tempted  the  floods, 
and,  for  foolish  vaunt,  in  the  deep  water 
ventured  your  lives?    Nor  might  any  man, 
either  friend  or  foe,  restrain  you  from  511 

the  perilous  voyage,  when  seaward  ye  swam 
with  arms  outspread  o'er  the  ocean-stream, 
measured  the  sea-ways,  smote  with  your  hands, 
o'er  the  main  glided.    With  winter's  fury 
the  ocean-waves  boiled ;  for  a  sennight  ye  toiled 
on   the   water's   domain.      He   conquered   thee 

swimming ; 
he  had  more  strength.    At  morningtide  then 
the  sea  bore  him  up  to  the  Heathoraemas, 
whence  he  sought,  beloved  of  his  people,        520 
his   country   dear,   the   Brondings'   land, 
his   fair,   peaceful   burgh,   where  a  people   he 

owned, 
a  burgh  and  treasures.    All  his  boast  to  thee 
the  son  of  Beanstan  truly  fulfilled. 
Worse  of  thee,  therefore,  now  I  expect — 
though  everywhere  thou  hast  excelled  in  grim 

war, 
in  martial  exploits — if  thou  to  Grendel 
darest  near  abide  for  a  night-long  space." 

Beowulf  spake,  Ecgtheow  's  son: 
"Well,    my    friend    Hunferth,    drunken    with 

beer,  530 

a  deal  hast  thou  spoken  here  about  Breca, 
about  his  adventure.    The  sooth  I  tell, 
that  I  possessed  greater  endurance  at  sea, 
strength  on  the  waves,  than  any  other. 
We  two  agreed  when  we  were  striplings, 
and  made  our  boast  (we  were  both  as  yet 
in  youthful  life),  that  we  on  the  ocean 
would  venture  our  lives;  and  thus  we  did. 
A  naked  sword  we  held  in  hand 
when  we  swam  on  the  deep,  as  we  meant  to 

defend  us  540 

against  the  whales.    Far  on  the  flood-waves 
away  from  me  he  could  not  float, 
in  the  sea  more  swiftly,  and  from  him  I  would 

not. 
Then  we  together  were  in  the  sea 
a  five  night's  space,  till  it  drove  us  asunder. 
Weltering  waves,  coldest  of  tempests, 
cloudy  night,  and  the  fierce  north  wind 


BEOWULF 


560 


grimly  assaulted  us;  rough  were  the  billows. 
The  rage  of  the  sea-fishes  was  aroused. 
Then  my  body-sark,  hard  and  hand-locked, 
afforded  me  help  against  my  foes;  551 

my  braided  war-shirt  lay  on  my  breast, 
with  gold  adorned.     A  speckled  monster 
drew  me  to  bottom,  a  grim  one  held  me 
fast  in  his  grasp.     Yet  was  it  granted 
that  with  the  point  I  reached  the  creature, 
with   my   war-falchion.     A   deadly   blow, 
dealt  by  my  hand,  destroyed  the  sea-beast. 

X.    The  Queen  's  Greeting.    Glee  in  Heorot 

"Thus  frequently  me  my  hated  foes 
fiercely  threatened;  but  I  served  them 
with  my  dear  sword  as  it  was  fitting. 
Not  of  that  gluttony  had  they  joy, 
foul  destroyers,  to  sit  round  the  feast 
near  the  sea-bottom  and  eat  my  body; 
but  in  the  morning,  with  falchions  wounded, 
up  they  lay  among  the  shore-drift, 
put  to  sleep  by  the  sword;  so  that  ne'er  after 
stopt  they  the  way  for  ocean-sailers 
over  the  surge.    Light  came  from  the  east, 
God 's  bright  beacon,  the  seas  grew  calm,       570 
so  that  the  sea-nesses  I  might  see, 
windy  walls.     Fate  often  saves 
an  undoomeu  man  when  his  valor  avails. 

"Yes,  'twas  my  lot  with  sword  to  slay 
nickers  nine.     1  have  heard  of  no  harder 
struggle  by  night  'neath  heaven's  vault, 
nor  of  man  more  harried  in  ocean-streams. 
Yet   with    life   I   escaped   from    the   grasp   of 

dangers, 
aweary  of  toil.     Then  the  sea  bore  me, 
the  flood  with  its  current,  the  boiling  fiords, 
to  the  Finns'  land. 

"Now  never  of  thee  581 

have  I  heard  tell  such  feats  of  daring, 
such  falchion-terrors.     Ne  'er  yet  Breca 
at  game  of  war,  nor  either  of  you, 
so  valiantly  performed  a  deed 
with  shining  swords  (thereof  I  boast  not), 
tho '  thou  of  thy  brothers  wast  murderer, 
of  thy  chief  kinsmen,  wherefore  in  hell 
shalt  thou  suffer  damnation,  keen  tho'  thy  wit 

be. 
In  sooth  I  say  to  thee,  son  of  Ecglaf,  590 

that  never  had  Grendel,  the  fiendish  wretch, 
such  horrors  committed  against  thy  prince, 
such  harm  in  Heorot,  were  thy  spirit, 
thy  mind,  as  war-fierce  as  thou  supposest. 
But  he  has  found  that  he  need  not  greatly 
care  for  the  hatred  of  your  people, 
the  fell  sword-strength  of  the  victor-Scyldings.* 

•  The  epithet  appears  to  be  ironical.  It  is  note- 
wortliy  that  Hrothgar  takes  It  all  in  good 
part. 


He  takes  a  forced  pledge,  has  mercy  on  none 
of  the  Danish  people,  but  wars  at  pleasure, 
slays  and  shends  you,  nor  strife  expects        600 
from  the  Spear-Danes.    But  now  of  the  Geats 
the  strength  and  valor  shall  I  unexpectedly 
show  him  in  battle.     Thereafter  may  all  go 
elate  to  the  mead,  after  the  light 
of  the  ether-robed  sun  on  the  second  day 
shines    from    the    south   o'er    the    children   of 
men. '  'f 

Then  was  rejoiced  the  treasure-distributor ; 
hoary-locked,  war- famed,  the  bright  Danes'  lord 
trusted  in  succor;  the  people's  shepherd 
from  Beowulf  heard  his  steadfast  resolve.      610 
There  was  laughter  of  men,  the  din  resounded, 
words  were  winsome.     Wealhtheow  came  forth, 
Hrothgar 's  queen ;  mindful  of  courtesy, 
the  gold-adorned  greeteil  the  men  in  the  hall. 
First  then  the  woman,  high-born,  handed  the 
cup  to  the  East- Danes'  country's  guardian, 
bade  him  be  blithe  at  the  beer-drinking, 
dear  to  his  people.     He  gladly  partook  of 
the  feast,  and  the  hall-cup,  battle-famed  king. 

Round   then .  went   the  dame   of   the   Helm- 
ingsi  620 

on  every  side,  among  old  and  young, 
costly  cups  proffered,  till  came  occasion 
that  she,  the  high-minded,  ring-adorned  queen 
the  mead-cup  bore  unto  Beowulf. 
She  greeted   the   lord   of   the  Geats,   thanked 

God, 
sagacious  in  words,  that  her  wish  had  befallen, 
that  she  in  any  warrior  might  trust 
for  comfort  'gainst  crimes.    He  took  the  cup, 
the  warrior  fierce,  from  Wealhtheow 's  hand, 
and  then  made  speech,  eager  for  battle, — 
Beowulf  spake,  the  son  of  Ecgtheow:  631 

"I  resolved,  when  I  went  on  the  main 
with  my  warrior-band  and  sat  in  the  seaboat, 
that  I  would  wholly  accomplish  the  will 
of  your  people  in  this,  or  bow  in  death, 
fast  in  the  foe 's  grasp.    I  shall  perform 
deeds  of  valor,  or  look  to  find 
here  in  this  mead-hall  my  last  day." 

The  Geat's  proud   speech   the  woman  liked 
well; 
the  high-born  queen  of  the  people  went,        640 
adorned  with  gold,  to  sit  by  her  lord. 
Within  the  hall  then  again  as  before 
were  bold  words  spoken — the  people 's  joy 
the  victor  folk's  clamor — up  to  the  moment 

1  Name  of  the  queen's  family. 

t  "In  this  speech,"  says  Dr.  J.  R.  C.  Hall,  "in 
less  than  fourscore  passionate  lines,  we  have 
rude  and  outspoken  repartee,  proud  and  un- 
blushing boast,  a  rapid  narrative,  Munchausen 
episodes,  flashes  of  nature,  a  pagan  proverb, 
a  bitter  taunt,  a  reckless  insult  to  the  Dan- 
ish race,  a  picture  of  a  peaceful  time  to 
come." 


8 


ANGLO-SAXON  PERIOD 


when  Healf dene's  son  was  fain  to  go  to 
his  evening  rest.     He  knew  that  conflict 
awaited  the  monster  in  the  high  hall 
80  soon  as  they  might  no  longer  see 
the  sun's  light,  and  o'er  all  murk  night, 
the  shadow-helm  of  men,  came  creeping,        650 
dusk  under  heaven.     The  company  rose. 
Hrothgar  then  paid  Beowulf  reverence — 
one  hero  the  other — and  bade  him  hail, 
gave  him  command  of  the  wine-hall  and  said: 
' '  Never  since  hand  and  shield  I  could  raise, 
have  I  before  entrusted  to  any 
the  hall  of  the  Danes,  save  new  to  thee. 
Have  now  and  hold  this  best  of  houses; 
be  mindful  of  glory,  show  mighty  valor, 
keep  watch  for  the  foe.    No  vdsh  shall  be  lack- 
ing 660 
if  thou  from  this  venture  escape  with  thy  life. ' ' 

XI.    Beowulf's  Vigil 

Then  Hrothgar  departed,  the  Scyldings'  pro- 
tector, 
out  of  the  hall  with  his  band  of  warriors ; 
the  martial  leader  would  seek  his  consort, 
Wealhtheow  the  queen.     The  glory  of  kings 
had  set  against  Grendel,  as  men  have  heard  tell, 
a  hall-ward;  he  held  a  special  oflSce 
about  the  Dane-prince,  kept  guard   'gainst  the 

giant. 
But  the  chief  of  the  Geats  well  trusted  in      669 
his  own  proud  might  and  the  Creator's  favor. 
He  doffed  from  him  then  his  iron  byrnie, 
the  helm  from  his  head,  and  gave  to  a  hench- 
man 
his  sword  enchased,  choicest  of  irons, 
bade  him  take  charge  of  the  gear  of  war. 
Some  wori'.s  of  pride   then  spake   the   good 
chief, 
Beowulf  the  Geat,  ere  he  mounted  his  bed: 
' '  I  count  me  no  feebler  in  martial  vigor 
of  warlike  works  than  Grendel  himself. 
Therefore  I  will  not,  tho'  easy  it  were,  679 

with  sword  destroy  him  or  lull  him  to  rest. 
'Tis  a  warfare  ne  knows  not — to  strike  against 

me 
and  hew  my  shield,  renowned  tho'  he  be 
for  hostile  works;  but  we  two  to-night 
shall  do  without  sword,  if  he  dare  seek 
war  without  weapon.    And  afterward  God, 
the  wise,  the  holy,  shall  glory  doom 
to  whichever  hand  it  moot  to  him  seemcth. " 
Then  lay  down  the  brave  man, — the  bolster 
received 
the  warrior's  cheek;  and  around  him  many 
a  Beaman  keen  reclined  on  his  hall-couch.       690 
No^  one  of  them  thought  that  he  should  thence 
0eek  ever  again  the  home  he  loved, 


the  folk  or  free  burg  where  he  was  nurtured: 
since  erst  they  had  heard  how  far  too  many 
folk  of  the  Danes  a  bloody  death 
o'ertook  in   that  wine-hall.     But  to   them  the 

Lord 
gave  woven  victory,*  to  the  Weders'  people 
comfort  and  succor,  so  that  they  all 
by  the  might  of  one,  by  his  single  powers, 
their  foe  overcame.    Shown  is  it  truly  700 

that  mighty  God  ruleth  the  race  of  men. 
Now  in  the  murky  night  came  stalking 
the  shadow-walker.    All  the  warriors 
who  should  defend  that  pinnacled  mansion 
slept,  save  one.     To  men  it  was  known 
that  the  sinful  spoiler,  when  God  willed  not, 
might  not  drag  them  beneath  the  shade. 
Natheless,  he,  watching  in  hate  for  the  foe, 
in  angry  mood  waited  the  battle-meeting. 

XII.    Geendel's  Onslaught 

Then  came  from  the  moor,  under  the  mist- 
hills,  710 

Grendel  stalking;  he  bare  God's  anger. 
The  wicked  spoiler  thought  to  ensnare 
many  a  man  in  the  lofty  hall. 
He   strode    'neath   the   clouds   until   the  wine- 
house, 
the  gold-hall  of  men,  he  readily  saw, 
richly  adorned.    Nor  was  that  time 
the  first  that  Hrothgar 's  home  he  had  sought: 
but  ne'er  in  his  life,  before  nor  since, 
found  he  a  bolder  man  or  hall-thanes. 

So  then  to  the  mansion  the  man  bereft      720 
of  joys  came  journeying;  soon  with  his  hands 
undid  the  door,  tho'  with  forged  bands  fast; 
the  baleful-minded,  angry,  burst  open 
the  mansion  's  mouth.    Soon  thereafter 
the  fiend  was  treading  the  glittering  floor, 
paced  wroth  of  mood ;  from  his  eyes  started 
a  horrid  light,  most  like  to  flame. 
He  in  the  mansion  saw  warriors  many, 
a  kindred  band,   together  sleeping, 
fellow-warriors.     His  spirit  exulted.  730 

The  fell  wretch  expected  that  ere  day  came 
he  would  dissever  the  life  from  the  body 
of  each,  for  in  him  the  hope  had  risen 
of  a  gluttonous  feast.    Yet  'twas  not  his  fate 
that  he  might  more  of  the  race  of  men 
oat  after  that  night.   The  mighty  kinsman 
of  Hygelac  watched  how  the  wicke<l  spoiler 
would  proceed  with  his  sudden  grasping. 

Nor  did  the  monster  mean  to  delay; 
for  he  at  the  first  stroke  quickly  seized  740 

•  This  la  a  characteristic  Northern  fluuro,  as  well 
as  Groek :  but  It  is  not  Clirlstlnn.  .^n  In- 
tcrpstlnK  expansion  of  It  may  be  found  In 
Gray's  poem  of  The  Fatal  SUitcrs. 


BEOWULF 


9 


a  sleeping  warrior,  tore  him  unawares, 

bit  his  bone-casings,  drank  his  veins'  blood, 

in  great  morsels  swallowed  him.     Soon  had  he 

devoured  all  of  the  lifeless  one, 

feet  and  hands.    He  stepped  up  nearer, 

took  then  with  his  hand  the  doughty-minded 

warrior  at  rest;  with  his  hand  the  foe 

reached   towards   him.     He   instantly   grappled 

with  the  evil-minded,  and  on  his  arm  rested. 

Soon  as  the  criminal  realized  750 

that  in  no  other  man  of  middle-earth, 
of  the  world 's  regions,  had  he  found 
a  stronger  hand-grip,  his  mind  grew  fearful. 
Yet  not  for  that  could  he  sooner  escape. 
He  was  bent  on  flight,  would  flee  to  his  cavern, 
the  devil-pack  seek;  such  case  had  never 
in  all  his  life-days  befallen  before. 
Then  Hygelac  's  good  kinsman  remembered 
his  evening  speech;  upright  he  stood,  759 

and  firmly  grasped  him;  his  fingers  yielded. 
The  jotun  was  fleeing;  the  earl  stept  further. 
The  famed  one  considered  whether  he  might 
more  widely  wheel  and  thence  away 
flee   to   his   fen-mound;    he  knew   his  fingers' 

power 
in  the  fierce  one 's  grasp.    'Twas  a  dire  journey 
the  baleful  spoiler  made  to  Heorot. 
The  princely  hall  thundered ;  terror  was 
on  all  the  Danes,  the  city-dwellers, 
each  valiant  one,  while  both  the  fierce  769 

strong  warriors  raged;  the  mansion  resounded. 
Then  was  it  wonder  great  that  the  wine-hall 
withstood  the  war-beasts,  nor  fell  to  the  ground, 
the  fair  earthly  dwelling;  yet  was  it  too  fast, 
within  and  without,  with  iron  bands, 
cunningly  forged,  though  where  the  fierce  ones 
fought,  I  have  heard,  many  a  mead-bench, 
with  gold  adorned,  from  its  siU  started. 
Before  that,  weened  not  the  Scyldings'  sages 
that  any  man  ever,  in  any  wise, 
in    pieces    could    break   it,    goodly    and    bone- 
decked,  780 
or  craftily  rive — only  the  flame's  clutch 
in  smoke  could  devour  it.     Startling  enough 
the  noise  uprose.    Over  the  North  Danes 
stood  dire  terror,  on  every  one 
of  those  who  heard  from  the  wall  the  whoop, 
the  dread  lay  sung  by  God's  denier, 
the  triumphless  song  of  the  thrall  of  hell, 
his  pain  bewailing.     He  held  him  fast, — 
he  who  of  men  was  strongest  of  might, 
of  them  who  in  that  day  lived  this  life.        790 

XIII.     The   Moxster  Eepulsed 

Not  for  aught  would  the  refuge  of  earls 
leave  alive  the  deadly  guest; 
the  davs  of  his  life  he  counted  not  useful 


to  any  folk.     There  many  a  warrior 

of  Beowulf's  drew  his  ancient  sword; 

they  would  defend  the  life  of  their  lord, 

of  the  great  prince,  if  so  they  might. 

They  knew  not,  when  they  entered  the  strife, 

the  bold  and  eager  sons  of  battle, 

and  thought  to  hew  him  on  every  side  800 

his  life  to  seek,  that  not  the  choicest 

of  irons  on  earth,  no  battle-falchion, 

could  ever  touch  the  wicked  scather, 

since  martial  weapons  he  had  forsworn, 

every  edge  whatever.    Yet  on  that  day 

of  this  life  was  his  life-parting 

wretched  to  be,  and  the  alien  spirit 

to  travel  far  into  power  of  fiends. 

Then  he  who  before  in  mirth  of  mood 
(he  was  God's  foe)  had  perpetrated  810 

many  crimes  'gainst  the  race  of  men, 
found  that  his  body  would  not  avail  him, 
for  him  the  proud  kinsman  of  Hygelac 
had  in  hand;  each  was  to  the  other 
hateful  alive.   The  fell  wretch  suffered 
bodily  pain;  a  deadly  wound 
appeared  on  his  shoulder,  his  sinews  started; 
his  bone-casings  burst.    To  Beowulf  was 
the  war-glory  given;  Grendel  must  thence, 
death-sick,  under  his  fen-shelters  flee,  820 

seek  a  joyless  dwelling;  well  he  knew 
that  the  end  of  his  life  was  come,  his  appointed 
number  of  days.    For  all  the  Danes, 
that  fierce  fight  done,  was  their  wish  accom- 
plished. 

So  he  then,  the  far-come,  the  wise  and  strong 
of  soul,  had  purified  Hrothgar's  haU, 
saved  it  from  malice;  his  night's  work  rejoiced 

him, 
his  valor-glories.     The  Geatish  chieftain 
had  to  the  East-Danes  his  boast  fulfilled, 
had  healed,  to-wit,  the  preying  sorrow  830 

that  they  in  that  country  before  had  suffered 
and  had  to  endure  for  hard  necessity, 
no  small  aflUction.      A  manifest  token 
it  was  when  the  warrior  laid  down  the  hand — 
arm  and  shoulder,  Grendel 's  whole  grappler 
together  there — 'neath  the  vaulted  roof. 

XIV.    Joy  at  Heorot 

Then  in  the  morning,  as  I  have  heard  tell, 
there  was  many  a  warrior  around  the  gift  hall: 
folk-chiefs  came,   from  far  and  near, 
o'er  distant  ways,  the  wonder  to  see,  840 

the  tracks  of  the  foe.     His  taking  from  life 
seemed  not  grievous  to  any  warrior 
who  the  inglorious  one's  trail  beheld, — 
how,  weary  in  spirit,  o'ercome  in  the  conflict, 
death-doomed  and  fleeing,  he  bare  death-traces 
thence  awav  to  the  nickers'  mere. 


10 


ANGLO-SAXON  PERIOD 


There  was  the  surge  boiling  with  blood, 
the  dire  swing  of  waves  all  commingled  j 
with    clotted    blood    hot,    with    sword-gore    it 

welled ; 
the  death-doomed  dyed  it,  when  he  joyless 
laid  down  his  life  in  his  fen-asylum,  851 

his  heathen  soul.    There  hell  received  him. 
Thence  again  turned  they,  comrades  old, 
from  the  joyous  journey,  and  many  a  younger, 
proud  from  the  mere,  riding  on  horses, 
warriors  on  steeds.    Then  was  Beowulf's 
glory  celebrated.    Many  oft  said 
that  south  or  north,  between  the  seas 
the  wide  world  over,  there  was  no  other 
'neath  heaven's  course  who  was  a  better       860 
shield-bearer,  or  one  more  worthy  of  power. 
Yet  found  they  no  fault  with  their  lord  beloved, 
the  joyful  Hrothgar:  he  was  their  good  king. 

Then  was  morning  light 
sent  forth  and  quickened.   Many  a  retainer, 
strong  in  spirit,  to  the  high  hall  went,  919 

to  see  the  rare  wonder.    The  king  himself  also 
from    his    nuptial    bower,    guardian    of    ring- 
treasures, 
with  a  large  troop  stept  forth,  rich  in  glory, 
for  virtues  famed;  and  his  queen  with  him 
the     meadow-path     measured    with     train     of 
maidens. 

XV.    Heothgar's  Gratitude 
Hrothgar  spake  (he  to  the  hall  went, 
stood  near  the  threshold,  saw  the  steep  roof 
shining  with  gold,  and  Grendel's  hand): 
"Now  for  this  sight,  to  the  Almighty  thanks! 
May  it  quickly  be  given !  Much  ill  have  I  borne, 
Grendel's  snares;  ever  can  God  work  930 

wonder  on  wonder,  the  King  of  Glory. 
Not  long  was  it  since,  that  I  little  weened 
for  woes  of  mine  through  all  my  life, 
reparation  to  know,  when,  stained  with  blood, 
the  best  of  houses  all  gory  stood; 
woe  was  wide-spread  for  each  of  my  counsellors, 
who  did  not  ween  that  they  evermore 
from  foes  could  defend  the  people's  landwork,i 
from  devils  and  phantoms.     Now  this  warrior, 
through  the  might  of  the  Lord,  has  done  a  deed 
which  we  all  together  before  could  not  941 

with  cunning  accomplish.     Lo,  this  may  say 
whatever  woman  brought  forth  this  son 
among  the  nations,  if  yet  she  lives, 
that  the  ancient  Creator  was  gracious  to  her 
at  the  birth  of  her  son.   Now  will  I,  O  Beowulf, 
best  of  warriors,  even  as  a  son, 
love  thee  in  my  heart.    Keep  henceforth  well 
our  kinship  now;  no  lack  shalt  thou  have 

1  Heorot 


of  worldly  desires,  wherein  I  have  power. 

Full  often  for  less  have  I  dealt  a  reward, 

an  honor-gift,  to  a  feebler  warrior,  952 

weaker  in  conflict.     Thou  for  thyself 

hast  wrought  so  well,  that  thy  glory  shall  live 

through  every  age.    May  the  AU-wielder 

with  good  reward  thee,  as  now  He  has  done." 

Beowulf  spake,  Ecgtheow's  son: 
"We  with  great  good  will,  that  arduous  work, 
that  fight,  have  achieved;  we  boldly  ventured 
in  war  with  the  monster.   The  more  do  I  wish 
that  thou  himself  mightest  have  seen,  961 

the  foe  in  his  trappings,  full  weary  enough. 
Him  I  quickly,  with  hard  and  fast  fetters, 
on  his  death-bed  thought  to  have  bound, 
that  through  my  hand-grips  low  he  should  lie, 
struggling  for  life,  but  his  body  escaped. 
I  was  not  able,  the  Lord  did  not  will  it, 
to  keep  him  from  going;   I  held  him  not  firm 

enough, 
the  deadly  foe:  too  strong  on  his  feet 
the  enemy  was.     Yet  his  hand  he  left,  970 

for  his  life's  safety,  to  guard  his  track, 
his  arm  and  shoulder;  yet  not  thereby 
did  the  wretched  creature  comfort  obtain; 
nor  will  he,  crime-doer,  the  longer  live 
with  sins  oppressed.    For  pain  has  him 
in  its  grip  compelling  straitly  clasped, 
in  its  deadly  bonds;  there  shall  he  await, 
the  crime-stained  wretch,  the  Final  Doom, 
as  the  Lord  of  Splendor  shall  mete  it  to  him." 

Then  less  noisy  was  Ecglaf 's  son  980 

in  vaunting  speech  of  words  of  w-ar, 
after  the  nobles,  thro '  might  of  the  hero, 
over  the  high  roof  had  gazed  on  the  hand, 
the  fingers  of  the  foe,  each  for  himself.* 
Each  finger-nail  was  firm  as  steel — 
a  heathen's  hand-spurs  and  a  warrior's, — 
hideously  monstrous.    Every  one  said 
that  no  excellent  iron  of  the  bold  ones 
would  be  able  to  touch  the  demon's  hand, 
would  ever  sever  the  bloody  limb.  990 

XVI.    Feasting  and  Song 

Then    quickly     'twas    ordered,    that    Heorot 
within 
by  hand  be  adorned;  many  were  they, 
of  men  and  women,  who  the  wine-house, 
the  guest-hall,  prepared ;  gold-shimmering  shone 
the  webs  on  the  walls,  wondrous  sights  many 
to  each  and  all  that  gaze  upon  such. 

•  Beowulf,  says  Dr.  Klneber,  "had  plncod  Oron- 
dol's  hand  (on  some  projection  perhaps) 
above  the  door  (outside)  as  high  as  he  could 
reach."  where  the  nobles,  lookhiK  from  out- 
side "In  the  direction  of  the  hlRii  roof,"  be- 
hold It.  Others  think  that  it  was  hung  up 
within  the  hall. 


BEOWULF 


11 


That  splendid  dwelling  much  shattered  was, 
though  bound  within  with  bands  of  iron; 
the  hinges  asunder  were  rent,  the  roof 
alone  was  saved  all  sound,  when  the  monster, 
stained  with  foul  deeds,  turned  him  to  flight, 

hopeless  of  life 1002 

[The  feast  is  held,  gifts  are  bestowed  on  the 
hero,  and  Hrothgar's  minstrel  sings  a  song  of 
a  hundred  lines  about  Finn,  the  king  of  the 
Frisians.] 

XVIII.    The  Queen's  Speech 

.     .     .     .     The  lay  was  sung,  1159 

the  gleeman's  song.    Pastime  was  resumed, 
noise  rose  from  the  benches,  the  cup-boys  served 

wine 
from  wondrous  vessels.   Then  Wealhtheow  came 

forth 
'neath  a  gold  diadem,  to  where  the  two  good 
eousinst  sat;  at  peace  were  they  still, 
each  true  to  the  other;  there  Hunferth  too  sat 
at  the  Scylding  lord 's  feet, — all  had  faith  in  his 

spirit, 
his  courage,  altho '  to  his  kinsmen  he  had  not 
in  sword-play  been  true.J     Then  the  Scyldings' 

queen  spake: 
'  *  Accept  this  beaker,  my  beloved  lord,i 
dispenser  of  treasure;  may'st  be  joyful,      1170 
gold-friend  of  men!    And  speak  to  the  Geats 
with  gentle  words!    So  man  shall  do. 
Be  kind  toward  the  Geats,  mindful  of  gifts; 
near  and  far  thou  now  hast  safety. 
Men  have  said  that  thou  this  warrior 
wouldst  have  for  a  son.     Heorot  is  purged, 
the  bright  hall  of  rings:  enjoy  while  thou  may- 

est 
the  rewards  of  the  many,  and  to  thy  sons  leave 
folk  and  realm,  when  thou  shalt  go  forth 
to  see  thy  Creator.    Well  I  know  that  1180 

my  gracious  Hrothulf  will  the  youth 
in  honor  maintain  if  thou  sooner  than  he, 
oh  friend  of  the  Scyldings,  leavest  the  world. 
I  ween  that  he  with  good  will  repay 
our  offspring  dear,  if  he  remembers 
aU  the  favors  that  we  for  his  pleasure 
and  honor  performed  when  he  was  a  child." 
Then  she  turned  to  the  seat  where  were  her 
sons, 
Hrethric  and  Hrothmund,  and  the  sons  of  the 

heroes,  1189 

the  youths  all  together ;  there  sat  the  noble 
Beowulf  the  Geat,  beside  the  two  brothers. 


1  Hrothgar 

t  Hrothgar,  and  his  nephew,  Hrothulf,  who  must 
have  been  older  than  the  king's  children  (cp. 
lines  1180  ff),  but  who  evidently  did  not  re- 
main "true." 

t  He  was  said  to  have  killed  his  brothers. 


XIX.    Beowulf  Rewaeded,    Eventidk 

The  cup  was  brought  him,  and  friendly  greet- 
ing 
in  words  was  given  and  twisted  gold 
kindly  proffered — bracelets  two, 
armor  and  rings,  a  collar  the  largest 
of  those  that  on  earth  I  have  heard  tell  of. 
Never  'neath  heaven  have  I  heard  of  a  better 
treasure-hoard  of  men,  since  Hama  bore  off 
to  the  glittering  burg  the  Brosings'  necklace,! 
the  jewel  and  casket  (he  fled  the  guileful    1200 
hate  of  Eormenric,  chose  gain  etemaU). 
Hygelac  the  Geat  wore  this  collar, 
the  grandson  of  Swerting,  on  his  last  raid, 
when    he    'neath   his  banner   the   treasure    de- 
fended, 
the  slaughter-spoil  guarded;  fate  took  him  off 
when  he  out  of  pride  sought  his  own  woe, 
war  with  the  Frisians;  he  the  jewels  conveyed, 
the  precious  stones,  over  the  wave-bowl, 
the  powerful  king;  he  fell  'neath  his  shield. 
Then  into  the  power  of  the  Franks  the  king's 

life 
went,  and  his  breast -weeds,  went  too  the  collar ; 
warriors  inferior  plundered  the  fallen  1212 

after  the  war-lot;  the  Geat-folk  held 
the  abode  of  the  slain. 

The  haU  resounded. 
Wealhtheow    spake,    before    the    warrior-band 

said: 
"Use  this  collar,  Beowulf  dear, 
oh  youth,  with  joy,  and  use  this  mantle, 
these  lordly  treasures,  and  thrive  thou  well; 
prove  thyself  mighty,  and  be  to  these  boys 
gentle  in  counsels.    I  will  reward  thee.         1220 
This  hast  thou  achieved,  that,  far  and  near, 
throughout  aU  time,  men  will  esteem  thee, 
even  so  widely  as  the  sea  encircles 
the  windy  land-walls.    Be  while  thou  livest 
a  prosperous  noble.    I  grant  you  well 
precious  treasures;  be  thou  to  my  sons 
gentle  in  deeds,  thou  who  hast  joy. 
Here  is  each  earl  to  the  other  true, 
mild  of  mood,  to  his  liege  lord  faithful; 
the  thanes  are  united,  the  people  all  ready.  1230 
Warriors  who  have  drunken,  do  as  I  bid." 
To  her  seat  then  she  went.    There  was  choic- 
est of  feasts, 
the  warriors  drank  wine;  Wyrd  they  knew  not, 
calamity  grim,  as  it  turned  out 
for  many  a  man  after  evening  had  come 
and  Hrothgar  had  to  his  lodging  departed, 
the  ruler  to  rest.     There  guarded  the  hall 


1  Perhaps  entered  a  monastery  (S.  Bugge). 

§  The    famous    necklace    of    Freyja,    which    Hama 

stole  from   Eormenric,   the  cruel   king  of  the 

Goths. 


12 


ANGLO-SAXON  PERIOD 


countless  warriors,  as  oft  they  had  done.  I 

They  cleared  the  bench-floor;  it  soon  was  o'er- 

spread 
with  bods  and  bolsters.    A  certain  beer-bearer, 
ready  and  fated,  bent  to  his  rest.  1241 

They  set  at  their  heads  their  disks  of  war, 
their  shield- wood  bright;  there  on  the  bench, 
over  each  noble,  easy  to  see, 
was  his  high  martial  helm,  his  ringed  byrnie 
and  war-wood  stout.    It  was  their  custom 
that  they  were  ever  for  war  prepared, 
at  home,  in  the  field,  in  both  alike, 
at  whatever  time  to  their  liege  lord 
the  need  befel.     'Twas  a  ready  people.        1250 

XX.    Geendel's  Mother 

They  sank  then  to  sleep.    One  sorely  paid 
for  his  evening  rest,  as  full  oft  had  happened 
since  the  gold-hall  Grendel  occupied, 
unrighteousness  did,  until  the  end  came, 
death  after  sins.     Then  it  was  seen, 
wide-known  among  men,  that  still  an  avenger 
lived  after  the  foe,  for  a  long  time 
after  the  battle-care, — Grendel 's  mother. 
The  woman-demon  remembered  her  misery, 
she  that  the  watery  horrors,  the  cold  streams, 
had  to  inhabit,  when  Cain  became  1261 

slayer  by  sword  of  his  only  brother, 
his  father's  son.     Then  he  went  forth  blood- 
stained, 
by  murder  marked,  fleeing  man's  joy, 
dwelt  in  the  wilderness.     Thence  awoke  many 
fated  demons;  Grendel  was  one, 
the  hated  fell  wolf  who  at  Heorot  found 
a  watchful  warrior  awaiting  the  conflict; 
and  there  the  monster  laid  hold  of  him. 
Yet  was  he  mindful  of  his  great  strength,    1270 
the  generous  gift  that  God  had  given  him, 
and  trusted  for  help  in  him  the  All-wielder, 
for  comfort  and  aid;  so  slew  he  the  fiend, 
dtruck  down   the  hell-spirit.    Then   humble  he 

made  off, 
the  foe  of  mankind,  to  seek  his  death-home, 
of  joy  deprived.    Natheless  his  mother, 
greedy  and  gloomy,  was  bent  on  going 
the    sorrowful    journey,    her    son's    death    to 
avenge. 
So  came  she  to  Heorot,  to  where  the  Eing- 
Danes  1279 

throughout  the  hall  slept.  Forthwith  there  came 
to   the   warriors   a  change,   when   in   on   them 

rushe<l 
Grendel  'b  mother ;  the  terror  was  less 
by  just  so  much  as  the  force  of  women  is, 
the  war-dread  from  woman,  than  that  from  a 
man 


when  the  hilt-bound  sword,  hammer-beaten, 
stained  with  gore,  and  doughty  of  edges, 
hews  off  the  head  of  the  boar  on  the  helm. 

Then  in  the  hall  the  hard  edge  was  drawn, 
the  sword  o  'er  the  seats,  many  a  broad  shield 
raised  firm  in  hand;  helms  they  forgot 
and  byrnies  broad,  when  the  terror  seized  them. 
She  was  in  haste, — would  out  from  thence    1292 
to  save  her  life,  since  she  was  discovered. 
One  of  the  nobles  she  quickly  had 
with  grip  fast  seized,  as  she  went  to  fen; 
he  was  to  Hrothgar  of  heroes  the  deareat 
in  comradeship  beside  the  two  seas, 
a  mighty  shield-warrior,  whom  she  killed, 
a  hero  renowned.    (Beowulf  was  absent, 
for    another    apartment    had    before   been    as- 
signed, J  300 
after  giving  of  treasures,  to  the  great  Geat.) 
A  cry  was  in  Heorot.     She  took  with  its  gore 
the  well  known  hand;i  grief  had  become 
renewed  in  the  dwellings.      'Twas  no  good  ex- 
change, 
that  those  on  both  sides  payment  must  make 
with  lives  of  their  friends. 

Then  was  the  old  king, 
the  hoary  war-hero,  in  stormy  mood 
when  his  highest  thane,  no  longer  living, 
his  dearest  friend,  he  knew  to  be  dead. 
Quickly  to  his  chamber  was  Beowulf  summoned, 
the  victor-rich  warrior.    Together  ere  day     1311 
he  went  with  his  earls,  the  noble  champion 
with  his  comrades  went  where  the  wise  king 

awaited 
whether  for  him  the  All-wielder  would 
after  the  woe-time  a  change  bring  about. 
Then  along  the  floor  went  the  warlike  man 
with  his  body  guard  (the  hall-wood  resounded) 
till  he  the  wise  prince  greeted  with  words, 
the  lord  of  the  Ingwins;2  asked  if  he  had  had 
according  to  his  wish,  an  easy  night.  1320 


XXI.    Sorrow  for  ^Eschere. 
Mere 


The  Monster's 


Hrothgar  spake,  the  Scyldings'  protector: 
"Ask  not  after  happiness!     Grief  is  renewed 
to  the  folk  of  the  Danes.    Dead  is  ^schere, 
of  Yrmenlaf  the  elder  brother, 
my  confidant  and  my  counsellor, 
my  near  attendant  when  we  in  war 
defended  our  heads,  when  hosts  contended, 
and  boar-crests  crashed ;  such  should  an  earl  be, 
preeminently  good,  as  .^Eschere  was. 
He  in  Heorot  has  had  for  murderer  1330 

a  ghost-like  death-spirit;   I  know  not  whether 

1  Orondel's    (see   1.    834  ) 

2  the    Danes 


BEOWULF 


18 


the    fell    carrion-gloater    her    steps    back    has 

traceil, 
made  known  by  her  meal.    She  the  feud  has 

avenged, 
that  thou  yester-night  didst  Grendel  slay, 
through     thy    fierce    nature,    with    fetter-like 

grasps, 
for  that  he  too  long  my  people  diminished 
and   wrought    destruction.     He   in   battle  suc- 
cumbed, 
forfeiting  life.   And  now  comes  another 
mighty  man-scather  to  avenge  her  son, — 
has  from  afar  warfare  established,  1340 

as  it  may  seem  to  many  a  thane 
who  mourns  in  spirit  his  treasure-giver, 
in  hard  heart-affliction.     Now  low  lies  the  hand 
which  once  availed  you  for  every  desire. 

"I  have  heard  it  said  by  the  land-dwellers, 
by  my  own  subjects,  my  hall-counsellors, 
that  they  have  seen  a  pair  of  such 
mighty  march-stalkers  holding  the  moors, 
stranger-spirits,  whereof  the  one, 
80  far  as  they  could  certainly  know,  1350 

was  in  form  of  a  woman;  the  other,  accurst, 
trod  an  exile 's  steps  in  the  figure  of  man 
(save  that  he  huger  than  other  men  was), 
whom  in  days  of  yore  the  dwellers  on  earth 
Grendel  named.    They  know  not  a  father, 
whether  any  was  afore-time  born 
of  the  dark  ghosts.   That  secret  land 
they  dwell  in,  wolf-dens,  windy  nesses, 
the    perilous    fen-path,    where    the    mountain 

stream 
downward  flows  'neath  the  mists  of  the  nesses, 
the  flood  under  earth.    'Tis  not  far  thence,  1361 
a  mile  in  measure,  that  the  mere  stands, 
over  which  hang  rustling  groves; 
a  wood  fast  rooted  the  water  o'ershadows. 
"There  every  night  may  be  seen  a  dire  won- 
der, 
fire  in  the  flood.     None  so  wise  lives 
of  the  children  of  men,  who  knows  the  bottom. 
Although  the  heath-stepper,  wearied  by  hounds, 
the  stag  strong  of  horns,  seek  that  holtwood, 
driven  from  far,  he  will  give  up  his  life,    1370 
his  breath,  on  the  shore,  ere  he  will  venture 
his  head  upon  it.     That  is  no  pleasant  place. 
Thence  surging  of  waters  upwards  ascends 
wan  to  the  welkin,  when  the  wind  stirs  up 
the  hateful  tempests,  till  air  grows  gloomy 
and  skies  shed  tears.    Again  now  is  counsel 
in  thee  alone!     The  spot  thou  yet  ken'st  not, 
the  perilous  place  where  thou  may'st  find 
this  sinful  being.     Seek  if  thou  dare. 
"With  riches  will  I  for  the  strife  reward  thee, 
with  ancient  treasures,  as  I  before  did,         1381 
with  twisted  gold,  if  thou  eomest  off  safe." 


XXTI.    The  Pubsuit 

Beowulf  spake,  Ecgtheow's  son: 
*  *  Sorrow  not,  sage  man,  'tis  better  for  each 
to  avenge  his  friend  than  greatly  to  mourn. 
Each  of  us  must  an  end  await 
of  this  world's  life;  let  him  work  who  can 
high  deeds  ere  death ;  that  will  be  for  the  war- 
rior, 
when  he  is  lifeless,  afterwards  best. 
Bise,  lord  of  the  realm,  let  us  quickly  go 
to  see  the  course  of  Grendel 's  parent.  1391 

I  promise  thee,  not  to  the  sea  shall  she  'scape, 
nor  to  earth 's  embrace,  nor  to  mountain-wood, 
nor  to  ocean 's  ground,  go  whither  she  will. 
This  day  do  thou  endurance  have 
in  every  woe,  as  I  expect  of  thee !  ' ' 

Up  leapt  the  old  man  then,  thanked  God, 
the  mighty  Lord,  for  what  the  man  said. 
For  Hrothgar  then  a  horse  was  bridled, 
a  steed  with  curled  mane.    The  ruler  wise 
in  state  went  forth;  a  troop  strode  on,         1401 
bearing  their  shields.     Tracks  there  were 
along  the  forest  paths  widely  seen, 
her   course   o'er   the  ground;    she  had  thither 

gone 
o  'er  the  murky  moor.   Of  their  fellow  thanes 
she  bore  the  best  one,  soul-bereft, 
of   those   that   with    Hrothgar   defended    thar 
home. 

Then  overpassed  these  sons  of  nobles 
deep  rocky  gorges,  a  narrow  road, 
strait  lonely  paths,  an  unknown  way,  1410 

precipitous  nesses,  monster-dens  many. 
He  went  in  advance,  he  and  a  few 
of  the  wary  men,  to  view  the  plain, 
till  suddenly  he  found  mountain-trees 
overhanging  a  hoary  rock, 
a  joyless  wood;  there  was  water  beneath, 
gory  and  troubled.   To  all  the  Danes, 
friends    of    the   Scyldings,     'twas    grievous   in 

mind, 
a  source  of  sorrow  to  many  a  thane, 
pain  to  each  earl,  when  of  ^schere,  1420 

on  the  sea-shore,  the  head  they  found. 

The  flood  boiled  with  blood,  the  people  looked 
on 
at  the  hot  glowing  gore.     The  horn  at  times 

sang 
a  ready  war-song.     The  band  all  sat. 
They  saw  in  the  water  a  host  of  the  worm-kind, 
strange  sea  dragons  sounding  the  deep; 
in  the  headland-clefts  also,  nickers  lying, 
which  in  the  morning  oft-times  keep 
their  sorrowful  course  upon  the  sail-road, 
worms  and  wild  beasts; — they  sped  away, 
bitter  and  rage-swollen;  they  heard  the  sound, 


14 


ANGLO-SAXON  PEBIOD 


the  war-born  singing.    The  lord  of  the  Geats 
with  a  bolt  from  bis  bow  took  one  from  life, 
from  his  wave-strife,  and  left  in  his  vitals  1434 
the  hard  war-shaft;  he  in  the  sea  was 
the  slower  in  swimming,  when  death  took  him 

off. 
Quickly  on  the  waves,  with  hunting-spears 
sharply  hooked,  he  was  strongly  pressed, 
felled  by  force,  and  drawn  up  on  the  headland, 
the  wonderful  swimmer.    The  men  there  gazed 
on  the  grisly  guest. 

Beowulf  girt  himself  1441 

in  war-like  weeds;  for  life  he  feared  not; 
his  warrior-byrnie,  woven  by  hands, 
ample  and  inlaid,  must  tempt  the  deep; 
it  could  well  his  body  protect 
that  battle-grip  might  not  scathe  his  breast, 
the  fierce  one's  wily  grasp  injure  his  life. 
But  the  flashing  helm  guarded  his  head, 
(which  with  the  sea-bottom  was  to  mingle,  1449 
and  seek  the  sea-surge)  with  jewels  adorned, 
encircled  with  chains,  as  in  days  of  yore 
the     weapon-smith     wrought     it,     wondrously 

framed, 
set  with  swine-figures,  so  that  thereafter 
no  brand  nor  war-sword  ever  could  bite  it. 

Nor  then  was  that  least  of  powerful  aids 
which  Hrothgar's  oratori  lent  him  at  need: 
Hrunting  was  named  the  hafted  falchion. 
'Twas  among  the  foremost  of  olden  treasures; 
its  edge  was  iron,  tainted  with  poison,  1459 

harden 'd  with  warrior-blood;  ne'er  in  battle 
had  it  failed  any  of  those  that  brandished  it, 
who  durst  to  travel  the  ways  of  terror, 
the  perilous  trysts.     'Twas  not  the  first  time 
that  it  a  valorous  deed  should  perform. 

Surely  Ecglaf 's  son  remembered  not, 
the  mighty  in  power,  what  erst  he  had  said, 
drunken  with  wine,  when  the  weapon  he  lent 
to  a  better  sword-warrior.  He  durst  not  himself 
'mid  the  strife  of  the  waves  adventure  his  life, 
a  great  deed  perform ;  there  lost  he  his  credit 
for  valorous  doing.   Not  so  with  the  other    1471 
when  he  had  prepared  himself  for  battle! 

XXIIT.    The  Fight  Beneath  the  Waves 

Beowulf  spake,  Ecgtheow  's  son: 
* '  Remember  thou  now,  great  son  of  Healfdene, 
sagacious  prince,  now  I  am  ready  to  go, 

0  gold-friend   of  men,   the    things    we    have 

spoken: 
If  I  should  lose  my  life  for  thy  need, 
that  thou  wouldst  ever  be  to  me, 
when  I  am  gone,  in  a  father's  stead.  1479 

Be  a  guardian  thou  to  my  fellow  thanes, 

1  Hunferth   {cf.  I.  490) 


to  my  near  comrades,  if  war  take  me  off. 
Also  the  treasures  which  thou  hast  given  me, 
beloved  Hrothgar,  to  Hygelac  send. 
By  that  gold  then  may  the  lord  of  the  Geats 

know, 
may  Hrethol's  son  see,  when  he  looks  on  that 

treasure, 
that  I  in  man's  virtue  have  found   one  pre- 
eminent, 
a  giver  of  rings,  and  rejoiced  while  I  might. 
And  let  Hunferth  have  the  ancient  relic, 
the  wondrous  war-sword,  let  the  far-famed  man 
the  hard-of-edge  have.    I  with  Hrunting      1490 
will  work  me  renown,  or  death  shall  take  me." 

After  these  words  the  Weder-Geats'  lord 
with  ardor  liastened,  nor  any  answer 
would  he  await.    The  sea-wave  received 
the  warrior-hero.   It  was  a  day's  space 
ere  he  the  bottom  could  perceive. 
Forthwith    she    found — she    who    the    flood's 

course 
had  blood-thirsty  held  a  hundred  years, 
grim  and  greedy — that  a  man  from  above 
was  there  exploring  the  realm  of  strange  crea- 
tures. 1500 
Then  at  him  she  grasped,  the  warrior  seized 
in  her  horrible  claws.    Nathless  she  crushed  not 
his  unhurt  body;  the  ring-mail  guarded  him, 
so  that  she  might  not  pierce  that  war-dress, 
the  lock-linked  sark,  with  her  hostile  fingers. 

Then  when  the  sea-wolf  reached  the  bottom, 
she  bore  to  her  dwelling  the  prince  of  rings 
so  that  he  might  not,  brave  as  he  was, 
his  weapons  wield;  for  many  strange  beings 
in  the  deep  oppressed  him,  many  a  sea-beast 
with  its  battle  tusks  his  war-sark  broke;       1511 
the  wretches  pursued  him.    Then  the  earl  found 
he  was  in  he  knew  not  what  dread  hall, 
where  him  no  water  in  aught  could  scathe, 
nor  because  of  the  roof  could  the  sudden  grip 
of  the  flood  reach  him ;  he  saw  a  fire-light, 
a  brilliant  beam  brightly  shining. 
The  hero  perceived  then  the  wolf  of  the  deeps, 
the  mighty  mere-wife;  a  powerful  onslaught 
he  made  with  his  falchion,  the  sword-blow  with- 
held not,  1520 
so  on  her  head  the  ringed  brand  sang 
a  horrid  war-song.   The  guest  then  discovered 
how  that  the  battle-beam  would  not  bite, 
would  not  scathe  life,  but  that  the  edge  failed 
its  lord  at  his  need;  erst  had  it  endured 
hand-conflicts  many,  slashed  often  the  helm, 
war-garb  of  the  doomed ;  then  was  the  first  time 
for  the  precious  gift  that  its  power  failed. 

Still  was  he  resolute,  slacked  not  his  ardor, 
of  great  deeds  mindful  was  Hygelac 's  kinsman. 
Flung  he  the  twisted  brand,  curiously  bound, 


BEOWULF 


15 


the  angry  champion,  that  stiff  and  steel-edged 
it  lay  on  the  earth;  in  his  strength  he  trusted, 
his  powerful  hand-grip.  So  shall  man  do,      1534 
when  he  in  battle  thinks  of  gaining 
lasting  praise,  nor  cares  for  his  life. 

By  the  shoulder  then  seized  he  (recked  not  of 
her  malice), 
the  lord  of  the  war-Geats,  Grendel's  mother; 
the  fierce  fighter  hurled,  incensed  as  he  was, 
the  mortal  foe,  that  she  fell  to  the  ground. 
She  quickly  repaid  him  again  in  full  1541 

with  her  fierce  grasps,  and  at  him  caught ; 
then  stumbled  he  weary,  of  warriors  the  strong- 
est, 
the  active  champion,  so  that  he  fell. 
She  pressed  down  the  hall-guest,  and  drew  her 

dagger, 
the  broad  gleaming  blade, — would  avenge  her 

son, 
her  only  child.  On  his  shoulder  lay 
the  braided  breast-net  which  shielded  his  life 
'gainst  point,    'gainst  edge,  all  entrance  with- 
stood. 
Then  would  have  perished  Ecgtheow's  son 
'neath  the  wide  earth,  champion  of  the  Geats, 
had  not  his  war-bymie  help  afforded,  1552 

his  battle-net  hard,  and  holy  God 
awarded  the  victory.  The  wise  Lord, 
Buler  of  Heaven,  with  justice  decided  it 
easily,  when  he  again  stood  up. 

XXIV.      ViCTOKY 

Then  he  saw   'mongst  the  arms  a  victorious 
falchion, 
an  old  jotun-sword,  of  edges  doughty, 
the  glory  of  warriors;  of  weapons  'twas  choic- 
est, 1559 
save  it  was  greater  than  any  man  else 
to  the  game  of  war  could  carry  forth, 
good  and  gorgeous,  the  work  of  giants. 

The  knotted  hilt  seized  he,    the    Scyldings' 
warrior, — 
fierce  and  deadly  grim,  the  ringed  sword  swung ; 
despairing  of  life,  he  angrily  struck, 
that  'gainst  her  neck  it  griped  her  hard, 
her  bone-ringsi  brake.    Thre'  her  fated  carcass 
the  falchion  passed;  on  the  ground  she  sank. 
The  blade  was  gory,  the  man  joy'd  in  his  work. 
The    sword-beam   shone   bright,    light    rayed 
within.  1570 

even  as  from  heaven  serenely  shines 
the  candle  of  the  firmament.    He  looked  down 

the  chamber, 
then  turned  by  the  wall ;  his  weapon  upraised 
firm  by  the  hilt  Hygelac  's  thane, 

1  vertebraa 


angry  and  resolute.    Nor  was  the  edge 
to  the  war-prince  useless;  for  he  would  forth- 
with 
Grendel  requite  for  the  many  raids 
that  he  had  made  upon  the  West  Danes, 
and  not  on  one  occasion  only, 
when  he  Hrothgar  's  hearth- companions  1580 

slew  in  their  rest,  sleeping  devoured 
fifteen  men  of  the  folk  of  the  Danes, 
and  as  many  others  conveyed  away, 
hateful  offerings.    He  had  so  repaid  him 
for  that,  the  fierce  champion,  that  at  rest  he 

saw, 
weary  of  contest,  Grendel  lying 
deprived  of  his  life,  as  he  had  been  scathed  by 
the  conflict  at  Heorot;  the  corpse  bounded  far 
when  after  death  he  suffered  the  stroke,.     1589 
the  hard  sword-blow,  and  his  head  it  severed. 

Forthwith  they  saw,  the  sagacious  men, 
those  who   with  Hrothgar  kept  watch  on  the 

water, 
that  the  surge  of  the  waves  was  all  commingled, 
the  deep  stained  with  blood.   The  grizzly-haired 
old  men  together  spake  of  the  hero, 
how  they  of  the  atheling  hoped  no  more 
that,  victory-flush 'd,  he  would  come  to  seek 
their  famous  king,  since  this  seemed  a  sign 
that  him  the  sea-wolf  had  quite  destroyed. 
The  noon-tide*  came,  they  left  the  nesses, 
the  Scyldings  bold;  departed  home  thence 
the  gold-friend  of  men.    The  strangers  sat, 
sick  of  mood,  and  gazed  on  the  mere,  1603 

wished  but  weened  not  that  they  their  dear  lord 
himself  should  see. 

Then  that  sword,  the  war-blade, 
with  its  battle-gore  like  bloody  icicles, 
began  to  fade.    A  marvel  it  was, 
how  it  all  melted,  most  like  to  ice 
when  the  Father  relaxes  the  bands  of  the  frost, 
unwinds  the  flood-fetters.  He  who  has  power 
over  seasons  and  times;  true  Creator  is  that! 
More  treasures  he  took  not,  the  Weder-Geats' 
lord,  1612 

within  those  dwellings   (though  many  he  saw 

there) 
except  the  head,  and  the  hilt  also, 
with  jewels  shining; — the  blade  had  all  melted, 
the  drawn  brand  was  burnt,  so  hot   was  the 

blood, 
so  venomous  the  demon,  who  down  there  had 

perished. 
Afloat  soon  was  he  that  at  strife  had  awaited 
the  slaughter  of  foes;  he  swam  up  through  the 
water. 


*  An  apparent  admission  of  the  exaggeration  In 
1.  1495,  though  noon  meant  formerly  the 
ninth  hour  of  the  day,  which  wonid  bring  it 
near  evening. 


16 


ANGLO-SAXON  PERIOD 


The  ocean  surges  all  were  cleansed,  1620 

the  dwellings  vast,  when  the  stranger  guest 
her  life-days  left  and  this  fleeting  existence. 
Then  came  to  land  the  sailor's  protector 
stoutly  swimming,  rejoiced  in  his  sea-spoil, 
the  mighty  burden   of  what  he   brought  with 

him. 
Then  toward  him  they  went,  with  thanks  to 

God, 
the  stout  band  of  thanes,  rejoiced  in  their  lord, 
because  they  beheld  him  safe  and  sound. 
From  the  vigorous  chief  both  helm  and  byrnie 
were  then  soon  loosed.    The  sea  subsided — 
the  cloud-shadowed  water  with  death-gore  dap- 
pled. 1631 
Thence  forth  they  went  retracing  their  steps 
happy  at  heart,  the  high-way  measured, 
the  well-known  road.    The  nobly  bold  men 
up  from  the  sea-shore  bore  the  head, 
not  without  labor  for  each  of  them, 
the  mightily  daring.    Four  undertook 
with  toil  to  bear  on  the  battle-spear, 
up  to  the  gold-hall,  the  head  of  Grendel ; 
until  straightway  to  the  hall  they  came,       1640 
resolute,  warlike,  four  and  ten  of  them, 
Geats  all  marching  with  their  lord. 
Proud  amid  the  throng,  he  trod  the  meadows. 

Then  entering  came  the  prince  of  thanes, 
the  deed-strong  man  with  glory  honored, 
the  man  bold  in  battle,  Hrothgar  to  greet. 
And  into  the  hall,  where  men  were  drinking, 
Grendel 's  head  by  the  hair  was  borne, 
a  thing  of  terror  to  nobles  and  lady. 
'Twas  a  wonderful  sight  men  looked  upon. 

XXV.    Hrothgae's  Gratitude  and  Counsel 

Beowulf  spake,  Eegtheow's  son:  165] 

"Lo,  these  sea-offerings,  son  of  Healfdene, 
lord  of  the  Scyldings,  we  have  joyfully  brought, 
in  token  of  glory:  thou  seest  them  here. 
Not  easily  did  I  escape  with  my  life, 
ventured  with  pain  on  the  war  under  water. 
Indeed  the  struggle  would  have  been  ended 
outright,  had  not  God  me  shielded. 
Not  able  was  I,  in  the  conflict,  with  Hrunting 
aught  to  accomplish,  though  that  weapon  was 

good;  1660 

but  the  Ruler  of  men  granted  to  me, 
that  T  saw  on  the  wall,  all  beautiful  hanging. 
an  old  heavy  sword,  (He  has  often  directed 
the  friendless  man,)  and  that  weapon  I  drew. 
Then  T  slew  in  that  strife,  as  occasion  afforded, 
the  wards  of  the  house.  That  war-falchion  then, 
that    drawn    brand,    was    burnt,    as    the   blood 

burst  forth, 
of  Btrife-blood  the  hottest.     Thence  T  the  hilt 
from  the  foes  bore  away,  avenged  the  crimes, 


the  Danes'  death-plague,  as  it  was  fitting.    1670 

"I  promise  theo  now  that  thou  in  Heorot 
mayest  sleep  secure  with  thy  warrior-band, 
and  thy  thanes,  each  one,  thanes  of  thy  people, 
the  tried  and  the  youthful;   that  thou  needest 

not, 
oh  prince  of  the  Scyldings,  fear  from  that  side 
life's  bane  to  thy  warriors  as  erst  thou  didst." 

Then  the  golden  hilt,  to  the  aged  hero, 
the  hoar  war-leader,  in  hand  was  given, 
giant-work  old;  it  passed  to  the  keeping 
(those  devils  once  fallen)   of  the  lord  of  the 
Danes,  1680 

wonderful  smith-work;  when  quitted  this  world 
the  fierce-hearted  creature,  God's  adversary, 
of  murder  guilty,  and  his  mother  also, 
it  passed  to  the  keeping  of  the  best 
of  the  world-kings  that  by  the  two  seas, 
in  Scania-land,  treasures  dealt. 
Then  Hrothgar  spake;  he  gazed  on  the  hilt, 
old  relic  whereon  was  the  origin  written 
of  an  ancient  war,  when  the  flood  had  slain — 
the  flowing  ocean — the  race  of  the  giants; — 
they  had  borne  them  boldly.   That  was  a  people 
alien  from  God ;  them  a  final  reward,  1692 

through  the  rage  of  the  water,  the  All-wielder 

gave. 
On  the  mounting  too,  of  shining  gold, 
in  runic  letters,  was  rightly  marked, 
was  set  and  said,  for  whom  first  was  wrought 
that  choicest  of  swords,  with  hilt  bound  round 
and  serpentine.    Then  spake  the  wise  man, 
the  son  of  Healfdene,  (all  were  silent): 

"Lo  this  may  he  say  who  practises  truth 
and  right    'mong  the  people,  far  back  all  re- 
members, 1701 
a  land-warden  old,  that  this  earl  was 
nobly  born.    Thy  fame  is  exalted, 
through  far  and  wide  ways,  Beowulf,  my  friend, 
over  every  nation.    Thou  wearest  with  patience 
thy  might,   and   with  prudence.    I   shall  show 

thee  my  love, 
e'en  as  we  two  have  said:  thou  shalt  be  for  a 

comfort 
a  very  long  time  to  thine  own  people, 
a  help  unto  warriors.     Not  so  was  Heremodi 
to  Ecgwela's  children,  the  noble  Scyldings; 
he    throve    not   for   their   weal,    but    for    their 
slaughter,  1711 

and  for  a  death-plague  to  the  folk  of  the  Danes. 
In  angry  mood  slew  he  his  table-sharers, 
his  nearest  friends,  till  he  lonely  departed, 
the  very  great  prince,  from  the  joys  of  men. 
Though    him    Mighty   God,    with     delights    of 

power, 
with  strength  had  exalted,  above  all  men 

1  A  Danish  King,  banished  for  cruelty. 


BEOWULF 


17 


had  advanced  him,  yet  there  grew  in  his  heart 

a  bloodthirsty  spirit;  he  gave  no  rings 

to  the  Danes,  as  was  custom;  joyless  continued 

he,  1720 

BO  that  of  war  he  the  misery  suffered, 
long  bale  to  the  people.    Learn  thou  from  him; 
lay  hold  of  man 's  virtue !    For  thee  have  I  told 

this, 
wise  in  winters.     'Tis  wondrous  to  say, 
how  mighty  God,  to  the  race  of  men, 
through  his  ample  mind,  dispenses  wisdom, 
lands  and  valor:    He  has  power  over  all. 
Sometimes  He  lets  wander  at  their  own  will 
the  thoughts  of  a  man  of  race  renowned, 
in  his  country  gives  him  the  joy  of  earth,    1730 
a  shelter-city  of  men  to  possess ; 
thus  makes  to  him  subject  parts  of  the  world, 
ample  kingdoms,  that  he  himself  may  not, 
because  of  his  folly,  think  of  his  end. 
He  lives  in  plenty;  no  whit  deters  him 
disease  or  old  age,  no  uneasy  care 
darkens  his  soul,  nor  anywhere  strife 
breeds   hostile   hate;    but    for   him    the   whole 

world 
turns  at  his  will;  he  the  worse  knows  not, — 

XXVI.    Hkothgab's  Couxsel  Concluded 

until  within  him  a  great  deal  of  arrogance 
grows  and  buds,  when  the  guardian  sleeps,   1741 
the  keeper  of  the  soul.   Too  fast  is  the  sleep, 
bound  down  by  cares;  very  near  is  the  slayer, 
who  from  his  arrow-bow  wickedly  shoots. 
Then  he  in  the  breast,  'neath  the  helm,  will  be 

stricken 
with  the  bitter  shaft ;  he  cannot  guard  him 
from  strange  evil  orders  of  the  Spirit  accursed. 
Too  small  seems  to  him  what  long  he  has  held; 
fierce  minded  he  covets,  gives  not  in  his  pride 
many  rich  rings;  and  the  future  life  1'50 

he  forgets  and  neglects,  because  God  to  him 

gave, 
Euler  of  glory,  many  great  dignities. 
In  the  final  close  at  length  it  chances 
that  the  body-home,  inconstant,  sinks, 
fated  falls.    Another  succeeds, 
who  without  reluctance  treasure  dispenses, 
old  wealth  of  the  warrior,  terror  heeds  not. 

"From  that  evil  keep  thee,  Beowulf  dear, 
best  among  warriors,  and  choose  thee  the  better, 
counsels  eternal.    Heed  not  arrogance,  1760 

famous  champion!    Now  is  thy  might 
in  flower  for  awhile;  eftsoons  will  it  be 
that  disease  or  the  sword  shall  deprive  thee  of 

strength, 
or  the  clutch  of  fire,  or  rage  of  flood, 
or  falchion  's  grip,  or  arrows '  flight, 
or  cruel  age;  or  brightness  of  eyes 


shall  fail  and  darken;  sudden   'twill  be, 

that  thee,  noble  warrior,  death  shall  o'erpower. 

* '  Thus  I  the  King-Danes  half  a  hundred  years 
had  ruled  'neath  tha  welkin,  and  saved  them  in 
war  1770 

from  many  tribes  through  this  mid-earth, 
with  spears  and  swords,  so  that  I  counted 
that  under  Heaven  I  had  no  foe. 
Lo  to  me  then  came  a  reverse  in  my  realm, 
after  merriment  sadness,  since  Grendel  became 
my  enemy  old,  and  my  assailant. 
From  that  persecution  have  I  constantly  borne 
great  grief  of  mind.    So  thanks  be  to  God 
the  Lord  Eternal,  that  I  have  lived 
till  I  on  that  head  all  clotted  with  gore,      1780 
old  conflict  ended,  might  gaze  with  my  eyes. 
Go  now  to  thy  seat,  the  banquet  enjoy, 
O  honored  in  battle;  for  us  two  shall  be 
many  treasures  in  common,  when  morning  shall 
come. ' ' 

Glad  was  the  Geat  and  straightway  went 
to  take  his  seat,  as  the  sage  commanded. 

Then  as  before  were  the  famed  for  valor, 
the  sitters  at  court  right  handsomely 
set    feasting    afresh.       The    night-helm    grew 
murky,  1789 

dark  o'er  the  vassals;  the  courtiers  all  rose; 
the  grizzly-haired  prince  would  go  to  his  bed, 
the  aged  Scylding;   the  Geat,  exceedingly 
famed  shield-warrior,  desired  to  rest. 
Him,  journey-weary,  come  from  afar, 
a  hall-thane  promptly  guided  forth 
who  in  respect  had  all  things  provided 
for  a  thane 's  need,  such  as  in  that  day 
farers  over  the  sea  should  have. 

The  great-hearted  rested.    High  rose  the  hall 
vaulted  and  gold-hued ;  therein  slept  the  guest, 
until  the  black  raven,  blithe-hearted,  announced 
the  joy  of  heaven.   Then  came  the  bright  sun 
o'er  the  fields  gliding 1803 

[Beowulf  returns  the  sword  Hnmting  to 
Hunferth,  then  goes  to  the  king  and  announces 
his  intention  of  returning  to  his  fatherland. 
The  king  repeats  his  thanks  and  praises.] 

XXVn.    The  Parting 

Then  to  him  gave  the  warrior's  protector, 
the  son  of  Healfdene,  treasures  twelve; 
with  those  gifts  bade  him  his  own  dear  people 
in  safety  to  seek,  and  quickly  return.         1869 
The  king,  in  birth  noble,  then  kissed  the  prince, 
the  lord  of  the  Scyldings  the  best  of  thanes; — 
and  round  the  neck  clasped  him;  tears  he  shed, 
the  hoary  headed;  chances  two 
there  were  to  the  aged,  the  second  stronger, 
whether,  (or  not)  they  should  see  each  other 
again  in  conference.   So  dear  was  the  man 


18 


ANGLO-SAXON  PEEIOD 


that  his  breast's  heaving  he  could  not  restrain, 
but  in  his  bosom,  in  heart-bands  fast, 
for  the  man  beloved  his  secret  longing 
burned  in  his  blood.   Beowulf  thence,  1880 

a  gold-proud  warrior,  trod  the  greensward, 
in  treasure  exulting.   The  sea-ganger  awaited, 
at  anchor  riding,  its  owner  and  lord.* 

DEOR'S  LAMENTt 

Weland  for  a  woman  learned  to  know  exile, 
that  haughty  earl  bowed  unto  hardship, 
had  for  companions  sorrow  and  longing, 
the  winter's  cold  sting,  woe  upon  woe, 
what  time  Nithhad  laid  sore  need  on  him. 
"Withering  sinew-wounds!     Ill-starred  man!       6 
That  was  overpassed;  this  may  pass  also. 

On  Beadohilde  bore  not  so  heavily 
her   brother's   death   as   the   dule  in  her  own 
heart  9 

when  she  perceived,  past  shadow  of  doubt, 

•  Is  the  poem  of  Beowulf  In  any  sense  mytholog- 
ical? Perhaps  the  latest  and  best  opinion 
on  the  subject  is  that  it  is  not. 

"Undoubtedly  one  is  here  on  the  border- 
land of  myth.  But  in  the  actual  poem  the 
border  is  not  crossed.  Whatever  the  remote 
connection  of  Beowulf  the  hero  with  Beowa 
the  god,  ...  to  the  poet  of  the  epic  its 
hero  is  a  man,  and  the  monsters  are  such 
as  folk  then  believed  to  haunt  sea  and  lake 
and  moor." — Francis  B.  Gummere :  The  Old- 
est  English    Epic. 

"The  poem  loses  nothing  of  its  picturesque- 
ness  in  being  denied  its  mythology.  The  flre- 
drake  and  Grendel  and  the  she-demon  are 
more  terrible  when  conceived  as  uncanny  and 
abominable  beings  whose  activities  In  the 
world  can  only  be  dimly  imagined  by  men 
than  they  are  when  made  mere  personifica- 
tions of  the  forces  of  nature.  Beowulf  is  no 
less  heroic  as  a  mortal  facing  with  undaunted 
courage  these  grisly  phantoms  of  the  moor 
and  mere,  than  as  a  god  subduing  the  sea 
or  the  darkness.  And  the  proud  words  that 
he  utters  In  his  dying  hour  are  more  impres- 
sive from  the  lips  of  a  man  than  from  those 
of  s  being  who  still  retains  some  of  the  glory 
of  a  god  about  him, — 'In  my  home  I  awaited 
what  time  might  bring  me,  held  well  my  own, 
sought  no  treacherous  feuds,  swore  no  false 
oaths.  In  all  this  I  can  rejoice,  though  sick 
unto  death  with  my  wounds.'  " — William  W. 
Lawrenre :  Pub.  Mod.  Lang.  Association, 
June,  1909. 

t  Dear's  Lament  is  one  of  the  poems  that  may 
have  been  brought  from  the  continent  by  the 
Angles  in  their  early  migrations.  "Its  form," 
says  Stopford  Brooke,  "Is  remarkable.  It  has 
a  refrain,  and  there  is  no  other  early  Eng- 
lish instance  of  this  known  to  us.  It  Is 
written  In  strophes,  and  one  motive,  constant 
throughout.  Is  expressed  In  the  refrain.  This 
dominant  cry  of  passion  makes  the  poem  a 
true  lyric,  ...  the  Father  of  all  English 
lyrics.  ,  .  .  Deor  has  been  deprived  of 
his  rpwnrds  and  lands,  and  has  seen  a  rival 
set  above  his  head.  It  Is  this  whirling  down 
of  Fortune's  wheel  that  he  mourns  In  bis 
song,  and  he  compares  his  fate  to  that  of 
others  who  have  suffered,  so  that  he  may 
have  some  comfort.  B»it  the  comfort  is  stern 
like  that  the  Northmen  take." 


her  maidhood  departed,  and  yet  could  nowise 
clearly  divine  how  it  might  be.  12 

That  was  o'erpassed;  this  may  pass  also. 

Of  Hild  's  fate  we  have  heard  from  many. 
Land-bereaved  were  the  Geatish  chieftains, 
so  that  sorrow  left  them  sleepless. 

That  was  o'erpassed;  this  may  pass  also. 

Theodoric  kept  for  thirty  winters  18 

in  the  burg  of  the  Maerings;    'twas  known  of 

many. 

That  was  o'erpassed;  this  may  pass  also. 

Heard  have  we  likewise  of  Eormanric's  mind, 
wolfishly  tempered;  widely  enthralled  he 
the  folk  of  the  Goth-realm ;  he  was  a  grim  king. 
Many  a  warrior  sat  locked  in  his  sorrow,  24 
waiting  on  woe;  wished,  how  earnestly! 
the  reign  of  that  king  might  come  to  an  end. 
That  was  o  'erpassed;  this  may  pass  also. 

Now  of  myself  this  will  I  say:  35 

Erewhile  I  was  Scop  of  the  Heodenings, 
dear  to  my  lord.    Deor  my  name  was. 
A  many  winters  I  knew  good  service; 
gracious  was  my  lord.    But  now  Heorrenda, 
by  craft  of  his  singing,  succeeds  to  the  land- 
right 
that  Guardian  of  Men  erst  gave  unto  me. 

That  was  o'erpassed;  this  may  pass  also. 


CAEDMON  (fl.  670) 

From   the   PAKAPHRASE    OF   THE 
SCRIPTURES* 

The  Garden  of  Eden 

Then  beheld  our  Creator 
the  beauty  of  his  works  and  the  excellence  of 

his  productions, 
of  the  new  creatures.     Paradise  stood 
good  and  spiritual,  filled  with  gifts, 
with  forward  benefits.    Fair  washed  210 

the  genial  land  the  running  water, 
the  well-brook:   no  clouds  as  yet 
over  the  ample  ground  bore  rains 
lowering  with  wind ;  yet  with  fruits  stood 
earth  adorn 'd.     Held  their  onward  course 
river-streams,  four  noble  ones, 
from  the  new  Paradise. 
These  were  parted,  by  the  Lord's  might, 
all  from  one  (when  he  this  earth  created) 

•These  paraphrases  of  the  Scriptures  are  com- 
monly spoken  of  as  Ciedmon's,  though  as- 
cribed to  him  on  very  uncertain  grounds. 
Apart  from  their  intrinsic  worth  they  are 
Interesting  for  their  possible  relation  to  Para- 
dise Lost.  See  Eng.  Lit.,  p.  23.  The  transla- 
tion is  the  literal  one  of  Benjamin  Thorpe. 


C^DMON 


19 


water  with  beauty   bright,   and   sent  into  the 
world.  220 

The  Fall  of  Satan 

The  All-powerful  had  angel  tribes, 
through  might  of  hand,  the  holy  Lord, 
ten  established,  in  whom  he  trusted  well 
that  they  his  service  would  follow, 
work  his  will ;  therefore  gave  he  them  wit,      250 
and  shaped  them  with  his  hands ;  the  holy  Lord. 
He  had   placed   them   so   happily,   one  he  had 

made  so  powerful, 
so  mighty  in  his  mind's  thought,  he  let  him 

sway  over  so  much, 
highest  after  himself  in  heaven 's  kingdom.    He 

had  made  him  so  fair, 
so  beauteous  was  his  form  in  heaven,  that  came 

to  him  from  the  Lord  of  hosts, 
he  was  like  to  the  light  stars.     It  was  his  to 

work  the  praise  of  the  Lord, 
it  was  his  to  hold  dear  his  joys  in  heaven,  and 

to   thank  his  Lord 
for  the  reward  that  he  had  bestow  'd  on  him  in 

that  light;  then  had  he  let  him  long  pos- 
sess it; 
but  he  turned  it  for  himself  to  a  worse  thing, 

began   to   raise   war   upon  him, 
against  the  highest  Euler  of  heaven,  who  sitteth 

in  the  holy  seat,  260 

The  fiend  with  all  his  comrades  fell  then  from 

heaven  above, 
through  as  long  as  three  nights  and  days, 
the  angels  from  heaven  into  hell,  and  them  all 

the  Lord 
transformed   to   devils,  because   they  his   deed 

and  word 
would  not  revere;    therefore  them   in   a  worse 

light,  310 

under  the  earth  beneath.  Almighty  God 
had  placed  triumphless  in  the  swart  hell; 
there  they  ba\e  at  even,  immeasurably  long, 
each  of  all  the  fiends,  a  renewal  of  fire; 
then  cometh  ere  dawn  the  eastern  wind, 
frost  bitter-cold;   ever  fire  or  dart, 
some  hard  torment  they  must  have; 
it  was  wrought  for  them  in  punishment. 

Then  spake  the  haughty  king 
who  of  angels  erst  was  brightest,  338 

fairest  in  heaven:     .     .     . 
"This  narrow  place  is  most  unlike 
that  other  that  we  ere  knew, 
high   in   heaven's  kingdom,   which   my   master 

bestow 'd  on  me, 
though  we  it,  for  the  All-powerful,   may  not 

possess, 


must  cede  our   realm;   yet  hath   he  not   done 
rightly  360 

that  he  hath  struck  us  down  to  the  fiery  abyss 
of  the  hot  hell,  bereft  us  of  heaven's  kingdom, 
hath  it  decreed  with  mankind 
to    people.      That    of    sorrows    is    to    me    the 

greatest, 
that  Adam  shall,  who  of  earth  was  wrought, 
my  strong  seat  possess, 

be  to  him  in  delight,  and  we  endure  this  tor- 
ment, 
misery  in  this  hell.    Oh  had   I  power  of  my 

hands, 
and  might  one  season  be  ^^-ithout, 
be  one  winter 's  space,  then  with  this  host  I — 370 
But  around  me  lie  iron  bonds, 
presseth  this  cord  of  chain:    I  am  powerless! 
me  have  so  hard  the  clasps  of  hell, 
so  firmly  grasped!    Here  is  a  vast  fire 
above  and  underneath,  never  did  I  see 
a  loathlier  landskip;  the  flame  abateth  not, 
hot  over  hell.    Me  hath  the  clasping  of  these 

rings, 
this  hard-polish 'd  band,  impeded  in  my  course, 
debarr  'd  me  from  my  way ;  my  feet  are  bound, 
my  hands  manacled,  of  these  hell-doors  are  380 
the  ways  obstructed,  so  that  with  aught  I  cannot 
from  these  limb-bonds  escape. ' ' — From  Genesis. 

The  Cloud  by  Day 

Had  the  cloud,  in  its  wide  embrace, 
the  earth  and  firmament  above  alike  divided: 
it  led  the  nation-host;  quenched  was  the  flame- 
fire, 
with    heat     heaven-bright.     The     people    were 

amazed, 
of   multitudes   most   joyous,   their   day-shield 's 

shade 
rolled  over  the  clouds.    The  wise  God  had        80 
the  sun 's  course  with  a  sail  shrouded ; 
though  the  mast-ropes  men  knew  not, 
nor  the  sail-cross  might  they  see, 
the  inhabitants  of  earth,  all  the  enginery; 
how  was  fastened  that  greatest  of  field-houses. 

The  Drowning  of  Pharaoh  and  His  Army 

The  folk  was  affrighted,  the  flood-dread  seized 

on 
their  sad  souls;  ocean  wailed  with  death, 
the    mountain    heights    were    with    blood    be- 

steamed, 
the  sea  foamed  gore,  crying  was  in  the  waves, 
the    water     full     of     weapons,     a    death-mist 

rose ;  *50 

the  Egyptians  were  turned  back; 
trembling  they  fled,  they  felt  fear: 
would  that  host  gladly  find  their  homes; 


20 


ANGLO-SAXON  PEBIOD 


their   vaunt  grew   sadder;    against  them   as   a 

cloud,  rose 
the  fell  rolling  of  the  waves;  there  came  not 

any 
of  that  host  to  home,  biit  from  behind  inclosed 

them 
fate  with  the  wave.    Where  ways  ere  lay, 
sea  raged.     Their  might  was  merged, 
the  streams  stood,  the  storm  rose 
high  to  heaven;  the  loudest  army-cry  460 

the  hostile  uttered ;  the  air  above  was  thickened 
with  dying  voices;  blood  pervaded  the  flood, 
the  shield-walls  were  riven,  shook  the  firmament 
that  greatest  of  sea-deaths:   the  proud  died, 
kings  in  a  body;  the  return  prevailed 
of  the  sea  at  length;  their  bucklers  shone 
high  over  the  soldiers;  the  sea-wall  rose, 
the   proud-ocean-stream,   their   might  in   d3ath 

was 
fastly  fettered. — From  Exodus. 

BEDE  (673-735) 
Peom  the  ecclesiastical  histoky.* 

The  Britons  Seek  Succor  from  the  Romans 
The  Eoman  Wall 

From  that  time,i  the  south  part  of  Britain, 
destitute  of  armed  soldiers,  of  martial  stores, 
and  of  all  its  active  youth,  which  had  been  led 
away  by  the  rashness  of  the  tyrants,  never  to 
return,  was  wholly  exposed  to  rapine,  as  being 
totally  ignorant  of  the  use  of  weapons.  Where- 
upon they  suffered  many  years  under  two  very 
savage  foreign  nations,  the  Scots  from  the  west, 
and  the  Picts  from  the  north.  We  call  these 
foreign  nations,  not  on  account  of  their  being 
seated  out  of  Britain,  but  because  they  were 
remote  from  that  part  of  it  which  was  pos- 
sessed by  the  Britons;  two  inlets  of  the  sea 
lying  between  them,  one  of  which  runs  in  far 
and  broad  into  the  land  of  Britain,  from  the 
Eastern  Ocean,  and  the  other  from  the  West- 
ern, though  they  do  not  reach  so  as  to  touch 
one  another. 

On  account  of  the  irruption  of  these  nations, 
the  Britons  sent  messengers  to  Rome  with  let- 
ters in  mournful  manner,  prayinjj  for  succours, 
and  promising  perpetual  subjection,  provided 
that  the  impending  enemy  should  be  driven 
away.  An  armed  legion  was  immediately  sent 
them,  which,  arriving  in  the  island,  and  en- 
gaging the  enemy,  slew  a  great  multitude  of 
them,  drove  the  rest  out  of  the  territories  of 


1  About  400  onwnrd. 
•  Sw  Eny.  Lit.,  p.  23. 


their  allies,  and  having  delivered  them  from 
their  cruel  oppressors,  advised  them  to  build  a 
wall  between  the  two  seas  across  the  island, 
that  it  might  secure  them,  and  keep  off  the 
enemy ;  and  thus  they  returned  home  with  great 
triumph.  The  islanders  raising  the  wall,  as 
they  had  been  directed,  not  of  stone,  as  having 
no  artist  capable  of  such  a  work,  but  of  sods, 
made  it  of  no  use.  However,  they  drew  it  for 
many  miles  between  the  two  bays  or  inlets  of 
the  seas,  which  we  have  spoken  of;  to  the  end 
that  where  the  defense  of  the  water  was  want- 
ing, they  might  use  the  rampart  to  defend  their 
borders  from  the  irruptions  of  the  enemies. 
Of  which  work  there  erected,  that  is,  of  a  ram- 
part of  extraordinary  breadth  and  height,  there 
are  evident  remains  to  be  seen  at  this  day.  It 
begins  at  about  two  miles'  distance  from  the 
monastery  of  Abercurnig,2  and  running  west- 
ward, ends  near  the  city  Alcluith.3 

But  the  former  enemies,  when  they  perceived 
that  the  Roman  soldiers  were  gone,  immedi- 
ately coming  by  sea,  broke  into  the  borders, 
trampled  and  overran  all  places,  and  like  men 
mowing  ripe  corn,  bore  down  all  before  them. 
Hereupon  messengers  are  again  sent  to  Rome, 
imploring  aid,  lest  their  wretched  country 
should  be  utterly  extirpated,  and  the  name  of 
the  Roman  province,  so  long  renowned  among 
them,  overthrown  by  the  cruelties  of  barbarous 
foreigners,  might  become  utterly  contemptible. 
A  legion  is  accordingly  sent  again,  and,  arriv- 
ing unexpectedly  in  autumn,  made  great  slaugh- 
ter of  the  enemy,  obliging  all  those  that  could 
escape,  to  flee  beyond  the  sea;  whereas  before, 
they  were  wont  yearly  to  carry  off  their  booty 
without  any  opposition.  Then  the  Romans  de- 
clared to  the  Britons  that  they  could  not  for 
the  future  undertake  such  troublesome  expedi- 
tions for  their  sake,  advising  them  rather  to 
handle  their  weapons  like  men,  and  undertake 
themselves  tlie  charge  of  engaging  their  ene- 
mies, who  would  not  prove  too  powerful  for 
them,  unless  they  were  deterred  by  cowardice; 
and,  thinking  that  it  might  be  some  help  to  the 
allies,  whom  they  were  forced  to  abandon,  they 
built  a  strong  stone  wall  from  sea  to  sea,  in  a 
straight  line  between  the  towns  that  had  been 
there  built  for  fear  of  the  enemy,  and  not  far 
from  the  trench  of  SeveruR.  This  famous  wall, 
which  is  still  to  be  seen,  was  built  at  the  public 
and  private  expense,  the  Britons  also  lending 
their  assistance.  It  is  eight  feet  in  breadth, 
and  twelve  in  height,  in  a  straight  line  from 

2  Aborcorn,    a    village   on    the   south   bank   of   the 

Firth  of  Forth. 
8  Dumbarton. 


BEDE 


21 


east  to  west,  as  is  still  visible  to  beholders. 
This  being  finished,  they  gave  that  dispirited 
people  good  advice,  with  patterns  to  furnish 
them  with  arms.  Besides,  they  built  towers  on 
the  sea-coast  to  the  southward,  at  proper  dis- 
tances, where  their  ships  were,  because  there 
also  the  irruptions  of  the  barbarians  were  ap- 
prehended, and  so  took  leave  of  their  friends, 
never  to  return  again. — Book  I,  Chapter  12. 
(Translation  from  the  Latin,  eilited  by  J.  A. 
Giles.) 

A   Parable  of  Man  's   Life  t 

The  king,  hearing  these  words,  answered, 
that  he  was  both  willing  and  bound  to  receive 
the  faith  which  he  taught;  but  that  he  would 
confer  about  it  with  his  principal  friends  and 
counsellors,  to  the  end  that  if  they  also  were 
of  his  opinion,  they  might  all  together  be 
cleansed  in  Christ  the  Fountain  of  life.  Paul- 
inus  consenting,  the  king  did  as  he  said;  for, 
holding  a  council  with  the  wise  men,  he  asked 
of  everyone  in  particular  what  he  thought  of 
the  new  doctrine,  and  the  new  worship  that  was 
preached?  To  which  the  chief  of  his  own 
priests,  Coifi,  immediately  answered,  "O  king, 
consider  what  this  is  which  is  now  preached  to 
us;  for  I  verily  declare  to  you,  that  the  religion 
which  we  have  hitherto  professed  has,  as  far  as 
I  can  learn,  no  virtue  in  it.  For  none  of  your 
people  has  applied  himself  more  diligently  to 
the  worship  of  our  gods  than  I;  and  yet  there 
are  many  who  receive  greater  favours  from 
you,  and  are  more  preferred  than  I,  and  are 
more  prosperous  in  all  their  undertakings.  Now 
if  the  gods  were  good  for  anything,  they  would 
rather  forward  me,  who  have  been  more  careful 
to  serve  them.  It  remains,  therefore,  that  if 
upon  examination  you  find  those  new  doctrines, 
which  are  now  preached  to  us,  better  and  more 
efiicacious,  we  immediately  receive  them  with- 
out any  delay." 

Another  of  the  king's  chief  men,  approving 
of  his  words  and  exhortations,  presently  added: 
"The  present  life  of  man,  O  king,  seems  to 
me,  in  comparison  of  that  time  which  is  un- 
known to  us,  like  to  the  swift  flight  of  a  spar- 
row through  the  room  wherein  you  sit  at  sup- 
per in  winter,  with  your  commanders  and  min- 
isters, and  a  good  fire  in  the  midst,  whilst  the 
storms  of  rain  and  snow  prevail  abroad;  the 
sparrow  I  say,  flying  in  at  one  door,  and  imme- 
diately out  at  another,  whilst  he  is  within,  is 

t  This  is  an  incident  of  the  visit  of  Paullnus,  who. 
In  the  year  625.  during  the  reign  of  King 
Edwin  (Eadwine)  of  Northumbria,  came  to 
England  as  a  missionary  from  Pope  Gregory. 


safe  from  the  wintry  storm;  but  after  a  short 
space  of  fair  weather,  he  immediately  vanishes 
out  of  your  sight,  into  the  dark  winter  from 
which  he  had  emerged.  So  this  life  of  man 
appears  for  a  short  space,  but  of  what  went 
before,  or  what  is  to  follow,  we  are  utterly 
ignorant.  If,  therefore,  this  new  doctrine  con- 
tains something  more  certain,  it  seems  justly 
to  desene  to  be  followed."  The  other  elders 
and  king's  counsellors  by  Divine  inspiration, 
spoke  to  the  same  effect. — Book  II,  Chapter  13. 
(Translation  from  the  Latin,  edited  by  J. 
A.   Giles.) 

The  Stoey  op  Cjedmon  % 

In  this  Abbess 's  Minster  was  a  certain  brother 
extraordinarily  magnified  and  honoured  with  a 
divine  gift;  for  he  was  wont  to  make  fitting 
songs  which  conduced  to  religion  and  piety;  so 
that  whatever  he  learned  through  clerks  of  the 
holy  writings,  that  he,  after  a  little  space, 
would  usually  adorn  with  the  greatest  sweetness 
and  feeling,  and  bring  forth  in  the  English 
tongue;  and  by  his  songs  the  minds  of  many 
men  were  often  inflamed  with  contempt  for  the 
world,  and  with  desire  of  heavenly  life.  And 
moreover,  many  others  after  him,  in  the  Eng- 
lish nation,  sought  to  make  pious  songs;  but 
yet  none  could  do  like  him,  for  he  had  not  been 
taught  from  men,  nor  through  man,  to  learn  the 
poetic  art;  but  he  was  divinely  aided,  and 
through  God's  grace  received  the  art  of  song. 
And  he  therefore  never  might  make  aught  of 
leasing*  or  of  idle  poems,  but  just  those  only 
which  conduced  to  religion,  and  which  it  be- 
came his  pious  tongue  to  sing.  The  man  was 
placed  in  worldly  life  until  the  time  that  he 
was  of  mature  age,  and  had  never  learned  any 
poem;  and  he  therefore  often  in  convivial  so- 
ciety, when,  for  the  sake  of  mirth,  it  was  re- 
solved that  they  all  in  turn  should  sing  to  the 
harp,  when  he  saw  the  harp  approaching  him, 
then  for  shame  he  would  rise  from  the  assem- 
bly and  go  home  to  his  house. 

When  he  so  on  a  certain  time  did,  that  he  left 
the  house  of  the  convivial  meeting,  and  was 
gone  out  to  the  stall  of  the  cattle,  the  care 
of  which  that  night  had  been  committed  to 
him — when  he  there,  at  proper  time,  placed  his 
limbs  on  the  bed  and  slept,  then  stood  some 
man  by  him,  in  a  dream,  and  hailed  and  greeted 
him,  and  named  him  by  his  name,  saying 
' '  Caedmon,  sing  me  something. ' '     Then  he  an- 

4  lying 

t  See  Eng.  Lit.,  p.  22.     The  "Minster"  referred  to 

was  the  monasterv  at  Whitby,  founded  by  the 

Abboss  Hilda  in  658, 


n 


ANGLO-SAXON  PEKIOD 


Bwered  and  said,  * '  I  cannot  sing  anything,  and 
therefore  I  went  out  from  this  convivial  meet- 
ing, and  retired  hither,  because  I  could  not." 
Again  he  who  was  speaking  with  him  said, 
♦ '  Yet  thou  must  sing  to  me. ' '  Said  he,  ' '  What 
shall  I  sing?"  Said  he,  "Sing  me  the  origin 
of  things. ' '  When  he  received  this  answer,  then 
he  began  forthwith  to  sing,  in  praise  of  God 
the  creator,  the  verses  and  the  words  which  he 
had  never  heard,  the  order  of  which  is  this: 

"Now  must  we  praise 
the  Guardian  of  heaven's  kingdom, 
the  Creator's  might, 
and  his  mind's  thought; 
glorious  Father  of  men! 
as  of  every  wonder  he, 
Lord  eternal, 
formed   the  beginning. 
He  first  framed 
for  the  children  of  earth 
the  heaven  as  a  roof; 
holy  Creator! 
then  mid-earth, 
the  Guardian  of  mankind, 
the  eternal  Lord, 
afterwards  produced; 
the  earth  for  men, 
Lord  Almighty!" 

Then  he  arose  from  sleep,  and  had  fast  in 
mind  all  that  he  sleeping  had  sung,  and  to 
those  words  forthwith  joined  many  words  of 
song  worthy  of  God  in  the  same  measure. 

Then  came  he  in  the  morning  to  the  town- 
reeve,  who  was  his  superior,  and  said  to  him 
what  gift  he  had  received;  and  he  forthwith 
led  him  to  the  abbess,  and  told,  and  made  that 
known  to  her.  Then  she  bade  all  the  most 
learned  men  and  the  learners  to  assemble,  and 
in  their  presence  bade  him  tell  the  dream,  and 
sing  the  poem;  that,  by  the  judgment  of  them 
all,  it  might  be  determined  why  or  whence  that 
was  come.  Then  it  seemed  to  them  all,  so  as 
it  was,  that  to  him,  from  the  Lord  himself,  a 
heavenly  gift  had  been  given.  Then  they  ex- 
pounded to  him  and  said  some  holy  history, 
and  words  of  godly  lore;  then  bade  him,  if  he 
could,  to  sing  some  of  them,  and  turn  them  into 
the  melody  of  song.  When  he  had  undertaken 
the  thing,  then  went  he  home  to  his  house, 
and  came  again  in  the  morning,  and  sang  and 
gave  to  them,  adorned  with  the  best  poetry, 
what  had  been  entrusted  to  him. 

Then  began  the  abbess  to  make  much  of  and 
love  the  grace  of  God  in  the  man;  and  she 
then  exhorted  and   instructed  him   to   forsake 


worldly  life  and  take  to  monkhood:  and  he  that 
well  approved.  And  she  received  him  into  the 
minster  with  his  goods,  and  associated  him 
with  the  congregation  of  those  servants  of  God, 
and  caused  him  to  be  taught  the  series  of  the 
Holy  History  and  Gospel;  and  he,  all  that  he 
could  learn  by  hearing,  meditated  with  him- 
self, and,  as  a  cleans  animal,  ruminating,  turned 
into  the  sweetest  verse:  and  his  song  and  his 
verse  were  so  winsome  to  hear,  that  his  teach- 
ers themselves  wrote  and  learned  from  his 
mouth.  He  first  sang  of  earth's  creation,  and 
of  the  origin  of  mankind,  and  all  the  history 
of  Genesis,  which  is  the  first  book  of  Moses, 
and  then  of  the  departure  of  the  people  of 
Israel  from  the  Egyptians'  land,  and  of  the 
entrance  of  the  land  of  promise,  and  of  many 
other  histories  of  the  canonical  books  of  Holy 
Writ;  and  of  Christ's  incarnation,  and  of  his 
passion,  and  of  his  ascension  into  heaven;  and 
of  the  coming  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  and  the  doc- 
trine of  the  Apostles.  And  also  of  the  terror 
of  the  doom  to  come,  and  the  fear  of  hell 
torment,  and  the  sweetness  of  the  heavenly 
kingdom,  he  made  many  poems;  and,  in  like 
manner,  many  others  of  the  divine  benefits  and 
judgments  he  made;  in  all  which  he  earnestly 
took  care  to  draw  men  from  the  love  of  sins 
and  wicked  deeds,  and  to  excite  to  a  love  and 
desire  of  good  deeds;  for  he  was  a  very  pious 
man,  and  to  regular  discipliness  humbly  sub- 
jected; and  against  those  who  in  otherwise 
would  act,  he  was  inflamed  with  the  heat  of 
great  zeal.  And  he  therefore  with  a  fair  end 
his  life  closed  and  ended. 

For  when  the  time  approached  of  his  decease 
and  departure,  then  was  he  for  fourteen  days 
ere  that  oppressed  and  troubled  with  bodily  in- 
firmity; yet  so  moderately  that,  during  all  that 
time,  he  could  both  speak  and  walk.  There  was 
in  the  neighbourhood  a  house  for  infirm  men,  in 
which  it  was  their  custom  to  bring  the  infirm, 
and  those  who  were  on  the  point  of  departure, 
and  there  attend  to  them  together.  Then  bade 
he  his  servant,  on  the  eve  of  the  night  that  he 
was  going  from  the  world,  to  prepare  him  a 
place  in  that  house,  that  he  might  rest ;  where- 
upon the  servant  wondered  why  he  this  bade, 
for  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  departure  was 
not  so  near;  yet  he  did  as  he  said  and  com- 
manded. And  when  he  there  went  to  bed,  and 
in  joyful  mood  was  speaking  some  things,  and 
joking  together  with  those  who  were  therein 
previously,  then  it  was  over  midnight  that  he 
asked,  whether  they  had  the  eucharist'  within  t 

5  In  thp  ceremonial  sense  (see  Levlticun.  xi). 

«  penances  7  host,  or  consoo rated  broad 


CYNEWULF 


23 


They  answered,  "What  need  is  to  thee  of  the 
eucharist?  Thy  departure  is  not  so  near,  now 
thou  thus  cheerfully  and  thus  gladly  art  speak- 
ing to  us."  Again  he  said,  "Bring  me  never- 
theless the  eucharist." 

When  he  had  it  in  his  hands,  he  asked, 
Wliether  they  had  all  a  placid  mind  and  kind, 
and  without  any  iU-wiU  towards  himf  Then 
they  all  answered,  and  said,  that  they  knew 
of  no  ill-will  towards  him,  but  they  all  were 
very  kindly  disposed  and  they  besought  him  in 
turn  that  he  would  be  kindly  disposed  to  them 
all.  Then  he  answered  and  said,  "My  beloved 
brethren,  I  am  very  kindly  disposed  to  you  and 
all  God's  men."  And  he  thus  was  strengthen- 
ing himself  with  the  heavenly  viaticum,*  and 
preparing  himself  an  entrance  into  another 
life.  Again  he  asked,  '  *  How  near  it  was  to  the 
hour  that  the  brethren  must  rise  and  teach  the 
people  of  God,  and  sing  their  nocturnsf"^ 
They  answered,  "It  is  not  far  to  that."  He 
said,  "It  is  well,  let  us  await  the  hour. ' '  And 
then  he  prayed,  and  signed  himself  with 
Christ 's  cross,  and  reclined  his  head  on  the  bol- 
ster, and  slept  for  a  little  space;  and  so  with 
stillness  ended  his  life.  And  thus  it  was,  that 
as  he  with  pure  and  calm  mind  and  tranquil 
devotion  had  served  God,  that  he,  in  like  man- 
ner, left  the  world  with  as  calm  a  death,  and 
went  to  His  presence;  and  the  tongue  that  had 
composed  so  many  holy  words  in  the  Creator's 
praise,  he  then  in  like  manner  its  last  words 
closed  in  His  praise,  crossing  himself,  and  com- 
mitting his  soul  into  His  hands.  Thus  it  is 
seen  that  he  was  conscious  of  his  own  depart- 
ure, from  what  Me  have  now  heard  say. — Book 
IV.,  Chapter  24.  (Translated  from  Latin  into 
Anglo-Saxon  by  Alfred  the  Great.  Modern 
English  translation  by  Benjamin  Thorpe.) 


CYNEWULF  (fl.  750)* 

BIDDLE  II. 

Who  so  wary  and  so  wise  of  the  warriors  lives, 
That  he  dare  declare  who  doth  drive  me  on  my 

way, 
When  I  start  up  in  my  strength !    Oft  in  stormy 

wrath, 
Hugely  then  I  thimder,  tear  along  in  gusts, 

sprovlsioDs  for  a  journey  (in  this  case  the  eu- 
charist) 

9  service  before  daybreak 

*  These  extracts  from  Cynewulf  s  writings  are 
translations  by  Mr.  Stopford  Brooke,  and 
have  l)een  taken  from  Mr.  Brooke's  History  of 
Early  English  Literature  by  permission  of  the 
publishers,  Messrs.  Macmillan  &  Co. 


Fare  above  the  floor  of  earth,  bum  the  folk- 
halls  down,  5 
Ravage  aU  the  rooms !    There  the  reek  ariseth 
Gray  above  the  gables.    Great  on  earth  the  din, 
And  the  slaughter-qualm  of  men.    Then  I  shake 

the  woodland, 
Forests  rich  in  fruits ;  then  I  fell  the  trees ; — 
I    with    water    over-vaulted — by    the    wondrous 
Powers  10 

Sent  upon  my  way,  far  and  wide  to  drive  along ! 
On  my  back  I  carry  that  which  covered  once 
AU  the  tribes  of  Earth's  indweUers,  spirits  and 

all  flesh. 
In  the  sand  together!     Say  who  shuts  me  in, 
Or  what  is  my  name — I  who  bear  this  burden! 

Answer:     A  Storm  on  Land. 

KIDDLE  VI. 

I  am  all  alone,  with  the  iron  wounded, 

With  the  sword  slashed  into,  sick  of  work  of 
battle, 

Of  the  edges  weary.    Oft  I  see  the  slaughter. 

Oft    the    fiercest    fighting.       Of     no     comfort 
ween  I,— 

So  that,  in  the  battle-brattling,i  help  may  bring 
itself  to  me;  5 

Ere  I,  with  the  warriors,  have  been  utterly  for- 
done. 

But  the  heritage  of  hammers-  hews  adown  at 
me, 

Stark  of  edges,   sworded-sharp,  of  the  smiths 
the  handiwork, 

On  me  biting  in  the  burgs!     Worse  the  bat- 
tle is 

I  must  bear  for  ever!     Not  one  of  the  Leech- 
kin,3  10 

In  the  fold-stead,  could  I  find  out, 

Who,  with  herbs  he  has,  then  should  heal  me  of 
my  wound ! 

But  the  notching  of  my  edges  more  and  more 
becomes 

Through  the  deadly  strokes  of  swords,  in  the 
daylight,  in  the  night. 

Of  the  Shield. 

RIDDLE  XV. 

I    a    weaponed    warrior    was!      Now    in    pride 

bedecks  me 
A  young  serving-man   all  with  silver  and   fine 

gold, 
With   the   work   of   waving   gyres!*      Warriors 

sometimes  kiss  me; 
Sometimes  I  to  strife  of  battle  summon  with 

my  calling 
Willing    war-companions!       Whiles,    the    horse 

doth  carry  5 


1  battle  uproar 

2  swords 


3  physicians 

4  circles 


24 


ANGLO-SAXON  PERIOD 


Me  the  march-paths  over,  or  the  ocean-stallion 
Fares  the  floods  with  me,  flashing  in  my  jew- 
els— • 
Often  times  a  bower-maiden,  all  bedecked  with 

armlets, 
Filleth  up  my  bosom;  whiles,  bereft  or  covers, 
I    must,   hard    and    heedless,    (in   the   houses) 

lie!  10 

Then,  again,  hang  I,  with  adornments  fretted, 
Winsome  on  the  wall  where  the  warriors  drink. 
Sometimes  the  folk-fighters,  as  a  fair  thing  on 

warfaring. 
On  the  back  of  horses  bear  nie;  then  bedecked 

with  jewels 
Shall    I    puflf    with    wind    from    a    warrior's 

breast.  15 

Then,  again,  to  glee-feasts  I  the  guests  invite 
fiaughty    heroes    to     the    wine — other    whiles 

shall  I 
With  my  shouting  save  from  foes  what  is  stolen 

away. 
Make  the  plundering  seather  flee.     Ask  what  is 

my  name! 

Of  the  Horn, 

From   the  CHRIST.f 

Then  the  Courage-hearted  quakes,  when  the 
King  he  hears  797 

Speak  the  words  of  wrath — Him  the  wielder  of 
the  Heavens — 


t  The  Christ  is  a  poem  dealing  with  the  Nativity 
and  Ascension  of  Christ,  and  the  Day  of 
Judgment.  Our  extracts  are  from  the  bymn- 
llke  passage  which  presages  the  Judgment 
and  the  poet's  dread  upon  that  day,  and  which 
closes  with  a  vision  of  the  stormy  voyage 
of  life  ending  in  serenity.  Cynewulf  signed 
some  of  his  poems  acrostically  by  inserting 
runes  which  spelt  his  name.  Runes  were 
characters  which  represented  words  as  well 
as  letters,  just  as  our  letter  "B"  might  stand 
for  the  words  he  or  bee.  Those  used  in  this 
passage  of  which  we  give  a  portion  are : 

O      ~  C  =  cene  =  keen,  bold  one 


1*^     =  Y  =  yfel  =  wretched 
^     =  N  =  nyd  =  need 


^ 


«=  E  =  eh  =  horse 
=  W  =  wyn  =  joy 
=  U  =  ur  =  our 
=  L  =  lagu  =  water 
—  F  —  feoh  —  wealth 


Speak  to  those  who  once  on  earth  but  obeyed 

him  weakly, 
While   as   yet   their    Yearning    pain   and   their 

Need  most  easily 
Comfort  might  discover.     .     .     . 

Gone  is   then   the   Winsomeness 
Of  the  Earth's  adornments!      What  to   TJs  as 

men  belonged  806 

Of  the  joys  of  life  was  locked,   long  ago,   in 

Lake-Flood,^ 
All  the  Feel  on  Earth.     .    .    . 

Mickle  is  our  need 
That  in.  this  unfruitful  time,  ere  that  fearful 

Dread, 
On  our  spirit's  fairness  we   should   studiously 

bethink  us!  850 

Now  most  like  it  is  as  if  we  on  lake  of  ocean, 
O  'er  the  water  cold  in  our  keels  are  sailing, 
And   through   spacious   sea,   with   our   stallions 

of  the  Sound,8 
Forward  drive  the  flood-wood.     Fearful  is  the 

stream 
Of  immeasurable  surges  that  we  sail  on  here. 
Through    this    wavering    world,    through    these 

windy  oceans, 
O  'er  the  path  profound.     Perilous  our  state  of 

life 
E'er  that  we  had  sailed  (our  ship)  to  the  shore 

(at  last). 
O'er  the  rough  sea-ridges.     Then  there  reached 

us  help. 
That   to   hitheo   of   Healing   homeward    led   us 

on —  860 

He  the  Spirit-Son  of  God !      And  he  dealt  us 

grace, 
So  that  we  should  be  aware,  from  the  vessel  'a 

deck, 
Where  our  stallions  of  the  sea  we  might  stay 

with  ropes, 
Fast  a-riding  by  their  anchors — ancient  horses 

of  the  waves! 
Let  us  in  that  haven  then  all  our  hope  estab- 
lish. 
Which  the  ruler  of  the  ^ther  there  has  roomed 

for  us, 
When    He    climbed    to    Heaven — Holy    in    the 

Highest ! 

From  the  ELENE.J 
Forth  then  fared  the  folk-troop,  and  a  fighting- 
lay  27 
n  The  Deluge        7  property         R  ships          8  harbor 
t  The  Elenc  la  the  story  of  St.  Ilclona,  the  mother 
of   Constantlne   the   Great,    who   made   a   pil- 
grimage to  Jerusalem  in  search  of  the   Holy 
Cross.    The  lines  quoted  describe  the  battle  In 
which     Constantino     Is     victorious    over    the 
Huns.     See  Brooke's  Early  English  Literature, 
pp.   405-40Q. 


ANGEO-SAXOX  CHfiONICLE 


25 


Sang  the  Wolf  in  woodland,  wailed  a  slaughter- 
rune  ! 
Dewy-feathered,  on  the  foes'  track, 
Eaised  the  Earnio  his  song.     ,     .     . 

Loud  upsang  the  Raven 
Swart,    and    slaughter-fell.      Strode    along    the 

war-host;  53 

Blew  on  high  the  horn-bearers;  heralds  of  the 

battle  shouted; 
Stamped   the  earth   the  stallion;   and  the  host 

assembled 
Quickly  to  the  quarrel! 

Sang  the  trumpets 
Loud  before  the  war-hosts;  loved  the  work  the 

raven:  110 

Dewy-plumed,  the  earn  looked  upon  the  march ; 

Song   the   wolf   uplifted, 

Banger  of  the  holtl^i     Eose  the  Terror  of  the 

battle ! 
There  was   rush   of  shields   together,   crush   of 

men  together. 
Hard  hand-swinging  there,  and  of  hosts  down- 
dinging. 
After  that  they  first  encountered  flying  of  the 

arrows ! 
On  that  fated  folk,  full  of  hate  the  hostersi2 

grim 
Sent  the  showers  of  arrows,  spears  above  the 

yellow  shields; 
Forth  they  shot  then  snakes  of  battleis 
Through    the    surge    of    furious    foes,    by    the 

strength  of  fingers!  120 

Strode  the   starki*   in   spirit,  stroke   on  stroke 

they  pressed  along; 
Broke  into   the  wall  of  boardsis,  plunged  the 

billis  therein: 
Thronged  the  bold  in  battle!    There  the  banner 

was  uplifted; 
(Shone)    the   ensign    'fore   the  host;   victory's 

song  was  sung. 
Glittered    there    his    javelins,    and    his    golden 

helm 
On  the  field  of  fight !    Till  in  death  the  heathen, 
Jovless  fell! 


From  the  ANGLO-SAXON 
CHRONICLE* 

Anno  409.  This  year  the  Goths  took  the  city 
of  Rome  by  storm,  and  after  this  the  Romans 
never  ruled  in  Britain;  and  this  was  about 
eleven  hundred  and  ten  years  after  it  had  been 


10  eagle 

11  wood 

12  soldiers,  host 

13  darts 


14  firm 

15  shields 

16  sword 

•  See  Eng.  Lit.,  p.  28. 


built.  Altogether  they  ruled  in  Britain  four 
hundred  and  seventy  years  since  Gains  Julius 
first  sought  the  land. 

Anno  418.  This  year  the  Romans  collected 
all  the  treasures  that  were  in  Britain,  and  some 
they  hid  in  the  earth,  so  that  no  one  has  since 
been  able  to  find  them ;  and  some  .they  carried 
with  them  into  Gaul. 

Anno  443.  This  year  the  Britons  sent  over 
sea  to  Rome,  and  begged  for  help  against  the 
Picts;  but  they  had  none,  because  they  were 
themselves  warring  against  Attila,  king  of  the 
Huns.  And  then  they  sent  to  the  Angles,  and 
entreated  the  like  of  the  athelingsi  of  the 
Angles. 

Anno  449.  This  year  Martianus  and  Valen- 
tinus  suceeedetl  to  the  empire,  and  reigned 
seven  years.  And  in  their  days  Hengist  and 
Horsa,  invited  by  Vortigern,  king  of  the  Brit- 
ons, landed  in  Britain,  on  the  shore  which  is 
called  Wippidsfleet;  at  first  in  aid  of  the  Brit- 
ons, but  afterwards  they  fought  against  them. 
King  Vortigern  gave  them  land  in  the  south- 
east of  this  country,  on  condition  that  they 
should  fight  against  the  Picts.  Then  they  fought 
against  the  Picts,  and  had  the  victory  whereso- 
ever they  came.  They  then  sent  to  the  Angles ; 
desired  a  larger  force  to  be  sent,  and  caused 
them  to  be  told  the  worthlessness  of  the  Brit- 
ons, and  the  excellencies  of  the  land.  Then 
they  soon  sent  thither  a  larger  force  in  aid  of 
the  others.  At  that  time  there  came  men  from 
three  tribes  in  Germany;  from  the  Old-Saxons, 
from  the  Angles,  from  the  Jutes.  From  the 
Jutes  came  the  Kentish-men  and  the  Wight- 
warians,  that  is,  the  tribe  which  now  dwells  in 
Wight,  and  that  race  among  the  West-Saxons 
which  is  still  called  the  race  of  Jutes.  From 
the  Old-Saxons  came  the  men  of  Essex  and 
Sussex  and  Wessex.  From  Anglia,  which  has 
ever  since  remained  waste  betwixt  the  Jutes 
and  Saxons,  came  the  men  of  East  Anglia,  Mid- 
dle Anglia,  Mercia,  and  all  North-humbria. 
Their  leaders  were  two  brothers,  Hengist  and 
Horsa:  they  were  the  sons  of  Wihtgils;  Wiht- 
gils  son  of  Witta,  Witta  of  Wecta,  Wecta  of 
Woden:  from  this  Woden  sprang  all  our  royal 
families,  and  those  of  the  South-humbrians 
also.t 

Anno  455,  This  year  Hengist  and  Horsa 
fought  against  King  Vortigern  at  the  place 
which  is  called  .^gels-threp2   and   his  brother 

1  princes  2  Aylesford 

f  The  language  here  appears  to  be  that  of  a  north- 
ern chronicler.  The  MS.  of  this  portion  has 
been  traced  to  Peterborough. 


26 


ANGLO-SAXON  PEEIOD 


Uorsa  was  there  slain,  and  after  that  Hengist 
obtained  the  kingdom,  and  ^sc  his  son. 

Anno  565.  This  year  Ethelbert  succeeded 
to  the  kingdom  of  the  Kentish-men,  and  held 
it  fifty-three  years.  In  his  days  the  holy  pope 
Gregory  sent  us  baptism,  that  was  in  the  two 
and  thirtieth  year  of  his  reign:  and  Columba, 
a  mass-priest,  came  to  the  Picts,  and  converted 
them  to  the  faith  of  Christ:  they  are  dwellers 
by  the  northern  mountains.  And  their  king 
gave  him  the  island  which  is  called  Ii3:  therein 
are  five  hidest  of  land,  as  men  say.  There 
Columba  built  a  monastery,  and  he  was  abbot 
there  thirty-seven  years,  and  there  he  died 
when  he  was  seventy-two  years  old.  His  suc- 
cessors still  have  the  place.  The  Southern  Picts 
had  been  baptized  long  before:  Bishop  Ninia, 
who  had  been  instructed  at  Eome,  had  preached 
baptism  to  them,  whose  church  and  his  mon- 
astery is  at  Whitherne,  consecrated  in  the  name 
of  St.  Martin:  there  he  resteth,  with  many  holy 
men.  Now  in  li  there  must  ever  be  an  abbot, 
and  not  a  bishop;  and  all  the  Scottish  bishops 
ought  to  be  subject  to  him  because  Columba 
was  an  abbot  and  not  a  bishop. 

Anno.  596.  This  year  Pope  Gregory  sent  Au- 
gustine to  Britain,  with  a  great  many  monks, 
who  preached  the  word  of  God  to  the  nation  of 
the  Angles. 

Anno  871.  .  .  .  And  about  fourteen 
days  after  this,  King  Ethelred  and  Alfred  his 
brother  fought  against  the  army*  at  Basing, 
and  there  the  Danes  obtained  the  victory.  And 
about  two  months  after  this.  King  Ethelred 
and  Alfred  his  brother  fought  against  the 
army  at  Marden ;  and  they*  were  in  two  bodies, 
and  theys  put  both  to  flight,  and  during  a 
great  part  of  the  day  were  victorious ;  and  there 
was  great  slaughter  on  either  hand;  but  the 
Danes  had  possession  of  the  place  of  carnage: 
and  there  Bishop  Heahmund  was  slain,  and 
many  good  men:  and  after  this  battle  there 
came  a  great  army  in  the  summer  to  Beading. 
And  after  this,  over  Easter,  king  Ethelred 
died;  and  he  reigned  five  years  and  his  body 
lies  at  Winburn-minster. 

Then  Alfred  the  son  of  Ethelwulf,  his 
brother,  succeeded  to  the  kingdom  of  the  West- 
Saxons.  And  about  one  month  after  this,  king 
Alfred  with  a  small  band  fought  against  the 
whole  army  at  Wilton,  and  put  them  to  flight 
for  a  good  part  of  the  day;  but  the  Danes  had 

B  lona         4  the  Danes      s  Etholred  and  Alfred 
t  Varioufily  estimated  at  from  00  to  120  a<-roH. 


possession  of  the  place  of  carnage.  And  this 
year  nine  general  battles  were  fought  against 
the  army  in  the  kingdom  south  of  the  Thames, 
besides  which  Alfred  the  king's  brother,  and 
single  ealdormen.t  and  king's  thanes,  often 
times  made  incursions  on  them,  which  were  not 
counted:  and  within  the  year  nine  earls  and  one 
king  were  slain.  And  that  year  the  West- 
Saxons  made  peace  with  the  army. — (From  the 
translation  edited  by  J.  A.  Giles.) 

The  Battle  of  Brunanburh  * 

Anno  937.    Here  Athelstan  the  King,  ruler  of 

earls, 
ring-giver  to  chieftains,  and  his  brother  eke, 
Edmund  Atheling,i   lifelong  honor 
struck  out  with  the  edges  of  swords  in  battle 
at  Brunanburh:  they  cleft  the  shield-wall,2 
hewed    the   war-lindenss    with   the   leavings   of 

hammers,* 
these  heirs  of  Edward;   for  fitting  it  was 
to  their  noble  descent  that  oft  in  the  battle 
'gainst  foes  one  and  all  the  land  they  should 

fend, 
the  hoards  and  the  homes.    The  enemy  fell, 
Scot-folk  and  seamen,5  H 

.death-doomed  they  fell;  slippery  the  field 
with  the  blood  of  men,  from  sunrise 
when  at  dawn  the  great  star 
stole  o'er  the  earth,  the  bright  candle  of  God 
the  Eternal  Lord,  till  the  noble  creation 
sank  to  its  seat.    There  lay  many  a  one 
slain  by  a  spear,  many  a  Norseman 
shot  o'er  his  shield,  many  a  Scotsman 
weary    and    sated    with    strife.      The   men    of 

Wessex  20 

in  troops  the  live-long  day 
followed  on  the  footsteps  of  the  hostile  folk. 
From  the  rear  they  fiercely  struck  the  fleeing 
with  the  sharp-ground   swords.     The  Mercians 

did  not  stint 
hard  hand-play  to  any  of  the  heroes 
who  with  Anlaf  o  'er  the  wave-weltero 
in  the  bosom  of  boats  sought  the  land, 
doomed  to  fall  in  the  fight.    On  the  field 

t  nobles 

1  prince 

2  The  Germanic  phalanx,  In  which  the  shields  were 

overlapped. 

3  shields  made  of  linden  wood 

4  swords,  hammered  out 

5  the  Danes 
8  ocean 

♦  This  poem  is,  says  Professor  Bright,  "the  most 
Important  of  the  poetic  insertions  in  the  An- 
glo-Saxon Chronicles."  It  records  the  victory 
of  Athelstan,  son  of  Edward,  grandson  of  Al- 
fred the  Great  and  king  of  the  West  Saxons 
and  the  Mercians,  over  a  combination  Includ- 
ing Danes  from  Northumbrla  and  Ireland. 
Scots,  and  Welsh.  The  Danes  were  headed  by 
Anlaf  (or  Olaf),  the  Scots  by  Constantino. 


ALFRED  THE  GBEAT 


27 


five  young  kings  lay  killed, 

put  to  sleep  by  swords;  and  seven  too  30 

of  the  earls  of  Anlaf,  and  countless  warriors 

of  the  seamen  and  the  Scotch:  routed  was 

the  Norsemen 's  king,  forced  by  need 

with  a  little  band  to  the  boat's  bow. 

The  galley  gUded  on  the  waves;  the  king  fled 

forth 
on  the  fallow  flood;  so  he  saved  his  life. 
And  so  by  flight  to  his  northern  kinsfolk 
came  that  wise  one,  Constantine, 
gray  battle  man;  boast  he  durst  not 
of  the  strife  of  swords;  shorn  of  kinsfolk  was 

he,  *0 

fallen  on  the  battle-field  his  friends, 
slain  were  they  in  strife;   and  his  son,  young 

for  war, 
left  he  on  the  slaughter-spot  sore  wounded. 
Gray-haired  hero,  hoary  traitor, 
boast  he  durst  not  of  the  brand-clash ;  ^ 
nor  could  Anlaf  with  their  armies  shattered 
laugh  that  they  the  better  were  in  battle- work, 
in  the  fight  of  banners  on  the  battle-field, 
in  the  meeting  of  the  spears,  in  the  mingling  of 

the  men, 
in  the  strife  of  weapons  on  the  slaughter-field  50 
which  they  played  with  Edward 's  heirs. 
Departed    then    the    Northmen    in    the    nailed 

ships, 
a  dreary  leaving  of  dartss  on  the  dashing  sea. 
O'er  the  deep  water  Dublin  they  sought, 
Ireland  again,  abashed. 
So  the  brethren  both  together. 
King  and  Atheling,  sought  their  kinsfolk 
and  West-Saxon  land,  from  war  exultant; 
left  behind  to  share  the  slain 
the  dusky-coated,  the  dark  raven  60 

horny-beaked,  and  the  eagle  white  bdiind, 
gray-coated,   the   carrion   to   consume, 
the  greedy  war-hawk,  and  that  gray  beast, 
the    wolf    in    the    weald.s     Nor    had    greater 

slaughter 
ever  yet  upon  this  island 
e'er  before  a  folk  befallen 
by  sword-edges,  say  the  books, 
those    old    wise    ones,!^    since    from    Eastward 

hither 
Angles  and  Saxons  on  advanced,  69 

o'er  the  waters  wide  sought  the  Britons, 
warsmiths  proud  o  'ercame  the  Welsh, 
Earls  honor-hungry  got  this  homeland,  n 
— (Translated  by  Lindsay  Todd  Damon.) 


7  clashing  of  swords 

8  The  few  left  alive. 

9  forest 

10  In  apposition  with  "books." 

11  Referring  to  the  Anglo-Saxon  conquest  of  Brit- 

ain in  the  fifth  century. 


ALFRED  THE  GREAT  (849-901) 

Ohthere's  Narrative.* 

Ohthere  told  his  lord  King  Alfred,  that  he 
dwelt  northmost  of  all  the  Northmen.  He  said 
that  he  dwelt  in  the  land  to  the  northward, 
along  the  West-Sea;  he  said,  however,  that  that 
land  is  very  long  north  from  thence,  but  it  is 
all  waste  except  in  a  few  places  where  the 
Finns  here  and  there  dwell,  for  hunting  in  the 
winter,  and  in  the  summer  for  fishing  in  that 
sea.  He  said  that  he  was  desirous  to  try,  once 
on  a  time,  how  far  that  country  extended  due 
north,  or  whether  any  one  lived  to  the  north  of 
the  waste.  He  then  went  due  north  along  the 
country,  leaving  all  the  way  the  waste  land  on 
the  right,  and  the  wide  sea  on  the  left,  for  three 
days:  he  was  as  far  north  as  the  whale-hunters 
go  at  the  farthest.  Then  he  proceeded  in  his 
course  due  north  as  far  as  he  could  sail  in 
another  three  days;  then  the  land  there  in- 
clined due  east,  or  the  sea  into  the  land,  he  knew 
not  which,  but  he  knew  that  he  there  waited 
for  a  west  wind,  or  a  little  north,  and  sailed 
thence  eastward  along  that  land  as  far  as  he 
could  sail  in  four  days;  then  he  had  to  wait  for 
a  due  north  wind,  because  the  land  there  in- 
clined due  south,  or  the  sea  in  on  that  land,  he 
knew  not  which;  he  then  sailed  along  the  coast 
due  south,  as  far  as  he  could  sail  in  five  days. 
There  lay  a  great  river*  up  in  that  land;  they 
then  turned  up  in  that  river,  because  they  durst 
not  sail  on  by  that  river,  on  account  of  hos- 
tility, because  all  that  country  was  inhabited 
on  the  other  side  of  that  river;  he  had  not  be- 
fore met  with  aay  land  that  was  inhabited  since 
he  came  from 'his  own  home;  but  all  the  way 
he  had  waste  land  on  his  right,  except  for  fish- 
ermen, fowlers,  and  hunters,  all  of  whom  were 
FinnSj^^  and  he  had  constantly  a  wide  sea  to  the 
left.  The  Beormasz  had  well  cultivated  their 
country,  but  they  did  not  dare  to  enter  it ;  and 
the  Terfinna  lands  was  all  waste,  except  where 
hunters,  fishers,  or  fowlers  had  taken  up  their 
quarters. 

The  Beormas  told  him  many  particulars  both 
of  their  own  land,  and  of  the  other  lands  lying 
about  them;  but  he  knew  not  what  was  true, 
because  he  did  not  see  it  himself;  it  seemed 


1  The  Dwina. 

2  A  people  east  of  the  Dwina. 

3  The  region  between  the  Gulf  of  Bothnia  and  the 

North  Cape. 
•  From  the  addition  made  by  King  .\lfred  to  his 
translation  of  Orosius'  History  of  the  World; 
modern  English  translation  by  Benjamin 
Thorpe.  Ohthere  was  a  Norwegian  sailor, 
who,  straying  to  Alfred's  court,  was  eagerly 
questioned.     See  Eng.  Lit.,  p.  26. 


28 


ANGLO-SAXON  PEBIOD 


to  him  that  the  Finns  and  the  Beormas  spoke 
nearly  one  language.  He  went  thither  chiefly, 
in  addition  to  seeing  the  country,  on  account 
of  the  walruses,  because  they  have  very  noble 
bones  in  their  teeth;  some  of  those  teeth  they 
brought  to  the  king;  and  their  hides  are  good 
for  ship-ropes.  This  whale  is  much  less  than 
other  whales,  it  being  not  longer  than  seven 
ells;  but  in  his  own  country  is  the  best  whale- 
hunting, — there  they  are  eight  and  forty  ells 
long,  and  the  biggest  of  them  fifty  ells  long;  of 
these  he  said  that  he  and  five  others  had  killed 
sixty  in  two  days.  He  was  a  very  wealthy  man 
in  those  possessions  in  which  their  wealth  con- 
sists, that  is  in  wild  deer.  He  had  at  the  time 
he  came  to  the  king,  six  hundred  unsold  tame 
deer.  These  deer  they  call  rein-deer,  of  which 
there  were  six  decoy  rein-deer,  which  are  very 
valuable  among  the  Finns,  because  they  catch 
the  wild  rein-deer  with  them. 

He  was  one  of.  the  foremost  men  in  that 
country,  yet  he  had  not  more  than  twenty 
horned  cattle,  and  twenty  sheep,  and  twenty 
swine,  and  the  little  that  he  ploughed  he 
ploughed  with  horses.*  But  their  wealth  con- 
sists for  the  most  part  in  the  rent  paid  them 
by  the  Finns.  That  rent  is  in  skins  of  animals, 
and  birds'  feathers,  and  whalebone,  and  in 
ship-ropes  made  of  whales '  hides,  and  of  seals '. 
Everyone  pays  according  to  his  birth ;  the  best- 
born,  it  is  said,  pay  the  skins  of  fifteen  mar- 
tens, and  five  rein-deer 's,  and  one  bear 's  skin, 
ten  ambers*  of  feathers,  a  bear's  or  otter's 
skin  kirtle,  and  two  ship-ropes,  each  sixty  ells 
long,  made  either  of  'whale-hide  or  of  seal 's. 

He  said  that  the  Northmen's  land  was  very 
long  and  narrow;  all  that  his  man  could  either 
pasture  or  plough  lies  by  the  sea,  though  that 
is  in  some  parts  very  rocky;  and  to  the  east  are 
wild  mountains,  parallel  to  the  cultivated  land. 
The  Finns  inhabit  these  mountains,  send  the 
cultivated  land  is  broadest  to  the  eastward,  and 
continually  narrower  the  more  north.  To  the 
east  it  may  be  sixty  miles  broad,  or  a  little 
broader,  and  towards  the  middle  thirty,  or 
broader;  and  northward,  he  said,  where  it  is 
narrowest,  that  it  might  be  three  miles  broad  to 

*  forty  bushels 

•  The  Anglo-Saxons  plowed  with  oxen. 


the  mountain,  and  the  mountain  then  is  in  some 
parts  so  broad  that  a  man  may  pass  over  in 
two  weeks,  and  in  some  parts  so  broad  that  a 
man  may  pass  over  in  six  days.  Then  along 
this  land  southwards,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
mountain,  is  Sweden;  to  that  land  northwards, 
and  along  that  land  northwards,  Cwenland.* 
The  Cwenas  sometimes  make  depredations  on 
the  Northmen  over  the  mountain,  and  sometimes 
the  Northmen  on  them ;  there  are  very  large 
fresh  meres  amongst  the  mountains,  and  the 
Cwenas  carry  thoir  ships  over  land  into  the 
meres,  and  thence  make  depredations  on  the 
Northmen;  they  have  very  little  ships,  and  very 
light. 

Ohthere  said  that  the  shire  in  which  he 
dwelt  is  called  Halgoland.  He  said  that  no  one 
dwelt  to  the  north  of  him;  there  is  likewise  a 
port  to  the  south  of  that  land,  which  is  called 
Sciringes-heal;6  thither,  he  said,  no  one  could 
sail  in  a  month,  if  he  landed  at  night,  and 
every  day  had  a  fair  wind ;  and  all  the  while  he 
would  sail  along  the  land,  and  on  the  starboard 
will  first  be  Iraland,^  and  then  the  islands 
which  are  between  Iraland  and  this  land.s  Then 
it  is  this  land  until  he  come  to  Sciringes-heal, 
and  all  the  way  on  the  larboard,  Norway.  To 
the  south  of  Sciringes-heal,  a  very  great  sea 
runs  up  into  the  land,  which  is  broader  than 
any  one  can  see  over;  and  Jutland  is  opposite 
on  the  other  side,  and  then  Zealand.  This  sea 
runs  many  miles  up  in  that  land.  And  from 
Sciringes-heal,  he  said  that  he  sailed  in  five 
days  to  that  port  wiuch  is  called  ^t-H«ethum,» 
which  is  between  the  Wends,  and  Saxons,  and 
Angles,  and  belongs  to  Denmark. 

When  he  sailed  thitherward  from  Sciringes- 
heal,  Denmark  was  on  his  left,  and  on  the  right 
a  wide  sea  for  three  days,  and  two  days  before 
he  came  to  Hsethum  he  had  on  the  right  Jut- 
land, Zealand,  and  many  islands.  In  these 
lands  the  Angles  dwelt  before  they  came  hither 
to  this  land.  And  then  for  two  days  he  had 
on  his  left  the  islands  which  belong  to  Den- 
mark. 


n  Between  the  Gulf  of  Bothnia  and  the  White  Sea. 

6  In  the  Gulf  of  Chrlstlnnla. 

7  Ireland   (meaning  Scotland;  or  possibly  an  error 

for  Iceland). 

8  England  >  Sleswlg 


ANGLO-NORMAN  PERIOD 


f{ 


GEOFFREY  OF  MONMOUTH 
(c.  1100-1154) 

The  Stoey  of  King  Leie* 

After  this  unhappy  fate  of  Bladud,  Leir,  his 
son,  was  advanced  to  the  throne,  and  nobly 
governed  his  country  sixty  years.  He  built 
upon  the  river  Sore  a  city,  called  in  the  British 
tongue,  Kaerleir,  in  the  Saxon,  Leircestre.  He 
was  without  male  issue,  but  had  three  daugh- 
ters, whose  names  were  Gonorilla,  Kegau,  and 
Cordeilla,  of  whom  he  was  dotingly  fond,  but 
especially  of  his  youngest,  Cordeilla.  When  he 
began  to  grow  old,  he  had  thoughts  of  dividing 
his  kingdom  among  them,  and  of  bestowing 
them  on  such  husbands  as  were  fit  to  be  ad- 
vanced to  the  government  with  them.  But  to 
make  trial  who  was  worthy  to  have  the  best 
part  of  his  kingdom,  he  went  to  each  of  them 
to  ask  which  of  them  loved  him  most.  The 
question  being  proposed,  Gonorilla,  the  eldest, 
made  answer,  "That  she  called  heaven  to  wit- 
ness, she  loved  him  more  than  her  own  soul." 
The  father  replied,  "Since  you  have  preferred 
my  declining  age  before  your  own  life,  I  will 
marry  you,  my  dearest  daughter,  to  whomso- 
ever you  shall  make  choice  of,  and  give  with 
you  the  third  part  of  my  kingdom."  Then 
Kegau,  the  second  daughter,  willing,  after  the 
example  of  her  sister,  to  prevail  upon  her 
father's  good  nature,  answered  with  an  oath, 
"That  she  could  not  otherwise  express  her 
thoughts,  but  that  she  loved  him  above  all 
creatures."  The  credulous  father  upon  this 
made  her  the  same  promise  that  he  did  to  her 
eldest  sister,  that  is,  the  choice  of  a  husband, 
with  the  third  part  of  his  kingdom.  But  Cor- 
deilla, the  youngest,  understanding  how  easily 
he  was  satisfied  with  the  flattering  expressions 
of  her  sisters,  Avas  desirous  to  make  trial  of  his 
affection  after  a  different  manner.  "My 
father,"  said  she,  "is  there  any  daughter  that 
can  love  her  father  more  than  duty  requires? 


•  From  the  Historia  Britonum  Regum,  Book  11, 
Chapters  XI.-XIV.  TransTa!Ioff  from  the 
I>atin  edited  by  J.  A.  Giles.  See  Eng.  Lit.,  p. 
37. 


In  my  opinion,  whoever  pretends  to  it,  must 
disguise  her  real  sentiments  under  the  veil  of 
flattery.  I  have  always  loved  you  as  a  father, 
nor  do  I  yet  depart  from  my  purposed  duty; 
and  if  you  insist  to  have  something  more  ex- 
torted from  me,  hear  now  the  greatness  of  my 
affection,  which  I  always  bear  you,  and  take 
this  for  a  short  answer  to  all  your  questions; 
look  how  much  you  have,  so  much  is  your  value, 
and  so  much  do  I  love  you."  The  father,  sup- 
posing that  she  spoke  this  out  of  the  abund- 
ance of  her  heart,  was  highly  provoked,  and 
immediately  replied,  "Since  you  have  so  far 
despised  my  old  age  as  not  to  think  me  worthy 
the  love  that  your  sisters  express  for  me,  you 
shall  have  from  me  the  like  regard,  and  shall 
be  excluded  from  any  share  with  your  sisters 
in  my  kingdom.  Notwithstanding,  I  do  not  say 
but  that  since  you  are  my  daughter,  I  will 
marry  you  to  some  foreigner,  if  fortune  offers 
you  any  such  husband;  but  will  never,  I  do 
assure  you,  make  it  my  business  to  procure  so 
honourable  a  match  for  you  as  for  your  sis- 
ters; because,  though  I  have  hitherto  loved  you 
more  than  them,  you  have  in  requital  thought 
me  less  worthy  of  your  affection  than  they." 
And,  without  further  delay,  after  consultation 
with  his  nobility,  he  bestowed  his  two  other 
daughters  upon  the  dukes  of  Cornwall  and  Al- 
bania, with  half  the  island  at  present,  but  after 
his  death,  the  inheritance  of  the  whole  mon- 
archy of  Britain. 

It  happened  after  this,  that  Aganippus,  king 
of  the  Franks,  having  heard  of  the  fame  of 
Cordeilla 's  beauty,  forthwith  sent  his  ambassa- 
dors to  the  king  to  demand  her  in  marriage. 
The  father,  retaining  yet  his  anger  towards  her, 
made  answer,  "That  he  was  very  wilUng  to  be- 
stow his  daughter,  but  without  either  money 
or  territories;  because  he  had  already  given 
away  his  kingdom  with  all  his  treasure  to  hia 
eldest  daughters,  Gonorilla  and  Kegau."  When 
this  was  told  Aganippus,  he,  being  very  much 
in  love  with  the  lady,  sent  again  to  king  Leir, 
to  tell  him,  "That  he  had  money  and  terri- 
tories enough,  as  he  possessed  the  third  part  of 
Gaul,  and  desired  no  more  than  his  daughter 
only,  that  he  might  have  heirs  by  her."     At 

29 


30 


ANGLO-NORMAN  PERIOD 


last  the  match  was  concluded;    Cordeilla  was 
sent  to  Gaul,  and  married  to  Aganippus. 

A  long  time  after  this,  when  Leir  came  to  be 
infirm  through  old  age,  the  two  dukes,  on  whom 
he  had  bestowed  Britain  with  his  two  daughters, 
fostered  an  insurrection  against  him,  and  de- 
prived him  of  his  kingdom,  and  of  all  regal  au- 
thority, which  he  had  hitherto  exercised  with 
great  power  and  glory.  At  length,  by  mutual 
agreement,  Maglaunus,  duke  of  Albania,  one  of 
his  sons-in-law,  was  to  allow  him  a  mainte- 
nance at  his  own  house,  together  with  sixty  sol- 
diers, who  were  to  be  kept  for  state.  After 
two  years'  stay  with  his  son-in-law,  his  daugh- 
ter Gonorilla  grudged  the  number  of  his  men, 
who  began  to  upbraid  the  ministers  of  the 
court  with  their  scanty  allowance;  and,  having 
spoken  to  her  husband  about  it,  she  gave  orders 
that  the  number  of  her  father 's  followers  should 
be  reduced  to  thirty,  and  the  rest  discharged. 
The  father,  resenting  this  treatment,  left  Mag- 
launus, and  went  to  Henuinus,  duke  of  Corn- 
wall, to  whom  he  had  married  his  daughter 
Regau.  Here  he  met  with  an  honourable  recep- 
tion, but  before  the  year  was  at  an  end,  a 
quarrel  happened  between  the  two  families 
which  raised  Regau's  indignation;  so  that  she 
commanded  her  father  to  discharge  all  his  at- 
tendants but  five,  and  to  be  contented  with  their 
service.  This  second  affliction  was  insupportable 
to  him,  and  made  him  return  again  to  his  former 
daughter,  with  hopes  that  the  misery  of  his 
condition  might  move  in  her  some  sentiments  of 
filial  piety,  and  that  he,  with  his  family,  might 
find  a  subsistence  with  her.  But  she,  not  for- 
getting her  resentment,  swore  by  the  gods  he 
should  not  stay  with  her,  unless  he  would  dis- 
miss his  retinue,  and  be  contented  with  the  at- 
tendance of  one  man;  and  with  bitter  re- 
proaches she  told  him  how  ill  his  desire  of  vain- 
glorious pomp  suited  his  age  and  poverty. 
When  he  found  that  she  was  by  no  means  to  be 
prevailed  upon,  he  was  at  last  forced  to  com- 
ply, and,  dismissing  the  rest,  to  take  up  with 
one  man  only.  But  by  this  time  he  began  to 
reflect  more  sensibly  with  himself  upon  the 
grandeur  from  which  he  had  fallen,  and  the 
miserable  state  to  which  he  was  now  reduced, 
and  to  enter  upon  thoughts  of  going  beyond 
sea  to  his  youngest  daughter.  Yet  he  doubted 
•whether  he  should  be  able  to  move  her  commis- 
seration,  because  (as  was  related  above)  he 
bad  treated  her  so  unworthily.  However,  dis- 
daining to  bear  any  longer  such  base  usage,  he 
took  ship  for  Gaul.  In  his  passage  he  observed 
he  bad  only  the  third  place  given  him  among 
tbe  princes  that  were  with  bim  in  the  ship,  at 


which,  with  deep  sighs  and  tears,  he  burst  forth 
into  the  following  complaint:  — 

"0  irreversible  decrees  of  the  Fates,  that 
never  swerve  from  your  stated  course!  why  did 
you  ever  advance  me  to  an  unstable  felicity, 
since  the  punishment  of  lost  happiness  is 
greater  than  the  sense  of  present  misery?  The 
remembrance  of  the  time  when  vast  numbers 
of  men  obsequiously  attended  me  in  the  taking 
the  cities  and  wasting  the  enemy's  countries, 
more  deeply  pierces  my  heart  than  the  view  of 
my  present  calamity,  which  has  exposed  me  to 
the  derision  of  those  who  were  formerly  pros- 
trate at  my  feet.  Oh!  the  enmity  of  fortune! 
Shall  I  ever  again  see  the  day  when  I  may  be 
able  to  reward  those  according  to  their  deserts 
who  have  forsaken  me  in  my  distress?  How 
true  was  thy  answer,  Cordeilla,  when  I  asked 
thee  concerning  thy  love  to  me,  'As  mucli  as 
you  have,  so  much  is  your  value,  and  so  much 
do  I  love  you.'  While  I  had  anything  to  give, 
they  valued  me,  being  friends,  not  to  me,  but 
to  my  gifts:  they  loved  m.e  then,  but  they  loved 
my  gifts  much  more:  when  my  gifts  ceased,  my 
friends  vanished.  But  with  what  face  shall  I 
presume  to  see  you,  my  dearest  daughter,  since 
in  my  anger  I  married  you  upon  worse  terms 
than  your  sisters,  who,  after  all  the  mighty 
favours  they  have  received  from  me,  suffer  me 
to  be  in  banishment  and  poverty?" 

As  he  was  lamenting  his  condition  in  these 
and  the  like  expressions,  he  arrived  at  Karitia,i 
where  his  daughter  was,  and  waited  before  the 
city  while  he  sent  a  messenger  to  inform  her 
of  the  misery  he  was  fallen  into,  and  to  desire 
her  relief  for  a  father  who  suffered  both  hunger 
and  nakedness.  Cordeilla  was  startled  at  the 
news,  and  wept  bitterly,  and  with  tears  asked 
how  many  men  her  father  had  with  him.  The 
messenger  answered,  he  had  none  but  one  man, 
who  had  been  his  armour-bearer,  and  was  stay- 
ing with  him  without  the  town.  Then  she  took 
what  money  she  thought  might  be  sufficient, 
and  gave  it  to  the  messenger,  with  orders  to 
carry  her  father  to  another  city,  and  there  give 
out  that  he  was  sick,  and  to  provide  for  him 
bathing,  clothes,  and  all  other  nourishment.  She 
likewise  gave  orders  that  he  should  take  into 
his  service  forty  men,  well  clothed  and  ac- 
coutred, and  that  when  all  things  were  thus 
prepared  he  should  notify  his  arrival  to  king 
Aganippus  and  his  daughter.  The  messenger 
quickly  returning,  carried  Leir  to  another  city, 
and  there  kept  him  concealed,  till  he  had  done 
everything  that  Cordeilla  had  commanded. 

1  Calais 


GEOFFREY  OF  MONMOUTH 


31 


As  soon  as  he  was  provided  with  his  royal 
apparel,  ornaments,  and  retinue,  he  sent  word 
to  Aganippus  and  his  daughter,  that  he  was 
driven  out  of  his  kingdom  of  Britain  by  his 
sons-in-law,  and  was  come  to  them  to  procure 
their  assistance  for  recovering  his  dominions. 
Upon  which  they,  attended  with  their  chief 
ministers  of  state  and  the  nobility  of  the  king- 
dom, went  out  to  meet  him,  and  received  him 
honourably,  and  gave  into  his  management  the 
whole  power  of  Gaul,  till  such  time  as  he  should 
be  restored  to  his  former  dignity. 

In  the  meantime  Aganippus  sent  officers  over 
all  Gaul  to  raise  an  army,  to  restore  his  father- 
in-law  to  his  kingdom  of  Britain.  Which  done, 
Leir  returned  to  Britain  with  his  son  and 
daughter  and  the  forces  which  they  had  raised, 
where  he  fought  with  his  sons-in-law  and  routed 
them.  Having  thus  reduced  the  whole  kingdom 
to  his  power,  he  died  the  third  year  after. 
Aganippus  also  died;  and  Cordeilla,  obtaining 
the  government  of  the  kingdom,  buried  her 
father  in  a  certain  vault,  which  she  ordered  to 
be  made  for  him  under  the  river  Sore,  in  Lei- 
cester, and  which  had  been  built  originally 
under  the  ground  to  the  honour  of  the  god 
Janus.2  And  here  all  the  workmen  of  the  city, 
upon  the  anniversary  solemnity  of  that  festival, 
used  to  begin  their  yearly  labours. 

Arthur  Mab:es  the  Saxons  His  Tributaries 
After  a  few  days  they  went  to  relieve  the 
city  Kaerliudcoit,  that  was  besieged  by  the 
pagans;  which  being  situated  upon  a  moun- 
tain, between  two  rivers  in  the  province  of 
Lindisia,  is  called  by  another  name  Lindoco- 
linum.i  As  soon  as  they  arrived  there  with  all 
their  forces,  they  fought  with  the  Saxons,  and 
made  a  grievous  slaughter  of  them,  to  the  num- 
ber of  six  thousand;  part  of  whom  were 
drowned  in  the  rivers,  part  fell  by  the  hands 
of  the  Britons.  The  rest  in  a  great  consterna- 
tion quitted  the  siege  and  fled,  but  were  closely 
pursued  by  Arthur,  till  they  came  to  the  wood 
of  Celidon,  where  they  endeavoured  to  form 
themselves  into  a  body  again,  and  make  a  stand. 
And  here  they  again  joined  battle  with  the 
Britons,  and  made  a  brave  defence,  whilst  the 
trees  that  were  in  the  place  secured  them 
against  the  enemies'  arrows.  Arthur,  seeing 
this,  commanded  the  trees  that  were  in  that  part 
of  the  wood  to  be  cut  down,  and  the  trunks  to 
be  placed  quite  round  them,  so  as  to  hinder 
their  getting  out ;  resolving  to  keep  them  pent 
up  here  till  he  could  reduce  them  by  famine. 
He  then  commanded  his  troops  to  besiege  the 

2  During  the  Roman  occupation,     t  Lincoln 


wood,  and  continued  three  days  in  that  place. 
The  Saxons,  having  now  no  provisions  to  sus- 
tain them,  and  being  just  ready  to  starve  with 
hunger,  begged  for  leave  to  go  out;  in  consid- 
eration whereof  they  offered  to  leave  all  their 
gold  and  silver  behind  them,  and  return  back 
to  Germany  with  nothing  but  their  empty  ships. 
They  promised  also  that  they  would  pay  him 
tribute  from  Germany,  and  leave  hostages  with 
him.  Arthur,  after  consultation  about  it, 
granted  their  petition ;  allowing  them  only  leave 
to  depart,  and  retaining  all  their  treasures,  as 
also  hostages  for  payment  of  the  tribute.  But 
as  they  were  under  sail  on  their  return  home, 
they  repented  of  their  bargain,  and  tacked 
about  again  towards  Britain,  and  went  on  shore 
at  Totness.  No  sooner  were  they  landed,  than 
they  made  an  utter  devastation  of  the  country 
as  far  as  the  Severn  sea,  and  put  all  the  peas- 
ants to  the  sword.  From  thence  they  pursued 
their  furious  march  to  the  town  of  Bath,  and 
laid  siege  to  it.  When  the  king  had  intelli- 
gence of  it,  he  was  beyond  measure  surprised  at 
their  proceedings,  and  immediately  gave  orders 
for  the  execution  of  the  hostages.  And  desist- 
ing from  an  attempt  which  he  had  entered 
upon  to  reduce  the  Scots  and  Picts,  he  marched 
with  the  utmost  expedition  to  raise  the  siege; 
but  laboured  under  very  great  difficulties,  be- 
cause he  had  left  his  nephew  Hoel  sick  at 
Alclud.2  At  length,  having  entered  the  province 
of  Somerset,  and  beheld  how  the  siege  was  car- 
ried on,  he  addressed  himself  to  his  followers 
in  these  words:  "Since  these  impious  and  de- 
testable Saxons  have  disdained  to  keep  faith 
with  me,  I,  to  keep  faith  with  God,  will  en- 
deavour to  revenge  the  blood  of  my  countrymen 
this  day  upon  them.  To  arms,  soldiers,  to  arms, 
and  courageously  fall  upon  the  perfidious 
wretches,  over  whom  we  shall,  with  Christ  as- 
sisting us,  undoubtedly  obtain  victory." 

When  he  had  done  speaking,  St.  Dubricius, 
archbishop  of  Legions,3  going  to  the  top  of  a 
hill,  cried  out  with  a  loud  voice,  ' '  You  that 
have  the  honour  to  profess  the  Christian  faith, 
keep  fixed  in  your  minds  the  love  which  you 
owe  to  your  country  and  fellow  subjects,  whose 
sufferings  by  the  treachery  of  the  pagans  will 
be  an  everlasting  reproach  to  you,  if  you  do  not 
courageously  defend  them.  It  is  your  country 
which  you  fight  for,  and  for  which  you  should, 
when  required,  voluntarily  suffer  death;  for 
that  itself  is  victory  and  the  cure  of  the  soul. 
For  he  that  shall  die  for  his  brethren,  offers 
himself  a  living  sacrifice  to  God,  and  has  Christ 

2  Dumbarton 

3  The   City  of  Legions    (now   Newport)    In   South 

Wales,  where  the   Roman  legions  wintered. 


ANGLO-NORMAN  PERIOD 


for  his  example,  who  condescended  to  lay  down 
his  life  for  his  brethren.  If  therefore  any  of 
you  shall  be  killed  in  this  war,  that  death 
itself,  which  is  suffered  in  so  glorious  a  cause, 
shall  be  to  him  for  penance  and  absolution  of 
all  his  sins. ' '  At  these  words,  all  of  them  en- 
couraged with  the  benediction  of  the  holy  pre- 
late, instantly  armed  themselves,  and  prepared 
to  obey  his  orders.  Also  Arthur  himself,  hav- 
ing put  on  a  coat  of  mail  suitable  to  the 
grandeur  of  so  powerful  a  king,  placed  a  golden 
helmet  upon  his  head,  on  which  was  engraven 
the  figure  of  a  dragon;  and  on  his  shoulders  his 
shield  called  Priwen ;  upon  which  the  picture  of 
the  blessed  Mary,  mother  of  God,  was  painted, 
in  order  to  put  him  frequently  in  mind  of  her. 
Then  girding  on  his  Caliburn,*  which  was  an 
excellent  sword  made  in  the  isle  of  Avallon,  he 
graced  his  right  hand  with  his  lance,  named 
Ron,  which  was  hard,  broad,  and  fit  for  slaugh- 
ter. After  this,  having  placed  his  men  in  order, 
he  boldly  attacked  the  Saxons,  who  were  drawn 
out  in  the  shape  of  a  wedge,  as  their  manner 
was.  And  they,  notwithstanding  that  the  Brit- 
ons fought  with  great  eagerness,  made  a  noble 
defence  all  that  day;  but  at  length,  towards 
sunsetting,  climbed  up  the  next  mountain,  which 
served  them  for  a  camp:  for  they  desired  no 
larger  extent  of  ground,  since  they  confided 
very  much  in  their  numbers.  The  next  morning 
Arthur,  with  his  army,  went  up  the  mountain, 
but  lost  many  of  his  men  in  the  ascent,  by  the 
advantage  which  the  Saxons  had  in  their  station 
on  the  top,  from  whence  they  could  pour  down 
upon  him  with  much  greater  speed  than  he  was 
able  to  advance  against  them.  Notwithstanding, 
after  a  very  hard  struggle,  the  Britons  gained 
the  summit  of  the  hill  and  quickly  came  to  a 
close  engagement  with  the  enemy,  who  again 
gave  them  a  warm  reception,  and  made  a  vig- 
orous defence.  In  this  manner  was  a  great 
part  of  that  day  also  spent ;  whereupon  Arthur, 
provoked  to  see  the  little  advantage  he  had  yet 
gained  and  that  victory  still  continued  in  sus- 
pense, drew  out  his  Caliburn,  and,  calling  upon 
the  name  of  the  blessed  Virgin,  rushed  forward 
with  great  fury  into  the  thickest  of  the  enemy 's 
ranks;  of  whom  (such  was  the  merit  of  his 
prayers)  not  one  escaped  alive  that  felt  the 
fury  of  his  sword;  neither  did  he  give  over  the 
fury  of  his  assault  until  he  had,  with  his  Cali- 
burn alone,  killed  four  hundred  and  seventy 
men.  The  Britons,  seeing  this,  followed  their 
leatler  in  great  multitudes,  and  made  slaughter 
on  all  Bides;  so  that  Colgrin,  and  Baldulph  his 


4  The  famous  Excallbur. 
fi  I  reader  of  thp  Saxona. 


brother,  and  many  thousands  more  fell  before 
them.  But  Cheldric,^  in  this  imminent  danger 
of  his  men,  betook  himself  to  £ight. — From 
the  same;   Book  IX,  Ch.  Ill,  IV. 


FROM  THE  ANCREN  RIWLE 

(ANCHORESSES'  RULE.)* 

Do  you  now  ask  what  rule  you  anchoresses 
should  observe?  Ye  should  by  all  means,  with 
all  your  might  and  all  your  strength,  keep  well 
the  inward  rule,  and  for  its  sake  the  outward. 
The  inward  rule  is  always  alike.  The  outward 
is  various,  because  every  one  ought  so  to  ob- 
serve the  outward  rule  as  that  the  body  may 
therewith  best  serve  the  inward.  All  may  and 
ought  to  observe  one  rule  concerning  purity  of 
heart,  that  is,  a  clean  unstained  conscience, 
without  any  reproach  of  sin  that  is  not  reme- 
died by  confession.  This  the  body  rule  effects. 
This  rule  is  framed  not  by  man's  contrivance, 
but  by  the  command  of  God.  Wherefore,  it 
ever  is  and  shall  be  the  same,  without  mixture 
and  without  change;  and  all  men  ought  ever 
invariably  to  observe  it.  But  the  external  rule, 
which  I  called  the  handmaid,  is  of  man  's  con- 
trivance; nor  is  it  instituted  for  any  thing  else 
but  to  serve  the  internal  law.  It  ordains  fast- 
ing, watching,  enduring  cold,  wearing  haircloth, 
and  such  other  hardships  as  the  flesh  of  many 
can  bear  and  many  cannot.  Wherefore,  this 
rule  may  be  changed  and  varied  according  to 
every  one 's  state  and  circumstances.  For  some 
are  strong,  some  are  weak,  and  may  very  well 
be  excused,  and  please  God  with  less;  some  are 
learned,  and  some  are  not,  and  must  work  the 
more,  and  say  their  prayers  at  the  stated  hours 
in  a  different  manner;  some  are  old  and  ill 
favoured,  of  whom  there  is  less  fear;  some  are 
young  and  lively,  and  have  need  to  be  more 
on  their  guard.  Every  anchoress  must,  there- 
fore, observe  the  outward  rule  according  to  the 
advice  of  her  confessor,  and  do  obediently  what- 
ever he  enjoins  and  commands  her,  who  knows 

•  These  "Rnlos  and  Duties  of  Monastic  Life"  were 
prepared  (c.  1210)  for  the  guidance  of  a  little 
society  of  three  nuns  who  dwelt  at  Tarcnte, 
In  Dorsetshire — "gentlewomen,  sisters,  of  one 
father  and  of  one  mother,  who  had  in  the 
bloom  of  their  youth  forsaken  all  the  pleas- 
ures of  the  world  and  become  anchoresses." 
The  book  consists  of  eight  chapters,  the  first 
and  last  of  which  deal  with  the  "outward 
rule,"  the  others  with  the  "Inward  rule."  It 
is  possibly  the  work  of  Richard  Poor  (d. 
12.S7),  Bishop  of  Salisbury,  who  was  bene- 
factor of  the  nunnery  at  Tarente.  Very 
marked  Is  the  spirit  of  charity  and  tolerance 
In  which  it  is  written.  Moreover,  It  Is 
iiinong  the  best  examples  of  simple,  eloquent 
prose  in  English  anteclating  the  Kngllsh  Bible. 
Our  translation  is  that  of  James  Morton. 


THE  ANCBEN  BIWLE 


33 


her  state  and  strength.  He  may  modify  the 
outward  rule,  as  prudence  may  direct,  and  as 
he  sees  that  the  inward  rule  may  thus  be  best 
kept. 

When  you  first  arise  in  the  morning  bless 
yourselves  with  the  sign  of  the  cross  and  say, 
"In  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the  Son, 
and  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  Amen,"  and  begin  di- 
rectly "Creator  Spirit,  Come,"  with  your  eyes 
and  your  hands  raised  up  toward  heaven,  bend- 
ing forward  on  your  knees  upon  the  bed,  and 
thus  say  the  whole  hymn  to  the  end,  with  the 
versicle,  "Send  forth  Thy  Holy  Spirit,"  and 
the  prayer,  "God,  who  didst  teach  the  hearts 
of  thy  faithful  people,"  etc.  After  this,  put- 
ting on  your  shoes  and  your  clothes,  say  the 
Paternosteri  and  the  Creed,2  and  then,  ' '  Jesus 
Christ,  Son  of  the  Living  God,  have  mercy  on 
us!  Thou  who  didst  condescend  to  be  born 
of  a  virgin,  have  mercy  on  us!  "  Continue  say- 
ing these  words  until  you  be  quite  dressed. 
Have  these  words  much  in  use,  and  in  your 
mouth  as  often  as  ye  may,  sitting  and  standing. 

True  anchoresses  are  compared  to  birds;  for 
they  leave  the  earth;  that  is,  the  love  of  all 
earthly  things;  and  through  yearning  of  heart 
after  heavenly  things,  fly  upward  toward 
heaven.  And,  although  they  fly  high,  with  high 
and  holy  life,  yet  they  hold  the  head  low. 
through  meek  humility,  as  a  bird  flying  boweth 
down  its  head,  and  accounteth  all  her  good 
deeds  and  good  works  nothing  worth,  and  saith, 
as  our  Lord  taught  all  his  followers,  "Cum 
omnia  bene  feceritis,  dicite  quod  servi  inutiles 
estis;"  "When  ye  have  done  all  well,"  saith 
the  Lord,  "say  that  ye  are  unprofitable  serv- 
ants. ' '  Fly  high,  and  yet  hold  the  head  always 
low. 

The  wings  that  bear  them  upward  are,  good 
principles,  which  they  must  move  unto  good 
works,  as  a  bird,  when  it  would  fly,  moveth 
its  wings.  Also  the  true  anchoresses,  whom  we 
compare  to  birds, — yet  not  we,  but  God — 
spread  their  wings  and  make  a  cross  of  them- 
selves, as  a  bird  doth  when  it  flieth;  that  is,  in 
the  thoughts  of  the  heart,  and  the  mortification 
of  the  flesh,  they  bear  the  Lord 's  cross.  Those 
birds  fly  well  that  have  little  flesh,  as  the  pelican 
hath,  and  many  feathers.  The  ostrich,  having 
much  flesh,  maketh  a  pretense  to  fly,  and  flaps 
his  wings,  but  his  feet  always  draw  to  the 
earth.      In   like   manner,   the   carnal   anchoress, 


1  The  Lord's  Prayer. 

2  The   Confession   of   Faith,   beginning,    "Credo   In 

unum  Deum." 


who  loveth  carnal  pleasures,  and  seeketh  her 
ease,  the  heaviness  of  her  flesh  and  its  desires 
deprive  her  of  her  power  of  flying;  and  though 
she  makes  a  pretense  and  much  noise  with  her 
wings;  that  is,  makes  it  appear  as  if  she  flew, 
and  were  a  holy  anchoress,  whoever  looks  at 
her  narrowly,  laughs  her  to  scorn ;  for  her  feet, 
as  doth  the  ostrich's,  which  are  her  lusts,  draw 
her  to  the  earth.  Such  are  not  like  the  meagre 
pelican,  nor  do  they  fly  aloft,  but  are  birds  of 
the  earth,  and  make  their  nests  on  the  ground. 
But  God  called  the  good  anchoresses  birds  of 
heaven,  as  I  said  before:  * '  Fulpes  foveas 
habent  et  volucres  cccli  nidos."  "Foxes  have 
their  holes,  and  birds  of  heaven  their  nests. ' ' 

True  anchoresses  are  indeed  birds  of  heaven, 
that  fly  aloft,  and  sit  on  the  green  boughs  sing- 
ing merrily;  that  is,  they  meditate,  enraptured, 
upon  the  blessedness  of  heaven  that  never  fad- 
eth,  but  is  ever  green;  and  sit  on  this  green, 
singing  right  merrily;  that  is,  in  such  medita- 
tion they  rest  in  peace  and  have  gladness  of 
heart,  as  those  who  -sing.  A  bird,  however, 
sometimes  alighteth  down  .on  the  earth  to  seek 
his  food  for  the  need  of  the  flesh ;  but  while  he 
sits  on  the  ground  he  is  never  secure,  and  is 
often  turning  himself,  and  always  looking  cau- 
tiously around.  Even  so,  the  pious  recluse, 
though  she  fly  ever  so  high,  must  at  times  alight 
down  to  the  earth  in  respect  of  her  body — and 
eat,  drink,  sleep,  work,  speak,  and  hear,  when 
it  is  necessary,  of  earthly  things.  But  then, 
as  the  bird  doth,  she  must  look  well  to  herself, 
and  turn  her  eyes  on  every  side,  lest  she  be  de- 
ceived, and  be  caught  in  some  of  the  devil's 
snares,  or  hurt  in  any  way,  while  she  sits  so 
low. 

"The  birds,"  saith  our  Lord,  "have  nests;  " 
"volucres  crli  habent  nidos."  A  nest  is  hard 
on  the  outside  with  pricking  thorns,  and  is 
delicate  and  soft  \^ithin;  even  so  shall  a  re- 
cluse endure  hard  and  pricking  thorns  in  the 
flesh;  yet  so  prudently  shall  she  subdue  the 
flesh  by  labour,  that  she  may  say  with  the 
Psalmist:  "  Fortitudinem  meam  ad  te  custo- 
diam;"  that  is,  "I  will  keep  my  strength,  O 
Lord,  to  thy  behoof;  "  and  therefore  the  pains 
of  the  flesh  are  proportioned  to  every  one's 
case.  The  nest  shall  be  hard  without  and  soft 
within;  and  the  heart  sweet.  They  who  are  of 
a  bitter  or  hard  heart,  and  indulgent  towards 
their  flesh,  make  their  nest,  on  the  contrary, 
soft  without  and  thorny  within.  These  are  the 
discontented  and  fastidious  anchoresses;  bitter 
within,  when  they  ought  to  be  sweet;  and  deli- 
cate without,  when  they  ought  to  be  hard. 
These,  in  such  a  nest,  may  have  hard  rest,  when 


34 


ANGLO-NORMAN  PERIOD 


they  consider  well.  For,  from  such  a  nest,  they 
will  too  late  bring  forth  young  birds,  which 
are  good  works,  that  they  may  fly  toward 
heaven.  Job  calleth  a  religious  house  a  nest; 
and  saith,  as  if  he  were  a  recluse:  "In  nidulo 
meo  moriar;"  that  is,  "I  shall  die  in  my  nest, 
and  be  as  dead  therein ; ' '  for  this  relates  to 
anchorites;  and,  to  dwell  therein  until  she  die; 
that  is,  I  will  never  cease,  while  my  soul  is  in 
my  body,  to  endure  things  hard  outwardly,  as 
the  nest  is,  and  to  be  soft  within. 

Hear  now,  as  I  promised,  many  kinds  of  com- 
fort against  all  temptations,  and,  with  God's 
grace,  thereafter  the  remedies. 

Whosoever  leadeth  a  life  of  exemplary  piety 
may  be  certain  of  being  tempted.  This  is  the 
first  comfort.  For  the  higher  the  tower  is,  it 
hath  always  the  more  wind.  Ye  yourselves  are 
the  towers,  my  dear  sisters,  but  fear  not  while 
ye  are  so  truly  and  firmly  cemented  all  of  you 
to  one  another  with  the  lime  of  sisterly  love. 
Ye  need  not  fear  any  devil's  blast,  except  the 
lime  fail;  that  is  to  say,  except  your  love  for 
each  other  be  impaired  through  the  enemy.  As 
soon  as  any  of  you  undoeth  her  cement,  she  is 
soon  swept  forth;  if  the  other  do  not  hold  her 
she  is  soon  cast  down,  as  a  loose  stone  is  from 
the  coping  of  the  tower,  down  into  the  deep 
pitch  of  some  foul  sin. 

Here  is  another  encouragement  which  ought 
greatly  to  comfort  you  when  ye  are  tempted. 
The  tower  is  not  attacked,  nor  the  castle,  nor 
the  city,  after  they  are  taken;  even  so  the  war- 
rior of  hell  attacks,  with  temptation,  none 
whom  he  hath  in  his  hand;  but  he  attacketh 
those  whom  he  hath  not.  Wherefore,  dear  sis- 
ters, she  who  is  not  attacked  may  fear  much 
lest  she  be  already  taken.     .     . 

The  sixth  comfort  is,  that  our  Lord,  when  He 
suffereth  us  to  be  tempted,  playeth  with  us, 
as  the  mother  with  her  young  darling:  she  flies 
from  him,  and  hides  herself,  and  lets  him  sit 
alone,  and  look  anxiously  around,  and  call 
Dame!  dame!  and  weep  a  while,  and  then  leap- 
eth  forth  laughing,  with  outspread  arms,  and 
embraceth  and  kisseth  him,  and  wipeth  his 
eyes.  In  like  manner,  our  Lord  sometimes  leav- 
eth  us  alone,  and  withdraweth  His  grace.  His 
comfort,  and  His  support,  so  that  we  feel  no 
delight  in  any  good  that  we  do,  nor  any  satis- 
faction of  heart;  and  yet,  at  that  very  time, 
our  dear  Father  loveth  us  never  the  less,  but 
does  it  for  the  great  love  that  He  hath  to  us. 

Ye  shall  not  possess  any  beast,  my  dear  sis- 
ters, except  only  a  cat.    An  anchoress  that  hath 


cattle  appears  as  Martha  was,"  a  better  house- 
wife than  anchoress;  nor  can  she  in  any  wise 
be  Mary,  with  peacefulness  of  heart.  For  then 
she  must  think  of  the  cow's  fodder,  and  of  the 
herdsman's  hire,  flatter  the  heyward,i  defend 
herself  when  her  cattle  is  shut  up  in  the  pin- 
fold, and  moreover  pay  the  damage.  Christ 
knoweth,  it  is  an  odious  thing  when  people  in 
the  town  complain  of  anchoresses'  cattle.  If, 
however,  any  one  must  needs  have  a  cow,  let 
her  take  care  that  she  neither  annoy  nor  harm 
any  one,  and  that  her  own  thoughts  be  not 
fixed  thereon.  An  anchoress  ought  not  to  have 
any  thing  that  draweth  her  heart  outward. 
Carry  ye  on  no  traffic.  An  anchoress  that  is  a 
buyer  and  seller  selleth  her  soul  to  the  chapman 
of  hell.  Do  not  take  charge  of  other  men's 
property  in  your  house,  nor  of  their  cattle,  nor 
their  clothes,  neither  receive  under  your  care 
the  church  vestments,  nor  the  chalice,  unless 
force  compel  you,  or  great  fear,  for  oftentimes 
much  harm  has  come  from  such  care-taking. 

Because  no  man  seeth  you,  nor  do  ye  see  any 
man,  ye  may  be  well  content  with  your  clothes, 
be  they  white,  be  they  black;  only  see  that  they 
be  plain,  and  warm,  and  well  made — skins  well 
tawed ;  2  and  have  as  many  as  you  need,  for 
bed,  and  also  for  back.  Next  your  flesh  ye  shall 
wear  no  flaxen  cloth,  except  it  be  of  hardss  and 
of  coarse  canvass.  Whoso  will  may  have  a 
starain,4  and  whoso  will  may  be  without  it.  Ye 
shall  sleep  in  a  garment  and  girt.  Wear  no 
iron,  nor  haircloth,  nor  hedgehog-skins;  and  do 
not  beat  yourselves  therewith,  nor  with  a 
scourge  of  leather  thongs,  nor  leaded;  and  do 
not  with  holly  nor  with  briars  cause  yourselves 
to  bleed  without  leave  of  your  confessor;  and 
do  not,  at  one  time,  use  too  many  flagellations. 
Let  your  shoes  be  thick  and  warm.  In  summer 
ye  are' at  liberty  to  go  and  sit  barefoot,  and  to 
wear  hose  without  vamps,5  and  whoso  liketh 
may  lie  in  them.  A  woman  may  well  enough 
wear  an  undersuit  of  haircloth  very  well  tietl 
with  the  strapples  reaching  down  to  her  feet, 
laced  tightly.  If  ye  would  dispense  with  wim- 
ples, have  warm  capes,  and  over  them  black 
veils.  She  who  wishes  to  be  seen,  it  is  no  great 
wonder  though  she  adorn  herself;  but,  in  the 
eyes  of  God,  she  is  more  lovely  who  is  un- 
adorned outwardly  for  his  sake.  Have  neither 
ring,  nor  broach,  nor  ornamented  girdle,  nor 
gloves,  nor  any  such  thing  that  is  not  proper 
for  you  to  have. 


1  A  cattle-keeper  on  a  common. 

2  Prepared  with  oil,  or  without  tan-Ilquor. 
s  The  coarser  parts  of  flax  or  hemp. 

*  A  shirt  of  linsey-woolsey, 
s  gaiters 


PROVERBS  OF  KING  ALFRED 


In  this  book  read  every  daj,  when  ye  are  at 
leisure, — every  day,  less  or  more;  for  I  hope 
that,  if  ye  read  it  often,  it  will  be  very  bene- 
ficial to  you,  through  the  grace  of  God,  or  else 
I  shall  have  ill  employed  much  of  my  time. 
God  knows,  it  would  be  more  agreeable  to  me 
to  set  out  on  a  journey  to  Rome,  than  to  begin 
to  do  it  again.  And,  if  ye  find  that  ye  do  ac- 
cording to  what  ye  read,  thank  God  earnestly; 
and  if  ye  do  not,  pray  for  the  grace  of  God, 
and  diligently  endeavour  that  ye  may  keep  it 
better,  in  every  point,  according  to  your  abil- 
ity. May  the  Father,  and  the  Son,  and  the 
Holy  Ghost,  the  one  Almighty  God,  keep  you 
under  his  protection!  May  he  give  you  joy 
and  comfort,  my  dear  sisters,  and  for  all  that 
ye  endure  and  suffer  for  him  may  he  never 
give  you  a  less  reward  than  his  entire  self. 
May  he  be  ever  exalted  from  world  to  world, 
for  ever  and  ever,  Amen. 

As  often  as  ye  read  any  thing  in  this  book, 
greet  the  Lady  with  an  Ave  Mary  for  him  that 
made  this  rule,  and  for  him  who  wrote  it,  and 
took  pains  about  it.  Moderate  enough  I  am, 
who  ask  so  little. 

PROVERBS  OF  KING  ALFRED* 

1 

Many  thanes  sat  at  Seaford, 
many   bishops,  book-learned   men, 
many  proud  earls,  knights  every  one. 
There  was  Earl  ^Ifric,  wise  in  the  law; 
Alfred  also,  England's  guardian, 
England 's  darling,  England  's  king. 
He  began,  as  ye  may  hear, 
to  teach  them  how  to  lead  their  lives. 
He  was  king,  and  he  was  clerk  ;i 
well  he  loved  the  Lord's  work;  10 

wise  in  word  and  cautious  in  deed, 
he  was  the  wisest  man  in  England. 
2 

Thus  quoth  Alfred,  England's  comfort: 
"Would  ye,  my  people,  give  ear  to  your  lord, 
he  would  direct  you  wisely  in  all  things, 
how  ye  might  win  to  worldly  honour 
and  also  unite  your  souls  with  Christ." 
3 

Wise  were  the  words  King  Alfred  spake. 
"Humbly  I  redes  you,  my  dear  friends, 
poor  and  rich,  all  you  my  people,  20 

that  ye  all  fear  Christ  the  Lord, 

1  scholar  2  counsel 

•  The  proverbs  here  translated  from  Middle  Eng- 
lish, some  of  them  plainly  Biblical,  were  popu- 
larly ascribed  to  King  Alfred  and  were  sup- 
posed to  have  Jjeen  delivered  by  him  to  his 
Witenagemot  at  Seaford.     See  Etig.  Lit.,  p.  38. 


love  him  and  please  him,  the  Lord  of  Life. 
He  is  alone  good,  above  all  goodness ; 
He  is  alone  wise,  above  all  wisdom; 
He  is  alone  blissful,  above  all  bliss; 
He  is  alone  man's  mildest  Master; 
He  is  alone  our  Father  and  Comfort "    .    . 
4 
Thus  quoth  Alfred: 
' '  The  earl  and  the  lord 
that  heeds  the  king's  word 
shall  rule  o'er  his  land 
with  righteous  hand; 
and  the  clerk  and  the  knight 
shall  give  judgment  aright, 
to  poor  or  to  rich  80 

it  skilleths  not  which. 
For  whatso  men  sow, 
the  same  shall  they  mow, 
and  every  man's  doom 
to  his  own  door  come. "    .     . 

12 

Thus  quoth  Alfred: 
"Small  trust  may  be 
in  the  flowing  sea. 
Though  thou  hast  treasure 
enough  and  to  spare, 

both  gold  and  silver,  200 

to  nought  it  shall  wear; 
to  dust  it  shall  drive, 
as  God  is  alive. 
Many  a  man  for  his  gold 
God's  wrath  shall  behold, 
and  shall  be  for  his  silver 
forgot  and  forlorn. 
It  were  better  for  him 
he  had  never  been  bom."    .    , 
14 

Thus  quoth  Alfred: 
"If  thou  hast  sorrow, 
tell  it  not  to  thy  foe; 
tell  it  to  thy  saddle-bow 

and  ride  singing  forth.  230 

So  will  he  think, 
who  knows  not  thy  stat^ 
that  not  unpleasing 
to  thee  is  thy  fate. 
If  thou  hast  a  sorrow 
and  he  knoweth  it, 
before  thee"  he  11  pity, 
behind  thee  will  twit. 
Thou  mightest  betray  it 
to  such  a  one 

as  would  without  pity  240 

thou  madest  more  moan. 
Hide  it  deep  in  thy  heart 

3  matters 


36 


ANGLO-NORMAN  PERIOD 


that  it  leave  no  smart; 
nor  let  it  be  guessed 
what  is  hid  in  thy  breast."     . 
22 
Thus  quoth  Alfred: 
"Boast  shouldst  thou  not, 
nor  chide  with  a  sot; 
nor  foolishly  chatter 
and  idle  tales  scatter 
at  the  freeman 's  board. 
Be  chary  of  word. 
The  wise  man  can  store 
few  words  with  great  lore. 
Soon  shot's  the  fool's  bolt; 
whence  I  count  him  a  dolt 
who  saith  all  his  will 
when  he  should  keep  still. 
For  oft  tongue  breaketh  bone, 
though  herself  has  none." 

CUCKOO  SONG  (c.  1250)* 

Summer  is  y-comen  in, 
Loudly  sing  Cuckoo ! 
Groweth  seed  and  bloweth  mead 


410 


420 


And  springeth  wood  anew. 
Sing   Cuckoo! 

Loweth  after  calf  the  cow, 

Bleateth  after  lamb  the  ewe, 
Buck   doth    gambol,   bullock   amble, — 

Merry  sing  Cuckoo! 

Cuckoo,  Cuckoo!  Well  singest  thou 

Cuckoo!  nor  cease  thou  ever  now. 

(Foot) 
Sing  Cuckoo  now,  sing  Cuckoo. 
Sing  Cuckoo,  sing  Cuckoo  now. 

•  See  Eng.  Lit.,  p.  42,  for  the  Middle  English,  which 
is  here  somewhat  modernized.  The  song  was 
set  to  music,  and  the  manuscript  which  con- 
tains the  music  adds  the  following  directions, 
in  Latin :  "This  part-song  (rota)  may  be 
sung  by  four  in  company.  It  should  not  be 
sung  by  fewer  than  three,  or  at  least  two,  in 
addition  to  those  who  sing  the  Foot.  And  it 
should  be  sung  in  this  manner :  One  begins, 
accompanied  by  those  who  sing  the  Foot,  the 
rest  keeping  silent.  Then,  when  he  has 
reached  the  first  note  after  the  cross  [a  mark 
on  the  musical  score],  another  begins;  and 
so  on.  The  first  line  of  the  Foot  one  singer 
repeats  as  often  as  necessary,  pausing  at  the 
end ;  the  other  line  another  man  sings,  paus- 
ing in  the  middle  but  not  at  the  end,  but  im- 
mediately beginning  again." 


FOURTEENTH  CENTURY-AGE  OF  CHAUCER 


12 


From  THE  PEARL  (c  1350)* 


O  pearl,  for  princes'  pleasure  wrought, 

In  lucent  gold  deftly  to  set, 
Never  from  orient  realms  was  brought 

Its  peer  in  price,  I  dare  say,  yet. 
So  beautiful,  so  fresh,  so  round, 

So  smooth  its  sides,  so  slender  shown. 
Whatever  gems  to  judge  be  found 

I  needs  must  set  it  apart,  alone. 
But  it  is  lost!     I  let  it  stray 

Down  thro'  the  grass  in  an  arbor-plot. 
With  love's  pain  now  I  pine  away, 

Lorn  of  my  pearl  without  a  spot. 
2 

Since  in  that  spot  it  slipt  from  my  hand, 

Oft  have  I  lingered  there  and  yearned 
For  joy  that  once  my  sorrows  banned 

And  all  my  woes  to  rapture  turned. 
Truly  my  heart  with  grief  is  wrung, 

And  in  my  breast  there  dwelleth  dole; 
Yet  never  song,  methought,  was  sung 

So  sweet  as  through  that  stillness  stole. 
0  tide  of  fancies  I  could  not  stem! 

0  fair  hue  fouled  with  stain  and  blot! 
0  mould,  thou  marrest  a  lovely  gem. 

Mine  own,  own  pearl  without  a  spot.    .    .   24 

i* This  anonymous  poem  is  allegorical :  possibly  the 
"pearl"  is  the  poet's  daughter  (Eng.  Lit.,  44). 
The  selection  here  given  is  translated,  because 
the  West  Midland  dialect  of  the  original  pre- 
sents more  difficulties  than  the  East  Midland  of 
Chaucer.  The  whole  is  a  very  interesting 
piece  of  construction,  combining  the  Romance 
elements  of  meter  and  rhyme,  as  employed  by 
Chaucer,  with  the  old  Saxon  alliteration 
which  the  West  Midland  poets,  like  Langland, 
affected.  Note  also  the  refrain-like  effects. 
In  this  translation,  the  exacting  rhyme- 
scheme  of  the  original,  which  permits  but 
three  rhyme  sounds  in  a  stanza,  has  been  ad- 
hered to  in  the  last  three  stanzas  only.  The 
first  stanza  of  the  original  runs  thus  : 

Perle  plesaunte  to  prynces  paye. 
To  clanly  clos  in  golde  so  clere. 

Out  of  oryent  I  hardyly  saye, 

Ne  proved  I  never  her  precios  pere, — 

So  rounde,  so  reken  in  uche  a  raye. 
So  smal,  so  smothe  her  sydez  were, — 

Queresoever  I  jugged  gemmez  gaye, 
I  sette  hyr  sengeley  in  synglere. 

Alias  I   I  leste  hyr  in  on  erbere ; 

Thurgh  gresse  to  grounde  hit  fro  me  yot ; 

1  dewyne  for-dokked  of  luf-daungere, 
Of  that  pryvy  perle  wlthouten  spot. 


48 


Once  to  that  spot  I  took  my  way 

And  passed  within  the  arbor  green. 
It  was  mid-August's  festal  day. 

When  the  corn  is  cut  with  sickles  keen. 
The  mound  that  did  my  pearl  embower 

With  fair  bright  herbage  was  o'erhung. 
Ginger  and  gromwell  and  gillyflower. 

And  peonies  sprinkled  all  among. 
Yet  if  that  sight  was  good  to  see, 

Goodlier  the  fragrance  there  begot 
Where  dwells  that  one  so  dear  to  me, 

My  precious  pearl  without  a  spot. 
5 
Then  on  that  spot  my  hands  I  wrung, 

For  I  felt  the  touch  of  a  deadly  chill, 
And  riotous  grief  in  my  bosom  sprung, 

Tho '  reason  would  have  curbed  my  will. 
I  wailed  for  my  pearl  there  hid  away, 

While  fiercely  warred  my  doubts  withal. 
But  tho'  Christ  showed  where  comfort  lay, 

My  will  was  still  my  sorrow's  thrall. 
I  flung  me  down  on  that  flowery  mound, 

When  so  on  my  brain  the  fragrance  wrought 
I  sank  into  a  sleep  profound. 

Above  that  pearl  without  a  spot. 
6 
Then  from  that  spot  my  spirit  soared. 

My  senses  locked  in  slumber's  spell, 
ily  soul,  by  grace  of  God  outpoured. 

Went  questing  where  his  marvels  dwell, 
I  know  not  where  that  place  may  be, 

I  know   'twas  by  high  cliffs  immured. 
And  that  a  forest  fronted  me 

Whose  radiant  slopes  my  steps  allured. 
Such  splendor  scarce  might  one  believe — 

The  goodly  glory  wherewith  they  shone ; 
No  web  that  mortal  hands  may  weave  "iil 

Has  e  'er  such  wondrous  beauty  known.      .     . 
9 
Yes,  beautiful  beyond  compare, 

The  vision  of  that  forest-range 
Wherein  my  fortune  bade  me  fare — 

No  tongue  could  say  how  fair,  how  strange. 
I  wandered  on  as  one  entranced, 

No  bank  so  steep  as  to  make  me  cower; 
And  the  farther  I  went  the  brighter  danced 

The  light  on  grass  and  tree  and  flower. 


60 


37 


38 


FOURTEENTH  CENTUEY 


Hedge-rows  there  were,  and  paths,  and  streams 

Whose  banks  were  as  fine  threads  of  gold. 
And   1   stood  on  the  strand  and  watched  the 
gleams 

Of  one  mat  downward  in  beauty  rolled.     108 
10 
Dear  Lord,  the  beauty  of  that  fair  burn! 

Its  berylline  banks  were  bright  as  day, 
And  singing  sweetly  at  every  turn 

The  murmuring  waters  took  their  way. 
On  the  bottom  were  stones  a-shimmer  with  light 

As  gleams  through  glass  that  waver  and  leap, 
Or  as  twinkling  stars  on  a  winter  night 

That  watch  in  heaven  while  tired  men  sleep. 
For  every  pebble  there  that  laved 

Seemed  like  a  rare  and  radiant  gem; 
Each  pool  was  as  with  sapphires  paved,  119 

So  lustrous  shone  the  beauty  of  them.     .     . 
13 
Then  longing  seized  me  to  explore 

The  farther  margin  of  that  stream, 
For  fair  as  was  the  hither  shore 

Far  fairer  did  the  other  seem. 
About  me  earnestly  I  sought 

To  find  some  way  to  win  across, 
But  all  my  seeking  availed  me  nought; 

There  was  no  ford;  1  stood  at  loss. 
Methought  I  must  not  daunted  dwell 

In  sight  of  such  a  blissful  goal, 
When  lo,  a  strange  thing  there  befell  155 

That  still  more  deeply  stirred  my  soul. 
14 
More  wonder  still  my  soul  to  daze! 

I  saw  beyond  that  lowly  stream 
A  crystal  cliff  refulgent  raise 

Its  regal  height,  and,  dazzling,  gleam. 
And  at  its  foot  there  sat  a  child, 

A  gracious  maid,  and  debonair. 
All  in  a  white  robe  undefiled — 

Well  had  I  known  her  otherwhere. 
As  glistening  gold  men  use  to  spin, 

So  shone  that  glory  the  cliff  before. 
Long  did  I  drink  her  beauty  in,  167 

And  longed  to  call  to  her  ever  more.     .     . 

16 

But  more  than  my  longing  was  now  my  fright; 

I  stood  quite  still ;  I  durst  not  call ; 
With  eyes  wide  open  and  lips  shut  tight, 

I  stood  as  quiet  as  hawk  in  hall. 
I  weened  it  was  some  spectral  shape, 

I  dreaded  to  think  what  should  ensue 
If  I  should  call  her  and  she  escape 

And  leave  me  only  my  plight  to  nic. 
When  lo,  that  gracious,  spotless  may,i 

So  delicate,  so  soft,  so  slight, 

1  maid 


Uprose  in  all  her  queenly  array, 

A  priceless  thing  in  pearls  bedight.  192 

17 
Pearl-dight  in  royal  wise,  perdie. 

One  might  by  grace  have  seen  her  there, 
When  all  as  fresh  as  a  fleur-de-lys 

Adown  the  margent  stepped  that  fair. 
Her  robe  was  white  as  gleaming  snow, 

Unclasped  at  the  sides  and  closely  set 
With  the  loveliest  margarites,  I  trow, 

That  ever  my  eyes  looked  on  yet. 
Her  sleeves  were  broad  and  full,  I  ween, 

With  double  braid  of  pearls  made  bright. 
Her  kirtle  shone  with  as  goodly  sheen,  203 

With  pretdous  pearls  no  less  bedight.     .     . 
20 
Pearl-dight,  that  nature's  masterpiece 

Came  down  the  margent,  stepping  slow; 
No  gladder  man  from  here  to  Greece 

When  by  the  stream  she  stood,  I  trow. 
More  near  of  kin  than  aunt  or  niece. 

She  made  my  gladness  overflow; 
She  proffered  me  speech — Oh  heart's  release!  — 

In  womanly  fashion  bending  low; 
Caught  off  her  crown  of  queenly  show 

Aud  welcomed  me  as  a  maiden  might. 
Ah  well  that  I  was  born  to  know  239 

And  greet  that  sweet  one  pearl-bedight ! 
21 
"O  pearl,"  quoth  I,  "all  pearl-bedight, 

Art  thou  my  Pearl,  the  Pearl  1  mourn 
And  long  for  through  the  lonely  night? 

In  weariness  my  days  have  worn 
Since  thou  in  the  grass  didst  slip  from  sight. 

Pensive  am  I,  heart-sick,  forlorn, — 
While  thou  hast  won  to  pure  delight 

In  Paradise,  of  sorrow  shorn. 
What  fate  has  hither  my  jewel  borne 

And  left  me  beggared  to  moan  and  cryf 
For  since  we  twain  asunder  were  torn, 

A  joyless  jeweler  am  I."  252 

22 
That  jewel  then,  with  gems  o  'erspread. 

Upturned  her  face  and  her  eyes  gray. 
Replaced  the  crown  upon  her  head. 

And  thus  my  longing  did  allay: 
"Oh,  sir,  thou  hast  thy  tale  misread 

To  say  thy  pearl  is  stolen  away, 
That  is  so  safely  easketed 

Here  in  this  garden  bright  and  gay. 
Herein  forever  to  dwell  and  play 

Where  comes  not  sin  nor  sorrow's  blight. 
Such  treasury  2  wouldst  thou  choose,  parfay, 

Didst  thou  thy  jewel  love  aright. "  *  264 

2  Compare  Matthew  vl,  21. 

*  A    lonR    religions    dlssertntion    follows    and    the 
dreamer  awakes  consoled. 


WILLIAM  LANGLAND 


39 


WILLIAM  LANGLAND  ? 
(I332M400) 

THE  VISION  OF  PIERS  THE  PLOWMAN.* 

From  the  Prologue. 

In  a  somer  seson,  whan  soft  was  the  Sonne, 
I  shopei  me  in  shroudesz  as  I  a  shepea  were, 
In  habite  as  an  heremite  unholy  of  workes,< 
Went  wyde5  in  this  world  wondres  to  here. 
Ac6  on  a  May  mornynge,  on  Malverne  hulles,^ 
Me  byfel  a  ferly,8  of  fairy,9  me  thoughte; 
I  was  wery  forwandredio  and  went  me  to  reste 
Under  a  brode  banke  bi  a  bornesn  side,  8 

And    as    I    lay   and    lened    and    loked    in   the 

wateres, 
I  slombred  in  a  slepyng,  it  sweyvedi2  so  merye. 
Thanne    gan    I    to    metenis    a    merveilouse 

swevene,!* 
That    I    was    in    a    wildernesse,    wist    I    never 

where ; 
As   I   bihelde   into   the   est   an   hiegh   toi'   the 

Sonne, 
I    seighis    a    tourei^    on    a    toftis    trieliehi» 

ymaked ; 
A  depe  dale  binethe,  a  dongeonzo  there-inne, 
With   depe   dyches  and  derke   and   dredful   of 

sight.  16 

A   faire    felde   ful    of   folkezi    fonde    I   there 

bytwene, 
Of  alle  maner  of  men,  the  mene  and  the  riche, 
Worchyng  and  wandryng  as  the  worlde  asketh. 
Some    putten    hem22    to    the    plow,    pleyed    ful 

selde, 
In   settyng23   and    in    sowyng    swonkenz*    ful 

harde. 
And  wonnen  that   wastours  with   glotonye  de- 

struyeth.25  22 


1  arrayed  i7  The   tower  of  Truth, 

a  rough   garments  abode    of    God    the 

s  shepherd  Father. 

4  not  spiritual  is  elevated  place 

6  abroad  i9  cunningly 

«  but  20  The  "castel  of  care," 

I  hills  abode  of  Falsehood 

•  wonder  (Lucifer). 
»  enchantment                     21  The  world. 
10  weary  from  wandering  22  them  (selves) 

II  brook's  23  planting 
12  sounded                            24  toiled 

18  to  dream  25  and   won    that   which 

14  dream  wasteful     men     ex- 

15  on  high  toward  pend  in  gluttony. 
18  saw 

•  In  this  long  allegorical  poem,  the  poet  with  the 

daring  of  a  reformer  attacks  what  he  thinks 
to  be  the  abuses  in  church,  state,  and  society. 
The  prologue,  of  which  the  first  82  lines  are 
here  given,  sets  the  key-note  of  the  poem  by  a 
description  of  the  suffering,  weakness,  and 
crimes  of  the  world  as  seen  by  the  poet  In  a 
vision.  Then  in  Passus  (Chapter)  I,  of  which 
a  few  lines  are  given,  the  poet  begins  his 
narrative  interpretation  of  his  vision.  Our 
text  is  the  B-text  as  printed  by  Dr.  Skeat. 


And  some  putten  hem  to  pruyde,  apparailed 

hem  there-after, 
In  contenaunce  of  elothyng  comen  disgised.29 
In    prayers    and    in    penance    putten    hem 

manye, 
Al  for  love  of  owre  lorde  lyveden  ful  streyte,27 
In  hope  forto  have  herenriche28  blisse; 
As  ancres29  and  heremites  that  holden  hem  in 

here33  selles, 
.\nd    coveiten    nought    in    contre    to    kairen^o 

aboute. 
For   no    likerousai    liflode32    herss   lykam34   to 

plese.  30 

And  somme  chosen  chaffare;35  they  chevense 

the  bettere, 
As  it   semeth   to   owre  syght   that   suche  men 

thrjrveth ; 
And  somme  murthesST  to  make  as  mynstralles 

conneth,38 
And    geten    gold    with    heresa    glee,    giltles,    I 

leve.39 
Ae  iapers40  and  iangelers,*!  ludas  chylderen, 
Feynen  hem42  fantasies  and  foles  hem  maketh, 
And  ban  here  witte  at  wille  to  worche,  yif  thei 

sholde ; 
That    Poule    precheth    of    hem    I    nel    nought 

preve  it  here; 
Qui  turpiloquium  loquitur  is  luciferes  hyne.4» 
Bidders44  and  beggeres  fast  aboute  yede,45 
With  her  belies  and  her  bagges  of  bred   ful 

ycrammed ;  41 

Fayteden46  for  here  fode,  foughten  atte  ale;47 
In  glotonye,  god  it  wote,48  gon  hij49  to  bedde. 
And     risen     with     ribaudyeso     tho     roberdes 

knaves;  51 
Slepe  and  sori  sleuthe52  seweth53  hem  evre.s* 
Pilgrymes  and  palmers^s  plighted  hem  togidere 
To  seke  seynt  lamesss  and  seyntes  in  Rome. 
Thei  went  forth  in  here  wey  with  many  wise 

tales, 
And  hadden  leve  to  lye  al  here  lyf  after. 
I   seigh  somme  that  seiden  thei  had  ysought 

seyntes : 


26  came  strangely  garbed 
2T  strictly 

28  of     the     kingdom     of 

heaven 

29  anchorites 

30  wander 

31  delicate 

32  livelihood,  living 

33  their 

34  body 

35  trade 

36  succeed 

37  mirth 

38  know  how 

39  believe 

40  Jesters 

41  chatterers 

42  Invent  for  themselves 

43  what    Paul     preaches 

about   them   I    will 


not  show  here,  "for 
he  who  speaks 
slander  is  Luci- 
fer's servant." 

44  beggars 

45  went 

46  cheated 

47  fought  at  the  ale 

48  knows 

49  they 

50  ribaldry 

51  those  robber  villains 

52  sloth 

53  pursue 

54  ever 

53  Palmers  made  it  their 
regular  business  to 
visit  shrines. 

56  A  shrine  at  Compos- 
tella  in  Galicia. 


40 


FOUETEENTH  CENTURY 


To  eche  a^^  tale  that  the!  tolde  here  tonge  was 

tempred  to  lye  51 

More  than  to  sey  sothss  it  semed  bi  here  speche. 

Heremites  onso  an  beep,  with  hoked  staves, 
Wenten    to    Walsyngham,*    and    here    wenches 

af  ter8o ; 
Grete  lobyessi   and  longe,62  that  loth  were  to 

8wynke,«3 
Clotheden  hem  in  copiss*  to  ben  knowen  fram 

othere; 
And  shopen  hem^o  heremites  here  ese  to  have. 
I  fonde  there  Freris,  alle  the  foure  ordres,e6 
Preched  the  peple  for  profit  of  hem-selven, 
Glosed«7  the  gospel  as  hem  good  lyked,68       60 
For   coveitise69    of   copis   construed   it  as   thei 

wolde. 
Many  of  this  maistres  Freris^o  mowe^i  clothen 

hem  at  lykyng, 
For    here    money    and    marchandise    marchen 

togideres. 
For  sith'^z  charite  hath  be  chapman'3  and  chief 

to  shryve  lordes,t 
Many  ferlis^*  han  fallen  in  a  fewe  yerisjs 
But^s  holychirche  and  hij  holde  better  togideres, 
The  most  myschief  on  molde^^  is  mountyng  wel 

faste.Ts 
There  preched  a  Pardonere^a  as  he  a  prest 

were, 
Broughte  forth  a  bulleso  with  bishopes  seles, 
And    seide    that    hym-self    myghte    assoilensi 

hem  alle 
Of  falshed  of  fastyng,82  of  vowes  ybroken.      71 
Lewed83  men  leveds*  hym  wel  and  lyked  his 

wordes, 
Comen  up  knelyng  to  kissen  his  bulles; 
He  bonchedss  hem  with  his  brevets^  and  blered 

here  eyes, 


fi7  at  every 

68  truth 

69  In 

60  in  their  train 
81  lubbers 

62  tall 

63  toil 

64  friars'  capes 


72  since 

73  nedlar 
74tponders 

75  years 

76  unless 

77  earth 

78  will    increase    rapidly 
78  One   commissioned   to 


68  arrayed  themselves  as  grant  pardons. 

66  Dominicans,    Francis-    so  a   Papal   mandate 

cans,        Carmelites,    8i  absolve 
Augustines  82  failure   in  fasting 

67  interpreted  83  Ignorant 

68  as  it  pleased  tb(  m         84  believed 

69  covetousness  85  struck 

70  these  master  friars        86  letter  of  indulgence 

71  may 

•  The  shrine  of  Our  Lady  of  Walslngham  (Nor- 
folk) was  almost  more  celebrated  than  that 
of  Thomas  a  Becket. 

t  So  worldly  were  the  friars  seeking  money  for 
bearing  confessions  and  peddling  their  wares, 
that  thoy  often  quarreled  with  the  priests  as 
to  which  should  hear  the  confession. 


And  raughte87  with  his  ragman^s  rynges  and 

broches ; 
Thus     they     geven     here     golde,     glotones     to 

kepe.     .     .     . 
Were  the  bischop  yblissedss  and  worth  bothe 

his  eres, 
His   seelso   shulde   nought   be   sent   to    deceyve 

the  peple. 
Ac  it  is  naught  by^i  the  bischop  that  the  boyos 

precheth,  80 

For    the    parisch     prest    and     the    pardonere 

parten03  the  silver, 
That  the  porailles^  of  the  parisch  sholde  have, 

yif   thei   nere.^s     .     .     . 

From  Passus  I. 

What  this  montaigne  bymeneth,i  and  the  merke 

dale, 
And  the   felde  ful  of  folke,   I  shal  yow   faire 

schewe. 
A  loveli  ladi  of  lere,2  in  lynnen  yclothed, 
Come  down  fram  a  castel  and  called  me  faire, 
And    seide,    'Sone,    slepestow,3    sestow*     this 

poeple. 
How  bisi  thei  ben  abouten  the  mases? 
The  moste  partie  of  this  poeple  that  passeth  on 

this  erthe, 
Have  thei  worschips  in  this  worlde,  thei  wilne 

no  better; 
Of  other  hevene  than  here  holde  thei  no  tale7, ' 
I  was  aferd  of  her  face  theighs  she  faire 

were,  l^ 

And   seide,  'Mercy,  Madame,  what  is  this  to 

mene  f  * 
'The  toure  up  the  toft,'  quod  she,  'Treuthe  is 

there-inne. 
And    wolde    that    ye    wroughte    as    his    worde 

techeth ; 
For  he  is  fader  of  feith,  fourmed  yow  alle, 
Bothe  with  fel»  and  with  face,  and  yafi"  yow 

fyve  wittis 
Forto  worschip  hym  ther-with  the  while  that  ye 

ben  here. 

87  got  82  1.  e.,  the  pardoner 

«8  bull      with  bishop's   93  divide 

seals  8*  poor 

80  righteous  "^  if  they  (the  pardoner 

00  seal  and  the  priest)   did 

91  not  against  not  exist 


1  means 

2  face 

a  sleepest  thou 

4  seest   thou 

6  confused   throng 


8  if  they  have  honor 

7  account 

8  though 

9  skin 

10  gave 


THE  WYCLIF  BIBLE 


41 


THE  WYCUF  BIBLE  (c  1380) 

Matthew    III.     The  Cojong   or  John   the 
Baptist. 

In  tho  daies  Joon  Baptist  cam  and  prechid 

in  the  desert  of  Judee,  and  seide,  Do  ve  pen- 
aunce,  for  the  kyngdom  of  hevenes  scbal  nygh. 
For  this  is  he  of  whom  it  is  seid  bi  Isaie  the 
profete,  seiynge,  A  vois  of  a  crier  in  desert, 
Make  ye  redi  the  weyes  of  the  Lord,  make  ye 
right  the  pathis  of  hym.  And  this  Joon  hadde 
clothing  of  camels  heria,  and  a  girdil  of  skyn 
aboute  his  leendis,  and  his  mete  was  bony 
sookisi  and  hony  of  the  wode.  Thanne  Jeru- 
salem wente  out  to  hym,  and  al  Judee,  and  al 
the  countre  aboute  Jordan,  and  thei  werun 
waischen  of  hym  in  Jordan,  and  knowlechiden 
her  sj-nnes. 

But  he  sigh  many  of  Farisies  and  of  Saducea 
comynge  to  his  baptem,  and  seide  to  hem,  Gen- 
eraciouns  of  eddris,2  who  schewid  to  you  to 
fle  fro  wrath  that  is  to  come?  Therfor  do  ye 
worthi  fruytis  of  penaunce.  And  nyle  ye  aeies 
with  ynne  you.  We  han  Abraham  to  fadir:  for 
I  seie  to  you  that  God  is  myghti  to  reise  up  of 
thes  stones  the  sones  of  Abraham.  And  now 
the  axe  is  putte  to  the  root  of  the  tre:  therfor 
every  tre  that  makith  not  good  fruyt  schal  be 
kutte  doun,  and  schal  be  cast  in  to  the  fire. 

I  waisch  you  in  watyr  in  to  penaunce:  but 
he  that  sebal  come  aftir  me  is  stronger  than 
I,  whos  schoon  I  am  not  worthi  to  bere:  he 
schal  baptise  you  in  the  Holi  Goost,  and  fier. 
Whos  wenewynge*  clooth  is  in  his  hond,  and 
he  schal  fulli  dense  his  corn  floor,  and  schal 
gadere  his  whete  in  to  Ms  beme;  but  the  chaf 
he  schal  brenne  with  fier  that  mai  not  be 
quaichid, 

Thanne  Jhesus  cam  fro  CfalUee  in  to  Jordan 
to  Joon,  to  be  baptisid  of  him.  Jon  forbede 
hym  and  seide,  I  owe  to  be  baptisid  of  thee, 
and  thou  comest  to  mef  But  Jhesus  answerid 
and  seide  to  hym,  SufEre  now:  for  thus  it  faU- 
ith  to  us  to  fulfille  alle  rightfulnesse.  Then 
Joon  suffrid  hym.  And  whanne  Jhesus  was 
baptisid,  anon  he  wente  up  fro  the  watir:  and 
lo,  hevenes  weren  opened  to  hym,  and  he  say 
the  spirit  of  God  comynge  doun  as  a  dowve, 
and  comynge  on  him.  And  lo,  a  vois  fro 
hevenes,  seiynge,  This  is  my  loved  sone,  in 
whiche  I  have  plesid  to  me.  (Punctuation  and 
capitalization  viodemized.) 

1  honev-SDckles   (Wj-clif,  translating  from  the  Vul- 

Eite,   evidently    mistook    the   meaning   of   the 
atln  locusta) 

2  adders 

3  will  not  ye   to  say 
«  winnowing 


THE  KING  JAMES  BIBLE  (1611) 

Matthew   IIL     The   Coming   of   John   the 
Baptist. 

In  those  daies  came  John  the  Baptist,  preach* 
ing  in  the  wildemesse  of  Judea,  and  saying, 
Bepent  yee:  for  the  Mngdome  of  heaven  is  at 
hand.  For  this  is  he  that  was  spoken  of  by  the 
Prophet  Esaias,  saying.  The  voyee  of  one  cry- 
ing in  the  wildemesse.  Prepare  ye  the  way  of 
the  Lord,  make  his  paths  straight.  And  the 
same  John  had  his  raiment  of  camels  haire, 
and  a  leatheme  girdle  about  his  loynes,  and  his 
meate  was  locusts  and  wUde  honie.  Then  went 
out  to  him  Hierusalem,  and  all  Judea,  and  all 
the  region  round  about  Jordane.  And  were 
baptized  of  him  in  Jordane,  confessing  their 
sinnes. 

But  when  he  saw  many  of  the  Pharisees  and 
Sadducees  come  to  his  Baptisme,  he  said  unto 
them,  O  generation  of  vipers,  who  hath  warned 
you  to  flee  from  the  wrath  to  comef  Bring 
forth  therefore  fruits  meete  for  repentance. 
And  thinke  not  to  say  within  yotir  selves,  Wee 
have  Abraham  to  owr  father:  For  I  say  unto 
you,  that  God  is  able  of  these  stones  to  raise 
up  children  unto  Abraham.  And  now  also  the 
axe  is  layd  unto  the  roote  of  the  trees:  There- 
fore every  tree  which  bringeth  not  foorth  good 
fruite,  is  hewen  downe,  and  east  into  the  fire. 

I  indeed  baptize  you  with  water  unto  re- 
pentance: but  he  that  commeth  after  mee,  is 
mightier  than  I,  whose  shooes  I  am  not  worthy 
to  beare,  hee  shall  baptize  you  with  the  holy 
Ghost,  and  with  fire.  Whose  fanne  is  in  his 
hand,  and  he  will  throughly  purge  his  floore, 
and  gather  his  wheate  into  the  gamer:  but  wU 
bume  up  the  chaffe  with  unquenchable  fire. 
Then  commeth  Jesus  from  Galilee  to  Jordane, 
unto  John,  to  be  baptized  of  him:  But  John 
forbade  him,  saying,  I  have  need  to  bee  bap- 
tized of  thee,  and  commest  thou  to  me? 

And  Jesus  answering,  said  unto  him,  Suffor 
it  to  be  so  now:  for  thus  it  becommeth  us  to 
fulfill  all  righteousnesse.  Then  he  suffered  him. 
And  Jesus,  wh«i  hee  was  baptized,  went  up 
straightway  out  of  the  water:  and  loe,  the 
heavens  were  opened  unto  him,  and  he  saw  the 
Spirit  of  God  descending  like  a  dove,  and  light- 
ing upon  him.  And  loe,  a  voice  from  heaven, 
saying,  This  is  my  beloved  Soone,  in  whom  I 
am  well  pleased.     (Verse  numbering  omitted.) 


42 


FOURTEENTH  CENTURY 


CHAUCER 'S  PRONUNCIATION 

along  =  a7i  as  in  father:  bathed  [bahth-ed]. 
a  ahoTt  =  ah  without  prolongation,  as  in  aha: 

at  [aht]. 
ai,ay  =  ah'ee  (nearly  equal  to  modern  long  i)  : 

day  [dah'ee]. 
au,aw=z  ah' 00   (nearly  equal  to  modern  ou  in 
house:  straunge  [strahwnje]. 

e  long=:ai  as  in  pair:  here  [beare]. 

e  short  =  e  as  in  ten:  hem   [hem]. 

e  final  =  e  (pronounced  as  a  very  light  sep- 
arate syllable,  like  the  final  e  in  the  Ger- 
man eine.  So  also  is  es  of  the  plural.) : 
soote  [sohtij].  It  is  regularly  elided  before 
a  following  vowel,  before  he,  his,  him,  hire 
(her),  here  (their),  hem  (them),  and  occa- 
sionally before  other  words  beginning 
with  h;  also  in  hire,  here,  oure,  etc. 

ea,ee  =  ouT  long  a;  eeJc  [ake]. 

€i,ey=ah'  ee  (or  our  long  i,  aye):  ivey  [wy]. 

eu,  e«;=:  French  u:  hewe  [hii-e]. 

t  long  =  ce  (nearly):  shires  [sheer-es]. 

i  short  =  i  in  pin:  with  [with]. 

0,  00  long  =  oa  in  oar:  roote  [nearly  rote]. 

o  short  ^0  in  not:  [not], 

oi,oy^=oo'ee  (near  equal  to  modern  oi): 
floytinge  [floiting]. 

ou,  ow  =  our  00  in  rood  in  words  that  in  Mod. 
Eng.  have  taken  the  sound  of  ou  in  loud: 
hous  [hoos]. 

ou,  ow  =  oh'  00  in  words  that  now  have  the 
o  sound:  soule,  Tcnowe  [sole,  knowe]. 

u  long  =  French  «  (found  only  in  French 
words):  vertu  [vehrtti]. 

■u  short  ==«  in  pull:  but  [boot]. 

c  =  k  before  a,  a,  u  or  any  consonant. 
==«  before  e,  i,  y. 

^  =  hard  in  words  not  of  French  origin. 
=  y  before  e,  i  in  words  of  French  origin. 

gh  =  Ich,  like  the  German  ch  in  nicht. 

h  initial  =  omitted  in  unaccented  he,  his,  him, 
hire,  hem. 

r  =  trilled. 

»=:  often  sharp  when  final. 
=  never  ah  or  eh  (vision  has  therefore  three 
syllables,  condicioun  four,  etc.). 

t  =  a8  at  present;  but  final  •tion  =  two  sylla- 
bles (si-oon). 

th  =  th  in  thin  or  th  in  this,  as  in  Mod.  Eng. 

10  =  sometimes  oo  as  in  herberw. 


The  following  may  serve  to  illustrate  the  ap- 
proximate pronunciation  of  a  few  lines,  with- 
out attempting  Mr.  Skeat's  finer  distinctions, 
such  as  vahyn  for  veyne,  etc.  Note  that  e  is  a 
separate  syllable  lightly  pronounced,  that  « 
equals  u  in  full,  and  ii  is  French  u. 

Whan  that  Ahpreelle  with  'is  shoores  sohte 
The   drookht   of   March   hath   persed   toh   the 

rohte, 
And  bahthed  evree  vyne  in  swich  lecoor 
Of  which  vertii  engendred  is  the  floor; 
Whan  ZephiruB  aik  with  'is  swaite  braith 
Inspeered  hath  in  evry  holt  and  haitb 
The  tendre  croopes,  and  the  yunge  sunne 
Hath  in  the  Ram   'is  halfe  coors  irunne, 
And  smahle  fooles  niakhen  melodeee 
That  slaipen  al  the  nikht  with  ohpen  eee, — 
So  priketh   'em  nahtur  in  her  corahges, — 
Than  longen  folk  toh  gohn  on  pilgrimahges. 
And  palmerz  for  toh  saiken  strahwnge  strondes, 
Toh  feme  halwes  kooth  in  sondree  londes; 
And  spesialee,  from  evree  sheeres  ende 
Of  Engelond,  toh  Cahwnterberee  thy  wende. 
The  hohlee  blisful  marteer  for  toh  saike, 
That    hem    hath    holpen    whan    that    thy    wair 

saike. 

CHAUCER'S  METRE 

A  large  part  of  Chaucer's  work  is  written  in 
heroic  couplets:  every  two  consecutive  lines 
rhyming,  and  each  line  containing  five  iambic 
feet,  that  is,  five  groups  of  two  syllables  each, 
with  the  accent  on  the  second  syllable  of  each 
foot;  e.  g. 
And  bath'|ed  eve'Iry  veyn'jin  swich' |li  cour'| 

An  extra  syllable  is  often  added  at  the  end 
of  the  line:  e.  g. 
Whan  that]  Apriljle  with]  his  8hou|res  80o|te    "^ 

Sometimes  the  first  foot  is  shortened  to  one 
long  syllable:  e.  g. 
Twen|ty  bo|kes  clad]  in  blak|  or  reed| 

THE  TEXT 

We  have  followed,  with  a  few  changes,  the 
text  of  The  Canterbury  Tales  printed  by  Dr. 
W.  W.  Skeat  in  the  Clarendon  Press  Series, 
which  is  based  on  the  Ellesmere  MS. 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 


43 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 
(1340?-1400)* 

FEOil   THE   CANTERBURY   TALES 
The  Peolooxje. 

Whan  thati  Aprille  with  his  shoures  sootes 
The  droghtes    of   Marche   hath  perced   to   the 

roote, 
And  bathed  every  veyne*  in  swich  licours, 
Of  which  vertu6  engendred  is  the  flour^; 
Whan  Zephiruss  eeks  with  his  swete  breeth 
Inspired  hath  in  every  holtio  and  heeth 
The  tendre  croppesn,  and  the  yonge  sonne 
Hath  in  the  Ram  his  halfe  cours  y-ronneia. 
And  smale  fowlesis  maken  melodye, 
That  slepen  al  the  night  with  open  yei*,  10 

(60  priketh  hem  i5  nature  in  hirie  coragesiT): 
Thanis  longen  i9  folk  to  goon  on  pilgrimages, 
And  palmers  for  to  sekenso  straunge  strondes2i. 
To  ferne22  halwesss,  couthe2i  in  sondry  londes; 
And  specially,  from  every  shires  ende 
Of  Engelond,  to  Caunterbury  they  wende, 
The  holy  blisful  martir25  for  to  seke, 
That  hem  hath  holpen,  whan  that  they  were 
seke28. 
Bifel  that,  in  that  sesoun  on  a  day. 
In  Southwerk  at  the  Tabard  27  as  I  lay  20 

Redy  to  wenden  on  my  pilgrimage 
To  Caunterbury  with  ful  devout  corage28, 
At  night  was  come  in-to  that  hostelrye 
Wel29  nyne  and  twenty  in  a  compaignye, 
Of  sondry  folk,  by  aventureso  y-fallesi 


plural 
"long". 


of 


14  eyes 

15  them 

16  their 

17  hearts 

18  then 

19  Indicative 

the  verb 

20  seek 

21  shores 

22  iJistant 

23  shrines 

24  known 

25  Thomas  a  Becket 

26  sick 

27  An  inn  (a  tabard  was 

a  short  coat). 

28  heart 

29  full 

30  chance 

31  fallen 


1  when 

2  sweet  showers 
8  drought 

4  vein 

5  such  sap 
«  power 

7  flower 

8  the  west-wind 

9  also 

10  wood 

11  shoots 

12  when   the   spring   sun 

has  passed  through 
the  second,  or 
April,  half  of  his 
course  in  that  con- 
stellation of  the 
zodiac  called  the 
Ram.  i.  e.,  about 
April    11 

13  birds 

*  "I  take  unceasing  delight  in  Chaucer.  How  ex- 
quisitely tender  he  is,  and  yet  how  perfectly 
free  from  the  least  touch  of  sickly  melancholy 
or  morbid  drooping !  The  sympathy  of  the 
poet  with  the  subjects  of  his  poetry  is  par- 
ticularly remarkable  in  Shakespeare  and 
Chaucer ;  but  what  the  first  effects  by  a  strong 
act  of  imagination  and  mental  metamorphosis, 
the  last  does  without  any  effort,  merely  by 
the  inborn  kindly  Joyousness  of  his  nature. 
How  well  we  seem  to  know  Chaucer ! 
absolutely  nothing  do  we  know  of  Shakes 
peare !" — Coleridge.  See  also  Dryden  "On 
Chaucer"  in  the  present  volume. 


In  felawshipe,  and  pilgrims  were  they  alle, 

That  toward  Caunterbury  wolden  ryde; 

The  chambres  and  the  stables  weren  wyde, 

And  wel  we  weren  e8ed32  atte  beste. 

And  shortly,  whan  the  sonne  was  to33  reste,    30 

So  hadde  I  spoken  with  hem  everichon34j 

That  I  was  of  hir  felawshipe  anon, 

And  made  forwards^  erly  for  to  ryse, 

To  take  our  wey,  ther  asss  I  yow  devyseST. 

But  natheles,  whyl  I  have  tyme  and  space, 
Er  that  I  ferther  in  this  tale  pace, 
Me  thinketh  it  acordaunt  38  to  resoun. 
To  telle  yow  al  the  condicionn 
Of  ech  of  hem,  so  as  it  semed  me,  39 

And  whiche  they  weren39,  and  of  what  degree; 
And  eek  in  what  array*"  that  they  were  inner 
And  at  a  knight  than  wol  I  first  biginne. 

A  Knight  there  was,  and  that  a  worthy  man. 
That  fro  the  tyme  that  he  first  bigan 
To  ryden  out,  he  loved  chivalrye, 
Trouthe  and  honour,  fredom*i  and  curteisye. 
Ful  worthy  was  he  in  his  lordes  werre*2j 
And  therto  hadde  he  riden  (no  man  ferre<*) 
As  wel  in  cristendom  as  hethenesse. 
And  evere  honoured  for  his  worthinesse.  50 

At  Alisaundre**  he  was,  whan  it  was  wonne; 
Ful  ofte  tyme  he  hadde  the  bord  bigonne^s 
Aboven  alle  naeiouns  in  Pruce^s. 
In  Lettow*'  hadde  he  reysed48  and  in  Ruce<», 
No  cristen  man  so  ofte  of  his  degrees". 
In  Gernadesi  at  the  sege  eek  hadde  he  be 
Of  Algezir52,  and  riden  in  Belmaryess. 
At  Lyeyss*  was  he,  and  at  Satalye'* 
Whan  they  were  wonne;  and  in  the  Greto  SeeS' 
At  many  a  noble  armee^e  hadde  he  be.  60 

At  mortal  batailles  hadde  he  been  fiftene, 
And  foughten  for  our  feith  at  TramisseneST 
In  listesss  thryes,  and  ay  slayn  his  foo. 
This  ilke59  worthy  knight  hadde  been  also 
Somtyme  Avith  the  lord  of  Palatyeso^ 
Ageynfii  another  hethen  in  Turkye: 
And  everemore  he  hadde  a  sovereyn  pry8«2. 
And  though  that  he  were  worthy,  he  was  wys, 


32  made  easy  ;   i. 

commodated 
best   manner 

33  at 

34  every  one 

35  agreement 

36  where 

37  tell 

38  according 

39  what    sort    of 

they  were 

40  dress 

41  liberality 

42  war 

43  further 


e.,  ac-  47  Lithuania   (a  western 
in   the  province  of  Russia) 

48  forayed 

49  Russia 

50  rank 

51  Granada 

52  Algeciras 

53  A     Moorish    kingdom 

in  Africa, 
people  54  A  town  in  Asia  Minor. 

55  Mediterranean 

56  armed  expedition 

57  In  Asia  Minor. 
5S  tournaments 

59  same 

•"•o  In  Asia  Minor. 


How  I  44  Alexandria    (136.")) 

45  sat  at  the  head  of  the  ei  against 
table  62  high    praise 

46  Prussia 


44 


FOURTEENTH  CENTUEY 


70 


of 


And  of  his  porti  as  meek  as  is  a  mayde. 

He  nevere  yet  no  vileinye^  ue  sayde 

In  al  his  lyf,  un-to  no  maner  wight. 

He  was  a  verray  parfit  gentil  knight. 

But  for  to  tellen  yow  of  his  array, 

His  hors3  were  goode,  but  he  was  nat  gay*. 

Of  fustians  he  wered  a  gipoun« 

Al  bismotered^  with  his  habergeouns. 

For  he  was  late  y-come  from  his  viageo, 

And  wente  for  to  doon  his  pilgrimageio. 

With  him  ther  was  his  sone,  a  yong  Squyer, 
A  lovyer,  and  a  lusty  bachelerii,  80 

With  lokkes   crullei2^  asis   they  were  leyd   in 

presse. 
Of  twenty  yeer  of  age  he  was,  I  gesse. 
Of  his  stature  he  was  of  evene  lengthei*. 
And       wonder  ly     deliverei^^     and     greet 

strengthe. 
And  he  hadde  been  somtyme  in  ehivachyei". 
In  Flaundres,  in  Artoysi^,  and  Pieardyei^, 
And  born  him  wel,  as  of  so  litel  spaeeis, 
In  hope  to  stonden  in  his  ladyi^  grace. 
Embrouded2o  was  he,  as  it  were  a  mede^i 
Al  ful  of  fresshe  floures,  whyte  and  rede. 
Singinge  he  was,  or  floytinge^s^  al  the  day; 
He  was  as  fresh  as  is  the  month  of  May. 
Short   was   his   goune,   with    sieves   longe 

wyde. 
Wel  eoude  he  sitte  on  hors,  and  faire  ryde. 
He  coude  songes  make  and  wel  endyte23^ 
Iuste24  and  eek  daunce,  and  wel  purtreye25 

wryte. 
So  hote26  he  lovede,  that  by  nightertale27 
He  sleep  namore  than  doth  a  nightingale. 
Curteys  he  was,  lowly,  and  servisable, 
And  carf 28  biforn  his  fader  at  the  table. 

A  Yeman  hadde  he29,  and  servaunts  namo^o 
At  that  tyme,  for  him  listesi  ryde  so; 
And  he  was  clad  in  cote  and  hood  of  grene; 
A  sheef  of  pecok  arwes  brighte  and  kene 
Under  his  belt  he  bar  ful  thriftily, 
(Wel  coude  he  dresse  his  takel  yemanlysa : 


90 


and 


and 


100 


1  bearing 

2  unbecoming  word 
■1  horses 

■«  gaily  dressed 
s  coarse   cloth 

6  a     short     tight-fltting 

coat 

7  gpotted 

8  coat  of  mail 

9  voyage 

10  In     order      to      give 

thanlis  for  bia  safe 
return. 

11  An       aspirant       for 

knighthood. 

12  curijr 
18  aa  if 

14  average  height 

15  nimble 

ismilitnry    expeditions 
IT  An    ancient    province 

of  France. 


eon  s  i  d  e  r  1  n  g    the 
shortness     of     the 
time 
lady's 

'  embroidered 
meadow 

playing  the  flute 
compose 
Joust    (engage    in    a 

tournament) 
'  draw 
I  hotly 
'  night-time 
I  carved 
>  the  knight 
)  no  more 
I  it  pleased  him 
!  arrows 

I  order  his  tackle 
(equipment)  i  n 
yeomiinlike  man- 
ner 


His  arwes  drouped  noght  with  fetheres  lowe), 
And  in  his  hand  he  bar  a  mighty  bowe. 
A  not-heed34  hadde  he,  with  a  broun  visage. 
Of  wode-craftss  wel  coudesu  he  al  the  usage.  HO 
Upon  his  arm  he  bar  a  gay  bracerST^ 
And  by  his  syde  a  swerd  and  a  bokelerss. 
And  on  that  other  syde  a  gay  daggere, 
Harneised39  wel,  and  sharp  as  point  of  spare; 
A  Cristofre4o  on  his  brest  of  silver  shene4i. 
An  horn  he  bar,  the  bawdrik^a  was  of  grene; 
A  forster43  was  he,  soothly44,  as  I  gesse. 

Ther  was  also  a  Nonne,  a  Prioresse, 
That  of  hir  smyling  was  ful  simple  and  coy ; 
Hir  gretteste  ooth  was  but  by  seynt  Loy45j     120 
And  she  was  cleped46  madame  Eglentyne. 
Ful  wel  she  song  the  service  divyne, 
Entuned  in  hir  nose  ful  semely; 
And  Frensh  she  spak  ful  faire  and  fetisly47j 
After  the  scole  of  Stratford  atte  Bowe*, 
For  Frensh  of  Paris  was  to  liir  unknowe. 
At  mete  wel  y-taught  was  she  with-alle; 
She  leet  no  morsel  from  hir  lippes  falle, 
Ne  wette  hir  fingres  in  hir  sauce  depe. 
Wel  eoude  she  carie  a  morsel,  and  wel  kepe,   130 
That  no  drope  ne  fille48  up-on  hir  brest. 
In  curteisye  was  set  ful  moche  hir  lest40j 
Hir  over  lippe  wyped  she  so  clene. 
That  in  hir  coppeso  was  no  ferthing  sene 
Of  grece,  whan  she  dronken  hadde  hir  draughte. 
Ful  semely  after  hir  mete  she  raughte^i. 
And  sikerly-''2  she  was  of  greet  disportss^ 
And  ful  plesaunt,  and  amiable  of  port54, 
And  peynedss  hir  to  countrefetese  cheres^ 
Of  court,  and  been  estatlichss  of  manere,        140 
And  to  ben  holden  digne^s  of  reverence. 
But,  for  to  speken  of  hir  conscience, 
She  was  so  charitable  and  so  pitous^o, 
She  wolde  wepe,  if  that  she  sawe  a  mous 
Caught  in  a  trappe,  if  it  were  deed  or  bledde. 
Of  smale  houndes  had  she,  that  she  fedde 
With  rosted  flesh,  or  milk  and  wastel  breed^i. 
But  sore  weep  she  if  con  of  hem  were  deed, 


34  nut-head,     a     closely 

cropped  head 
3r.  wood-craft 
.•to  knew 

.H7  guard  for  the  arm 
38  shield 
31)  equipped 

40  image  of  St.  Christo- 

pher 

41  bright 

42  girdle  worn  over  the 

shoulder 
4  3  forester 

44  truly 

45  St.    Kloy    or    Loy    or 

EligiuB,  patron 
saint  of  gold- 
smiths. 


40  named 

47  daintily,  exactly 

48  fell 

40  pleasure 
50  cup 
.ii  reached 

52  surely 

53  good  humor 

54  bearing 

55  took   pains 
50  Imitate 

57  behavior 

58  to  be  dignifled 
50  worthy 

tio  compassionnte 

ni  bread  made  of  the 
best  flour — cake- 
bread 


♦  Stratford  le  Bow,  where  there  was  n  Benedic- 
tine nunnery,  and  where  Anglo  French  would 
lie  spoken,  rath>>r  than  the  Farl.siuu  kind. 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCEB 


45 


Or  if  men  smoot  it  with  a  yerdei  smertez : 

And  al  was  conscience  and  tendre  herte.  150 

Ful  semely  bir  wimpels  pinched*  was; 

Hir  nose  tretysS;  hir  eyen  greye  as  glas; 

Hir  mouth  ful  sraal,  and  ther-to  sof te  and  reed ; 

But  sikerly8  she  hadde  a  fair  forheed. 

It  was  almost  a  spanne  brood,  I  trowe; 

For,  hardily 7,  she  was  nat  undergrowe. 

Ful  fetis^  was  hir  cloke,  as  I  was  war^. 

Of  smal  coral  aboute  hir  arm  she  bar 

A  peire  of  bedes^o,  gaudedn  al  with  grene;     159 

And  ther-on  heng  a  broehe  of  gold  ful  shene. 

On  which  ther  was  first  write  a  crowned  A, 

And  after.  Amor  vincit  omnia^^. 

Another  Nonne  with  hir  hadde  she. 
That  was  hir  chapeleyne,  and  Preestes  thre. 

A  Monk  ther  was,  a  fair  for  the  maistryei^^ 
An  out-rydere,  that  lovede  veneryei*, 
A  manly  man,  to  been  an  abbot  able. 
Ful  many  a  deynteeis  hors  hadde  he  in  stable: 
And,  whan  he  rood,  men  mighte  his  brydel  here 
Ginglen  in  a  whistling  wynd  as  clere,  170 

^d  eek  as  loude  as  doth  the  chapel-belle. 
There-asiB  this  lord  was  keper  of  the  cellei", 
The  reule  of  seint  Maure  or  of  seint  Beneitis, 
By-cause  that  it  was  old  and  som-del  streiti^. 
This  like  monk  leet  olde  thingesso  pacezi, 
And  held  after  the  newe  world  the  space22. 
He  yaf  nat  of  that  text  a  pulled23  hen. 
That  seith,  that  hunters  been  nat  holy  men; 
Ne  that  a  monk,  whan  he  is  recchelees^*. 
Is  likned  til  a  fish  that  is  waterlees;  180 

This  is  to  seyn,  a  monk  out  of  his  cloistre. 
But  thilke  text  held  he  nat  worth  an  oistre. 
And  I  seyde  his  opinioun  was  good. 
What25  sholde  he  studie,  and  make  hun  selven 

wood26, 
Upon  a  book  in  cloistre  alwey  to  poure. 
Or  swinken27  with  his  handes,  and  laboure, 
As  Austin  bit28f   How  shal  the  world  be  served? 
Lat  Austin  have  his  swink2T  to  him  reserved. 


1  stick 

2  sharply 

3  neck  covering 

4  plaited 

5  well    proportioned 

6  surely 

T  certainly 
8  well  made 
»  aware 

10  a     set    of    beads,     a 

rosary 

11  having    the    gawdies 

or     large     beads 
green 

12  "Love   conquers   all." 

13  a  very  fine  monk   in- 

deed 

14  bunting 

15  fine 
18  where 

17  A     smaller    religious 


house  dependent  on 
a   monastery. 

18  The   oldest   forms    of 

monastic  discipline 
were  based  on  the 
rules  of  St.  Maur 
and  of  St.  Benet 
or  Benedict. 

19  somewhat  strict 

20  (these  rules) 

21  pass 

22  pace,  way 

23  plucked      (he     would 

not  give  a  straw 
for  that  text 
that—) 

24  wandering      or      va- 

grant 

25  why 

26  crazy 

27  work 

28  bids 


Therefor  he  was  a  pricasourzo  aright; 
Grehoundes   he  hadde,   as   swifte  as  fowel   in 

flight; 
Of  priking  and  of  hunting  for  the  hare  191 

Was  al  his  lustso^  for  no  cost  wolde  he  spare. 
I  seigh3i  his  sieves  purfiled32  at  the  hond 
With  grys33,  and  that  the  fyneste  of  a  lond; 
And,  for  to  festne  his  hood  under  his  chin. 
He  hadde  of  gold  y-wroght  a  curious  pin: 
A  love-knot  in  the  gretter  ende  ther  was. 
His  heed  was  balleds*,  that  shoon  as  any  glas. 
And  eek  his  face,  as  he  hadde  been  anoint. 
He  was  a  lord  ful  fat  and  in  good  pointss ;     200 
His  eyen  stepe3Cj  and  roUinge  in  his  heed. 
That  stemed  as  a  forneys  of  a  leed37j 
His  botes  souple,  his  hors  in  greet  estat. 
Now  certeinly  he  was  a  fair  prelat; 
He  was  nat  pale  as  a  for-pyned  goostss. 
A  fat  swan  loved  he  best  of  any  roost. 
His  palfrey  was  as  broun  as  is  a  berye. 

A  Frere39  there  was,  a  wantown*o  and  a  merye, 
A  limitour^i,  a  ful  solempne*2  man. 
In  alle  the  ordres  foure*3  is  noon  that  can** 
So  moche  of  daliaunce  and  fair  langage.        211 
He  hadde  maad  ful  many  a  mariage 
Of  yonge  wommen,  at  his  owne  cost. 
Unto  his  ordre  he  was  a  noble  post. 
Ful  wel  biloved  and  famulier  was  he 
With  frankeleyns*^  over-al  in  his  contree. 
And  eek  with  worthy  wommen  of  the  toun: 
For  he  had  power  of  confessioun. 
As  seyde  him-self,  more  than  a  curat, 
For  of  his  ordre  he  was  licentiat**.  220 

Ful  swetely  herde  he  confessioun. 
And  plesaunt  was  his  absolucioun; 
He  was  an  esy  man  to  yeve*7  penaunce 
Ther-as  he  wiste  to  han  a  good  pitaunee*8; 
For  unto  a  povre  ordre  for  to  yive*^ 
Is  signe  that  a  man  is  wel  y-shrive. 
For  if  heso  yaf,  he^i  dorste  make  avauntsz^ 
He  wiste  that  a  man  was  repentaunt. 
For  many  a  man  so  hard  is  of  his  herte''3,      229 
He  may  nat  wepe  al-thogh  him  sore  smerte^*. 
Therfore,  in  stede  of  weping  and  preyeres, 


29  hard  rider 

30  pleasure 

31  saw 

32  bordered 

33  grey  fur 

34  bald 

3r>  en  ton  point,  fat 

36  bright 

37  glow     like     the     fire 

under   a    cauldron 

38  tormented  ghost 

39  friar 

40  brisk 

41  One    licensed    to    beg 

within      certain 
limits. 

42  pompous 

43  Dominicans        (Black 

Friars)  ;      Francis- 


cans (Grey  Friars)  ; 
Carmelites  (White 
Friars)  ;  Augustin 
(or  Austin)  Friars. 

44  knows 

45  country   gentlemen 

46  One   licensed   to   give 

absolution. 

47  give,  assign 

48  where    he    knew    he 

could  get  a  good 
gift 

49  give 

50  the  man 

51  the  friar 

52  boast 

53  heart 

54  he  suffer  sorely 


46 


FOURTEENTH  CENTURY 


Men  raooti  yeve  silver  to  the  povre  freres. 

His  tipets  was  ays  farsed*  ful  of  knyves 

And  pinnes,  for  to  yeven  faire  wyves. 

And  certainly  he  hadde  a  mery  note; 

Wei  coude  he  singe  and  pleyen  on  a  rotes. 

Of  yeddingeso  he  bar  utterly  the  prys^. 

His  nekke  whyt  was  as  the  flour-de-lyss. 

Ther-to  he  strong  was  as  a  champioun. 

He  knew  the  tavernes  wel  in  every  toun,         240 

And  everich  hostiler»  and  tappestereio 

Betii  than  a  lazaris  or  a  beggestereis ; 

For  un-to  swich  a  worthy  man  as  he 

Acorded  nat,  as  by  his  faculteei*, 

To  have  with  sekeis  lazars  aqueyntaunce. 

It  is  nat  honestis,  it  may  nat  avauncei^ 

For  to  delen  with  no  swich  poraillei^^ 

But  al  with  riche  and  sellers  of  vitaille. 

And  over-all",  ther-as2o  profit  sholde  aryse, 

Curteys  he  was,  and  lowly  of  servyse.  250 

Ther  nas  no  man  nowher  so  vertuous2i. 

He  was  the  beste  beggere  in  his  hous; 

For  thogh  a  widwe  hadde  noght  a  sho22j 

So  plesaunt  was  his  In  principio^^, 

Yet  wolde  he  have  a  ferthing24^  er  he  wente, 

His  purchas25  was  wel  bettre  than  his  rentess. 

And    rage27    he    coude    as    it    were    right    a 

whelpe28. 
In  love-dayes29  ther  coude  he  mochel  helpe. 
For  ther  he  was  nat  lyk  a  cloisterer 
With  a  thredbare  cope,  as  in  a  povre  scoler,    260 
But  he  was  lyk  a  maister  or  a  pope. 
Of  double  worsted  was  his  semi-cope^o, 
That  rounded  as  a  belle  out  of  the  presse. 
Somwhat  he  lipsed,  for  his  wantownessesi. 
To  make  his  English  swete  up-on  his  tonge; 
And  in  his  harping,  whan  that  he  had  songe, 
His  eyen  twinkled  in  his  heed  aright. 
As  doon  the  sterres  in  the  frosty  night. 
This  worthy  limitour  was  cleped  Huberd. 

A  Marchant  was  ther  with  a  forked  berd,  270 
In  motteIee32,  and  hye  on  horse  he  sat, 


1  ought  to 

2  hood,  cowl 
8  ever 

4  stuffed 

6  fiddle 
e songs 

7  he  took  the  prize 
silly 

» Innkeeper 

10  bar  maid 

11  better 

12  leper 

18  female  beggar 

14  it      was      unsuitable, 

considering         h  1  s 
ability 

15  sick 

la  creditable 

17  profit 

18  poor  people 
IB  everywhere 
30  where 


21  energetic 

22  shoe 

23  S^    John    I.      1,    "In 

the  beginning," 
etc.  (the  opening 
of  the  friar's  ad- 
dress) 

24  half  n  cent 

25  proceeds   of   bis   beg- 

ging 

26  regular  Income 

27  piay 

2H  Just  like  a   puppy 
20  arbitration  days   (for 
settling    differences 
without    lawsuit) 
so  Hhort  cape 

81  lisped   a    little   out   of 

whimsical   Joliiness 

82  dress    of    variegated 

color 


Up-on  his  heed  a  Flaundrish  bever  hat; 
His  botes  clasped  faire  and  fetisly. 
His  resons33  he  spak  ful  solempnelys*, 
Sowninge35  alway  thencreesse  of  his  winning. 
He  wolde  the  see  were  kept^T  for  any  thingss 
Bitwixe  Middelburgh  and  Orewelle^a. 
Wel  coude^o  he  in  eschaunge  sheeldes*i  selle. 
This  worthy  man  ful  wel  his  wit  bisette^2; 
Ther  wisie  no  wight  that  he  was  in  dette,      280 
So  estatly*3  was  he  of  his  governaunce**, 
With  his  bargaynes,  and  with  his  chevisaunce*^. 
For  sothe  he  was  a  worthy  man  with-alle. 
But  sooth  to  seyn,  I  noot^s  how  men  him  calle. 

A  Clerk*7  ther  was  of  Oxenford  also, 
That  unto  logik  hadde  longe  y-go^s. 
As  lene  was  his  hors  as  is  a  rake. 
And  he  nas*9  nat  right  fat,  I  undertake^o; 
But  loked  holwe^i,  and  ther-to  soberly^^. 
Ful  thredbar  was  his  overest^a  courtepys*       290 
For  he  had  geten  him  yet  no  beneficess, 
Ne  was  so  worldly  for  to  have  officers. 
For  him  was  levere57  have  at  his  beddes  heed 
Twenty  bokes,  clad  in  blak  or  reed  * 

Of  Aristotle  and  his  philosophye. 
Than  robes  riche,  or  fithele^s,  or  gay  sautryeS". 
But  al  be  that  he  was  a  philosophre^o, 
Yet  hadde  he  but  litel  gold  in  cofre; 
But  al  that  he  mighte  of  his  f  rendes  henteai ; 
On  bokes  and  on  lerninge  he  it  spente,  300 

And  bisily  gan  for  the  soules  preye 
Of  hem  that  yaf  him  where-with  to  scoleye02. 
Of  studie  took  he  most  eureka  and  most  hede. 
Noght  o  word  spak  he  more  than  was  nede, 
And  that  was  seyd  in  forme  and  reverence, 
And  short  and  quik,  and  ful  of  hy  sentence*''*. 
Sowninge65  in  moral  vertu  was  his  speche. 
And  gladly  wolde  he  lerne,  and  gladly  teche. 

A  Sergeant  of  the  Laweee,  war67  and  wys. 
That  often  hadde  been  at  the  parvys^s,         310 


33  opinions 

34  pompously 

35  proclaiming,      sound- 

ing 
30  the  Increase 

37  guarded 

38  at   any    cost,    by   all 

mcnns 

39  The    first    a    port    In 

the  Netherlands, 
opposite  Harwich 
in  England ;  the 
second  a  town  near 
the  mouth  of  the 
river  Orwell  in 
England. 

40  knew  how  to 

41  French     crowns     (ho 

was  a  money- 
changer) 

42  employed 
4:<  dignified 

44  mnnngcniont 

45  agreements 

46  ne-f wot    (know   not) 

47  student,  scholar 


devoted  himself 

ne+was    (was   not) 

affirm 

hollow 

solemn 

outer 

coat 

ecclesiastical   living 

secular  office 

he  had  rather 

fiddle 

psaltery,   harp 

The  word  meant  both 

philosopher       and 

alchemist, 
get 
devote      himself      to 

study 
care 

meaning 
tending  to 
king's  lawyer 
wary 
portico  (of  St.  Paul's, 

where  lawyers  met 

for   consultation) 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 


47 


320 


Ther  was  also,  ful  riehe  of  excellence. 

Discreet  he  was,  and  of  greet  reverence^ : 

He  semed  swich,  his  wordes  weren  so  wyse, 

Justice  he  was  ful  often  in  assyse^, 

By  patente3  and  by  pleyn*  commissioun ; 

For  his  science,  and  for  his  heigh  renoun 

Of  fees  and  robes  hadde  he  many  oon. 

So  greet  a  purchasours  was  nowher  noons. 

Al  was  fee  simple^  to  him  in  effect, 

His  purchasing  mighte  nat  been  infects. 

Nowher  so  bisy  a  man  as  he  ther  nas. 

And  yet  he  semed  bisier  than  he  was. 

In  termes  hadde  he  caas  and  domes  alleo. 

That   from   the  tyme   of    king    William    were 

falleio. 
Therto  he  coude  endyte,  and  make  a  thing, 
Ther  coude  no  wight  pinehen  at  his  wryting; 
And  every  statut  coudei2  he  pleyn  by  rote. 
He  rood  but  hoomly  in  a  medlee  cote 
Girt  with  a  ceinti^  of  silk,  with  barresi*  smale; 
Of  his  array  telle  I  no  lenger  tale.  330 

A  Frankeleynis  was  in  his  compaignye; 
Whyt  was  his  berdis,  as  is  the  dayesyei". 
Of  his  complexiounis  he  was  sangwynia. 
Wei  loved  he  by  the  morwe^o  a  sop2i  in  wyn. 
To  liven  in  delyt  was  evere  his  wone22, 
For  he  was  Epicurus23  owne  sone, 
That  heeld  opinioun  that  pleyn  delyt 
Was  verraily  felicitee  parfyt. 
An  housholdere,  and  that  a  greet,  was  he; 
Seynt  Iulian2*  he  was  in  his  contree. 
His  breed,  his  ale,  was  alwey  after  oon25j 
A  bettre  envyned26  man  was  nevere  noon. 
With-oute  bake  mete  was  nevere  his  hous. 
Of  fish  and  flesh,  and  that  so  plentevous, 
It  snewed27  in  his  hous  of  mete  and  drinke. 
Of  alle  deyntees  that  men  coude  thinke. 
After  the  sondry  sesons  of  the  yeer. 
So  chaunged  he  his  mete  and  his  soper. 
Ful  many  a  fat  partrich  hadde  he  in  mewe28, 


340 


1  exciting    much    rever- 

ence 

2  court  of  assize 

3  letters  patent 

4  full 

5  conveyancer 

6  none 

T  unconditional  inheri- 
tance 

8  invalidated  (i.  e.,  he 
could  cunningly 
convey  property 
without  entangle- 
ments of  entail) 

»  in  exact  words  he  had 
all  cases  and  de- 
cisions 

10  had  occurred 

11  make    an    agreement 

so  none   could  find 
fault 

12  knew 

13  girdle 


bars,   or  ornaments 
country   gentleman 

'■  beard 
daisy 

i  temperament 

I  lively 

>  in  the  morning 
A     sort     of     custard 
with  bread  in  it. 

'■  wont,   custom. 

t  A  Greek  philosopher, 
popularly  supposed 
to  have  considered 
pleasure  the  chief 
good. 

I  Patron  saint  of  aos- 
pitallty. 

i  of  the  same  quality 

!  provided   with   wines 

r  snowed  ;  i.  e.,  abound- 
ed 

i  coop 


And    many    a   breem29    and    many    a    luce    in 
steweso.  350 

Wo3i  was  his  cook,  but-if32  his  sauce  were 
Poynaunt  and  sharp,  and  redy  al  his  gere33. 
His  table  dormant34  in  his  halle  alway 
Stood  redy  covered  al  the  longe  day. 
At  sessiouns35  ther  was  he  lord  and  sire. 
Ful  ofte  tyme  he  was  knight  of  the  shireso. 
An  anlas37  and  a  gipserss  al  of  silk 
Heng  at  his  girdel,  whyt  as  morne  milk. 
A  shirreve  hadde  he  been,  and  a  countourss; 
Was  nowher  such  a  worthy  vavasour***.  360 

An  Haberdassherii  and  a  Carpenter, 
A  Webbe,*2  a  Dyere,  and  a  Tapicer*3j 
And  they  were  clothed  alle  in  o  liveree. 
Of  a  solempne  and  greet  fraternitee. 
Ful  fresh  and  newe  hir  gere  apyked**  was; 
Hir  knyves  were  y-chaped*5  noght  with  bras. 
But  al  with  silver  wroght  ful  clene  and  weel, 
Hir  girdles  and  hir  pouches  everydeel. 
Wei  semed  ech  of  hem  a  fair  burgeys^s^ 
To  sitten  in  a  yeldhalle*^  on  a  deys^s.  370 

Everich*9,  for  the  wisdom  that  he  canso, 
Was  shaplysi  for  to  been  an  alderman. 
For  catel'2  hadde  they  ynogh  and  renters, 
And  eek  hir  wyves  wolde  it  wel  assented* ; 
And  elles  certein  were  they  to  blame. 
It  is  ful  fair  to  been  y-clept  via  dame. 
And  goonss  to  vigilyesss  al  bifore. 
And  have  a  mantel  roialliche  y-bores^. 

A  Cook  they  hadde  with  hem  for  the  nonesss. 
To  boille  chiknesss  with  the  mary-bones,  380 
And  poudre-marehantso  tart^i,  and  galingale62. 
Wel  coude  he  knowe^s  a  draughte  of  London 

ale. 
He  coude  roste,  and  sethesi,  and  broille,   and 

frye, 
Maken  mortreux65,  and  wel  bake  a  pye. 
But  greet  harm  was  it,  as  it  thoughte  me. 
That  on  his  shine^*  a  mormal*''^  hadde  he; 


29  bream    (a  fish) 

30  pond 

31  woe  unto  his  cook 

32  unless 

33  utensils 

34  stationary 

35  meetings    of    justices 

of  the  peace 

36  member     of     parlia- 

ment 

37  knife 

38  pouch 

39  auditor 

40  sub-vassal   (landhold- 

er) 

41  seller   of  hats 

42  weaver 

43  upholsterer 

44  trimmed 

45  capped    (tipped) 

46  citizen 

47  guild-ball 

48  dais 


49  everyone 

50  knew    (had) 

51  fit 

52  property 

53  Income 

54  be  glad  of  it 

55  to   go 

56  social    gatherings    in 

the     church     or 
churchyard 

57  royally   carried 

58  occasion 

59  chickens 

60  a   seasoning 

61  sharp 

62  the     root     of     sweet 

cyperus 

63  well  knew  he  how  to 

distinguish 

64  boil 

65  chowders 

66  shin 

67  sore 


48 


POTJETEENTH  CENTUBY 


For    blankmangeri,    that    made    he    with    the 
beste. 

A  Shipman  was  ther,  woning2  fer  by  weste: 
For  aught  I  woot3,  he  was  of  Dertemouthe. 
He  rood  up-on  a  rouncy*,  as  he  couthes,        390 
In  a  gowne  of  faldingo  to  the  knee. 
A  daggere  hanging  on  a  laas7  hadde  he 
Aboute  his  nekke  under  his  arm  adoun. 
The  hote  somer  had  maad  his  hewe  al  broun; 
And,  certeinly,  he  was  a  good  felawe. 
Ful  many  a  draughte  of  wyn  had  he  y-drawe 
From  Burdeux-ward,  whyl  that  the  ehapmans 

sleep. 
Of  nyces  conscience  took  he  no  keepio. 
If  that  he  faught,  and  hadde  the  hyer  bond, 
By  water  he  sente  hem  hoom  to  every  londn. 
But  of  his  craft  12  to  rekene  wel  his  tydes      401 
His  stremes  and  his  daungers  him  bisydes, 
His  herberwei3   and   his   monei*,  his   lodemen- 

ageis, 
Ther  nas  noon  swich  from  Hulle  to  Cartage. 
Hardy  he  was,  and  wys  to  undertake; 
With    many   a   tempest   hadde  his   berd   been 

shake. 
He  knew  wel  alle  the  havenes,  as  they  were, 
From  Gootlondi8  to  the  cape  of  Finisterei^, 
And  every  cryke  in  Britayne  and  in  Spayne; 
His  barge  y-cleped  was  the  Maudelayne.        410 

With  us  ther  was  a  Doctour  of  Phisykis, 
In  al  this  world  ne  was  ther  noon  him  lyk 
To  speke  of  phisik  and  of  surgerye ; 
For  he  was  grounded  in  astronomyei^. 
He  kepte  his  pacient  a  ful  greet  del 
In  houres2o^  by  his  magik  naturel. 
Wel  coude  he  fortunen2i  the  ascendent 
Of  his  image822  for  his  pacient*. 
He  knew  the  cause  of  everieh  maladye. 
Were  it  of  hoot  or  cold,  or  moiste,  or  dryet,  420 
And  where  engendred,  and  of  what  humour; 
He  was  a  verrey  parfit  practisour. 
The  cause  y-knowe,  and  of  his  harm  the  rote23^ 
Anon  he  yaf  the  seke  man  his  bote24. 
P'ul  retly  hadde  he  his  apothecaries, 

1  minced    capon,   cream,        i4  moon 

sugar  and  flour  i5  pilotage 

2  dwelling  i«  .Jutland,    Denmark 

3  know  17  On      the      coast      of 

4  common  hackney  Spain. 

5  as  well  as  he  could  is  medicine 

6  coarse  cloth  it  astrology 

7  cord  20  he  treated  his  pa- 
«  merchant  tient  at  favorable 
»  over  scrupulous                           astrological    times 

10  heed  2i  forecast 

11  made  them  walk  the        22  talismans 

rilank  28  the  root  of  the  evil 

II  24  remedy 

13  harbor 

•  Figures  or  talismans  made  when  a  favorable 
star  was  rising  above  the  horizon,  1.  e.,  was 
in  the  ascendant,  could,  it  was  believed,  cause 
good  or  evil  to  a  pntlent. 
t  Diseases  were  thought  fo  be  caused  by  an  excess 
of  one  or  another  of  these  humours. 


To  sende  him  drogges,  and  his  letuaries25, 

For  ech  of  hem  made  other  for  to  winne26; 

Hir  frendschipe  nas  nat  newe  to  biginne27. 

Wel  knew  he  the  olde  Esculapius*, 

And  Deiscorides,  and  eek  Eufus;  430 

Old  Ypoeras,  Haly,  and  Galien; 

Serapion,  Eazis,  and  Avicen; 

Averrois,  Damascien,  and  Constantyn; 

Bernard,  and  Gatesden,  and  Gilbertyn. 

Of  his  diete  mesurablezs  was  he, 

For  it  was  of  no  superfluitee. 

But  of  greet  norissing  and  digestible. 

His  studie  was  but  litel  on  the  Bible. 

In  sangwin29  and  in  pers3o  he  clad  was  al, 

Lyned  with  taffata3i  and  with  sendal3i  440 

And  yet  he  was  but  esy  of  dispence32 ; 

He  kepte  that  he  wan  in  pestilence. 

For  gold  in  phisik  is  a  cordial33j 

Therfor  he  lovede  gold  in  special. 

A  Good  Wyf  was  ther  of  bisyde  Bathe, 
But    she    was    som-del    deef,    and    that    was 

scathe34. 
Of  cloth-making  she  hadde  swiche  an  haunt35j 
She  passed  hem  of  Ypresse  and  of  Gaunt37. 
In  al  the  parisshe  wyf  ne  was  ther  noon 
That  to  the  offringss  bifore  hir  sholde  goon ;  450 
And  if  ther  dide,  certeyn,  so  wrooth  was  she, 
That  she  was  out  of  alle  charitee. 
Hir  eoverchiefs39  ful  fyne  were  of  ground^oj 
I  dorste  swere  they  weyeden  ten  pound*i 
That  on  a  Sonday  were  upon  hir  heed. 
Hir  hosen  weren  of  fyn  scarlet  reed, 
Ful  streite  y-teyd,  and  shoes  ful  moiste42  and 

newe. 
Bold  was  hir  face,  and  fair,  and  reed  of  hewe. 
She  was  a  worthy  womman  al  hir  lyve,  459 

Housbondes  at  chirche-dore^s  she  hadde  fyve, 
Withouten**  other  compaignye  in  youthe; 
But  thereof  nedeth  nat  to  speke  as  nouthe". 
And  thryes  hadde  she  been  at  lerusalem; 
She  hadde  passed  many  a  straunge  streem ; 

25  medicines        mixed       30  in  West  Flanders 

with   confections  37  Ghent 

26  the    doctor    and    the       38  The  ceremony  of  of- 

druggist  each  made  ferlng  gifts  to 
business  for  the  relics  on  "Relic- 
other  Sunday." 

27  of  recent  date  so  kerchiefs     for    the 

28  moderate  head 
20  reddish  «>  texture 

30  light  blue  41  Because     ornamented 

31  thin  silk  with   gold  and   sti- 

32  moderate     In     spend-  ver. 

Ing  42  soft 

33  Gold  In  medicine  was       43  People   were   married 

supposed  to  render  at    the    church- 

It   especially   efflca-  porch, 

clous.  44  without  counting 

34  a  pity  4.1  at  present 
ar,  Rkill 

•  The  god  of  medicine,  son  of  Apollo.  The  others 
named  hi  lines  430-434  are  all  famous  physi- 
cians and  scholars  of  antiquity  and  medla>val 
times.  Gatlsden  of  Oxford  was  almo.st  a  con- 
temporary of  (,'haucer. 


GEOFFEEY  CHAUCER 


49 


At  Rome  she  hadde  been,  and  at  Boloignei, 

In  Galice  at  seint  Iame2,  and  at  Coloigne^. 

She  coude  moche  of  wandring  by  the  weye. 

Gat-tothed*  was  she,  soothly  for  to  seye. 

Upon  an  ambleres  esily  she  sat, 

Y-wimpled  wel,  and  on  hir  heed  an  hat  470 

As  brood  as  is  a  bokelers  or  a  targe; 

A  foot-manteK  aboute  hir  hipes  large, 

And  on  hir  feet  a  paire  of  spores  sharpe. 

In  f elaweschip  wel  coude  she  laughe  and  carpe^. 

Of  remedies  of  loves  she  knew  per-chaunce. 

For  she  coude  of  that  art  the  olde  daunce. 

A  good  man  was  ther  of  religioun. 
And  was  a  povre  Persounio  of  a  toun; 
But  riche  he  was  of  holy  thoght  and  werk. 
He  was  also  a  lerned  man,  a  clerk,  480 

That  Cristes  gospel  trewely  wolde  preche ; 
His  parisshens  devoutly  wolde  he  teche. 
Benign e  he  was,  and  wonder  diligent, 
And  in  adversitee  f ul  pacient ; 
And  swich  he  was  y-prevedn  ofte  sythesiz. 
Ful  looth  were  him  to  cursen  for  his  tythesis, 
But  rather  wolde  he  yeven,  out  of  doute, 
Un-to  his  povre  parisshens  aboute 
Of  his  offringi*,  and  eek  of  his  substaunceis. 
He  coude  in  litel  thing  han  suffisaunce.  490 

Wyd  was  his  parisshe,  and  houses  fer  a-sonder. 
But  he  ne  lafte  natis^  for  reyn  ne  thonder. 
In  siknes  nor  in  meschiefi'^  to  visyte 
The  ferresteis  in  his  parisshe,  moche  and  lytei^, 
Up-on  his  feet,  and  in  his  hand  a  staf. 
This  noble  ensample  to  his  sheep  he  yaf, 
That     first    he    wroghte,    and     afterward    he 

taughte ; 
Out  of  the  gospel  he  tho2o  wordes  caughte; 
And  this  figure  he  added  eek  ther-to, 
That  if  gold  ruste,  what  shal  yren2i  do?        500 
For  if  a  preest  be  foul,  on  whom  we  truste. 
No  wonder  is  a  lewedss  man  to  ruste; 
And  shame  it  .s,  if  a  preest  take  keep23^ 
A  [spotted]  shepherde  and  a  clene  sheep. 
Wel  oghte  a  preest  ensample  for  to  yive, 
By  his  clennesse,  how  that  his  sheep  shold  live. 
He  sette  nat  his  benefice  to  hyre24. 
And  leet  his  sheep  encombred  in  the  myre, 


1  Where   there   was   an 

image  of  the  Vir- 
gin. 

2  to    the   shrine    of    St. 

James  in  Galicia 
in  Spain 

3  Where     according     to 

legend  the  bones  of 
the  Three  Wise 
Men  of  the  East 
were  kept. 

4  gap-toothed  :  i.  e.,  with 

teeth  wide  apart 

5  nag 

6  shield 

7  riding  sltlrt 

8  chatter 

9  love-charms 

10  parson 


11  proved 

12  times 

13  he   was   loath   to  ex- 

communicate those 
who  would  not  pay 
their  tithes 

14  gifts  made  to  him 

15  property 

16  ceased  not 

17  trouble 

18  farthest 

19  rich  and  poor 

20  those 

21  iron 

22  ignorant 

23  notice 

24  he  did  not  sub-let  bis 

parish 


And  ran  to  London,  unto  seynt  Ponies, 

To  seken  him  a  chaunterie25  for  soules. 

Or  with  a  bretherhed  to  been  withholde26,      510 

But  dwelte  at  hoom,  and  kepte  wel  his  folde, 

So  that  the  wolf  ne  made  it  nat  miscarie; 

He  was  a  shepherde  and  no  mercenarie27. 

And  though  he  holy  were,  and  vertuous. 

He  was  to  sinful  man  nat  despitous28j 

Ne  of  his  speche  daungerous2»  ne  digne30, 

But  in  his  teching  discreet  and  benigne. 

To  drawen  folk  to  heven  by  fairnesse 

By  good  ensample,  this  was  his  bisynesse:       520 

But  it  were  any  persone  obstinat. 

What  so  he  were,  of  heigh  or  lowe  estat, 

Him  wolde  he  snibbensi  sharply  for  the  nones32. 

A  bettre  preest,  I  trowe  that  nowher  non  is. 

He  wayted  after  no  pompe  and  reverence, 

Ne  maked  him  a  spyced33  conscience. 

But  Cristes  lore,  and  his  apostles  twelve. 

He  taughte,  but  first  he  folwed  it  him-selve. 

With   him  ther  was   a    Plowman,    was    his 
brother,  629 

That  hadde  y-lad^i  of  dong  ful  many  a  fotherss, 
A  trewe  swinkere36  and  a  good  was  he, 
Livinge  in  pees  and  parfit  charitee. 
God  loved  he  best  with  al  his  hole  herte 
At  alle  tymes,  thogh  him  gamed  or  smerte37, 
And  thanne  his  neighebour  right  as  him-selve. 
He    wolde    thresshe,    and    ther-to    dyke38    and 

delve, 
For  Cristes  sake,  for  every  povre  wight, 
Withouten  hyress,  if  it  lay  in  his  might. 
His  tythes  payed  he  ful  faire  and  wel, 
Bothe  of  his  propre*o  swink  and  his  catel*i.   540 
In  a  tabard  he  rood  upon  a  mere*2. 

Ther  was  also  a  Revels  and  a  Millere, 
A  Somnour**  and  a  Pardoner^s  also, 
A  Maunciple*8,  and  my-self ;  there  were  namo^^. 

The    Miller    was    a    stout    carles,    for    the 
nones<9, 
Ful  big  he  was  of  braun,  and  eek  of  bones ; 
That  proved  wel,  for  over-al  therso  he  cam, 
At  wrastling  he  wolde  have  alwey  the  ram^i. 
He  was  short-sholdred,  brood,  a  thikke  knarre52, 


25  a    position    to    sing 

mass 

26  maintained 

27  hireling 

28  merciless 

29  over-bearing 

30  proud 

31  reprove 

32  on  occasion 

33  sophisticated 

34  led 

35  load 

36  laborer 

37  whether     his     luck 

were  good  or  bad 

38  dig  ditches 

39  pay 

40  own 

41  property 


42  mare  (then  the  hum- 

ble man's  steed) 

43  bailiff 

44  A    summoner    to 

eccleslastl  cal 
courts. 

45  One  commissioned  to 

grant  pardons. 

46  A   purchaser  of  food 

for  lawyers  at  inns 
of  court  or  for  col- 
leges. 

47  no  more 

48  churl,  fellow 

49  for  you 

50  everywhere 

61  The  prize. 

62  knotted,  thick-set  fel- 

low 


60 


FOURTEENTH  CENTURY 


Ther  nas  no  dore  that  he  nolde  heve  of  harrei, 
Or  breke  it,  at  a  renning,  with  his  heed.        551 
His  herd  as  any  sowe  or  fox  was  reed, 
And  ther-to  brood,  as  though  it  were  a  spade. 
Upon  the  cop2  right  of  his  nose  he  hade 
A  wertes,  and  ther-on  stood  a  tuft  of  heres, 
Keed  as  the  bristles  of  a  sowes  eres*; 
His  no8e-thirles5  blake  were  and  wyde. 
A  swerd  and  bokeler  bar  he  by  his  syde; 
His  mouth  as  greet  was  as  a  greet  forneys. 
He  was  a  langlere^  and  a  goliardeys^,         560 
And  that  was  most  of  sinne  and  harlotryess. 
Wei  coude  he  stelen  corn,  nnd  tollen  thryesS; 
And  yet  he  hadde  a  thombe  of  goldio,  pardee. 
A  whyt  cote  and  a  blew  hood  wered  he. 
A  baggepype  wel  coude  he  blowe  and  sownen. 
And  therwithal  he  broghte  us  out  of  towne. 

A  gentil  Maunciple  was  ther  of  a  templeia^ 
Of  which  achatoursi3  mighte  take  exemple 
For  to  be  wyse  in  bying  of  vitaille.  569 

For  whether  that  he  payde,  or  took  by  taillei*, 
Algate  he  waytedis  so  in  his  achatis. 
That  he  was  ay  biforn  and  in  good  stat. 
Now  is  nat  that  of  God  a  ful  fair  grace, 
That  swich  a  lewedi^  mannes  wit  shal  paceis 
The  wisdom  of  an  heep  of  lerned  men? 
Of  maistres  hadde  he  mois  than  thryes  ten, 
That  were  of  lawe  expert  and  curious; 
Of  which  ther  were  a  doseyn  in  that  hous. 
Worthy  to  been  stiwardes  of  rente  and  lond 
Of  any  lord  that  is  in  Engelond,  580 

To  make'  him  live  by  his  propre  good, 
In  honour  dettelees,  but  he  were  wood20, 
Or  live  as  scarslyzi  as  him  list  desire; 
And  able  for  to  helpen  al  a  shire 
In  any  cas  that  mighte  falle  or  happe; 
And  yit  this  maunciple  sette  hir  aller  cappe22. 

The  Reve  was  a  sclendre  colerik23  man. 
His  berd  was  shave  as  ny  as  ever  he  can. 
His  heer  was  by  his  eres  round  y-shorn. 
His  top  was  dokked24  lyk  a  preest  biforn.     590 
Ful  longe  were  his  legges,  and  ful  lene, 
Y-lyk  a  staf,  ther  was  no  calf  y-sene. 
Wel  coude  he  kepe  a  gerner25  and  a  binne ; 
Ther  was  noon  auditour  coude  on  him  winne. 
Wel  wiste  he,  by  the  droghte,  and  by  the  reyn, 
The  yeldyng  of  his  seed,  and  of  his  greyn. 


1  could  not  heave  off  its 

binges 

2  tip 

s  wart 
4  ears 

B  DOKtrilS 

•  bold  talker 

7  buffoon 

8  ribaldrloR 

0  take   toll   three   times 
(Instead  of  once) 

10  worth   gold    (because 

with    it    he    tested 
his  flour) 

11  play  upon 


12  lawyers'   quarters 
18  buyers 

14  tally,  1.  e.,  on  credit 

15  alwayH     be    was    so 

careful 

16  purchase 

17  ignorant 

18  surpass 

19  more 

20  crazy 

21  economically 

22  cheated  them  all 

23  irascible 

24  cut  short 

25  granary 


His  lordes  sheep,  his  neet2«,  his  dayerye, 

His  swyn,  his  hors,  his  stoor27j  and  his  pultrye, 
Was  hooUy  in  this  reves  governing, 
And  by  his  covenaunt  yaf  the  rekeningzs      600 
Sin29  that  his  lord  was  twenty  yeer  of  age; 
Ther  coude  no  man  bringe  him  in  arrerageso. 
Ther  nas  baillif,  ne  herdesi,  ne  other  hyne32j 
That  he  ne  knew  his  sleighte  and  his  covyness; 
They  were  adrad  of  him,  as  of  the  deeth. 
His  woning34  was  ful  fair  up-on  an  heeth. 
With  grene  trees  shadwed  was  his  place. 
He  coude  bettre  than  his  lord  purchace. 
Ful  riche  he  was  astored  prively, 
His  lord  wel  coude  he  plesen  subtilly,  610 

To  yeve  and  lene  him  of  his  owne  good, 
And  have  a  thank,  and  yet  a  cote,  and  hood35. 
In  youthe  he  lerned  hadde  a  good  mister36; 
He  was  a  wel  good  wrighte,  a  carpenter. 
This  reve  sat  upon  a  ful  good  stot37j 
That  was  al  pomelyss  grey,  and  highte  Scot. 
A  long  surcote  of  perssa  up-on  he  hade. 
And  by  his  syde  he  bar  a  rusty  blade. 
Of  Northfolk  was  this  reve,  of  which  I  telle, 
Bisyde  a  toun  men  clepen  Baldeswelle.  620 

Tukked40  he  was,  as  is  a  frere,  aboute. 
And  evere  he  rood  the  hindreste  of  our  route. 
A  Somnour  was  ther  with  us  in  that  place, 
That  hadde  a  fyr-reed  cherubinnes  face, 
For  sawceflem4i  he  was,  with  eyen  narwe, 

With  scalled42  broM'es  blake,  and  piled43  berd; 
Of  his  visage  children  were  aferd. 
Ther  nas  quik-silver,  litarge**,  ne  brimstoon, 
Boras45,  ceruce**,  ne  oille  of  tartre  noon,       630 
Ne  oynement  that  wolde  dense  and  byte, 
That  him  mighte  helpen  of  his  whelkes**  whyte, 
Ne  of  the  knobbes  sittinge  on  his  chekes. 
Wel  loved  he  garleek,  oynons,  and  eek  lekes. 
And  for  to  drinken  strong  wyn,  reed  as  blood. 
Thanne  wolde  he  speke,  and  crye  as  he  were 

wood*''. 
And  whan  that  he  wel  dronken  hadde  the  wyn. 
Than  wolde  he  speke  no  word  but  Latyn. 
A  fewe  termes  hadde  he,  two  or  thre. 
That  he  had  lerned  out  of  som  decree;  640 

No  wonder  is,  he  herde  it  al  the  day ; 


26  cattle 

27  stock 

28  rendered  account 
20  since 

30  tind  him  in  arrears 

81  herder 

82  servant 

33  whose   craft  and   de- 

ceit he  did  not 
know 

34  dwelling 

35  lend    his   lord's   own 

property  to  him 
and  receive  grati- 
tude and  Interest 
as  well 


36  trade 

37  stallion 

38  spotted,  dappled 

39  blue 

40  his   coat   was   tucked 

up  by  means   of  a 
girdle 

41  pimpled 

42  scurfy 

43  plucked  (thin) 

44  white  lead 

45  borax 

46  blotches 

47  mad 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 


61 


650 


659 


And  eek  ye  knowen  wel,  how  that  a  lay 
Can  clepen  '  Watte, 'i  as  well  as  can  the  pope 
But  whoso  coude  in  other  thing  him  grope^, 
Thanne  hadde  he  spent  al  his  philosophye; 
Ay  'Questio  quid  iuris's  wolde  he  crye. 
He  was  a  gentil  harlot^  and  a  kynde; 
A  bettre  f elawe  sholde  men  noght  fynde. 
He  wolde  suffre  fors  a  quart  of  wyn 
A  good  f elawe  to  have  his  [wikked  sin] 
A  twelf-month,  and  excuse  him  atte  fuUe: 
And  prively  a  finch  eek  coude  he  puUe^. 
And  if  he  fond  owher^  a  good  felawe, 
He  wolde  techen  him  to  have  non  awe, 
In  swich  cas,  of  the  erchedeknes  curss, 
But-if9  a  mannes  soule  were  in  his  pursioj 
For  in  his  purs  he  sholde  y-punisshed  be. 
'Purs  is  the  erchedeknes  helle, '  seyde  he. 
But  wel  I  woot  he  lyed  right  in  dede; 
Of  cursing  oghte  ech  gulty  man  him  dredeii- 
For  curs  wol  slee  right  as  assoillingi^  saveth 
And  also  war  him  of  a  significavit^s^ 
In  daungerii  hadde  he  at  his  owne  gyseis 
The  yonge  girlesis  of  the  diocyse. 
And  knew  hir  counseil,  and  was  al  hir  reedi^. 
A  gerland  hadde  he  set  up-on  his  heed, 
As  greet  as  it  were  for  an  ale-stakeis; 
A  bokeler  hadde  he  maad  him  of  a  cake. 
With  him  ther  rood  a  gentil  Pardoner 
Of  Rouncivalei!',  his  frend  and  his  compeer,   670 
That  streight  was  eomen  fro  the  court  of  Rome. 
Ful  loude  he  song,  'Com  hider,  love,  to  me.' 
This  somnour  bar  to  him  a  stif  burdoun^o^ 
Was  nevere  trompesi  of  half  so  greet  a  soun. 
This  pardoner  hadde  heer  as  yelow  as  wex, 
But  smothe  it  heng,  as  doth  a  strike  of  flexes ; 
By  ounces23  henge  his  lokkes  that  he  haddez*. 
And  ther-with  he  his  shuldres  overspradde; 
But  thinne  it  lay,  by  colponsss  oon  and  oon; 
But  hood,  for  lolitee,  ne  wered  he  noon,         680 
For  it  was  trussed  up  in  his  walet. 
Him  thoughte26,  he  rood  al  of  the  newe  Iet27; 
Dischevele,  save  his  cappe,  he  rood  al  bare. 
Swiche  glaringe  eyen  hadde  he  as  an  hare. 


1  Walter    (then   a   very 

common     name     in 
England) 

2  test 

3  "The       question        Is. 

What  is  ttie  law?" 

4  good   fellow 

5  in   return   for 

6  pluck     a     pigeon     for 

himself 

7  anywhere 

8  excommunication 

9  unless 

10  purse 

11  (reflexive)     fear    for 

himself 

12  absolution 

13  writ    of    excommuni- 

cation 

14  in   his  Jurisdiction 


control 

young     people     of 

either  sex 
the    adviser    of   them 

all 
:  sign-pole    of    an    inn 
(often  a  bush  hung 
up  in  front) 
'  Possibly    the    Hospi- 
tal of   Rouncyvalle 
in  London. 
'  accompaniment 
trumpet 
handful  of  flax 
small   portions 
such  as  he  had 
shreds 

>  it  seemed  to  him 
fashion 


A  vernicle28  hadde  he  sowed  on  his  cappe. 
His  walet  lay  biforn  him  in  his  lappe, 
Bret-ful29  of  pardoun  come  from  Rome  al  hoot. 
A  voys  he  hadde  as  smal  as  hath  a  goot. 
No  berd  hadde  he,  ne  nevere  sholde  have. 
As  smothe  it  was  as  it  were  late  y-shave ;        690 

But  of  his  craft,  fro  Berwik  unto  Wareso, 
Ne  was  ther  swich  another  pardoner. 
For  in  his  malesi  he  hadde  a  pilwe-beer32, 
Which  that,  he  seyde,  was  our  lady  veylss; 
He  seyde,  he  hadde  a  gobeta*  of  the  seyl35 
That  seynt  Peter  hadde,  whan  that  he  wente 
Up-on  the  see,  til  lesu  Crist  him  hente^s. 
He  hadde  a  croys37  of  latounss^  ful  of  stones. 
And  in  a  glas  he  hadde  pigges  bones.  700 

But  with  thise  relikes,  whan  that  he  fond 
A  povre  person  dwelling  up-on  lond39, 
Up-on  a  day  he  gat  him  more  moneye 
Than  that  the  person  gat  in  monthea  tweye. 
And  thus  with  feyned  flaterye  and  lapes^o^ 
He  made  the  person  and  the  peple  his  apes. 
But  trewely  to  tellen,  atte  laste. 
He  was  in  chirche  a  noble  ecclesiaste. 
W^el  coude  he  tede  a  lessoun  or  a  storie, 
But  alderbest*!  he  song  an  offertorie;  710 

For  wel  he  wiste,  whan  that  song  was  songe, 
He  moste  preche,  and  wel  affyle42  his  tonge, 
To  winne  silver,  as  he  ful  wel  coude; 
Therefore  he  song  so  meriely  and  loude. 

Now  have  I  told  you  shortly,  in  a  clause, 
Thestat,  tharray,  the  nombre,  and  eek  the  cause 
Why  that  assembled  was  this  compaignye 
In  Southwerk,  at  this  gentil  hostelrye. 
That  highte  the  Tabard,  faste  by  the  Belle. 
But  now  is  tyme  to  yow  for  to  telle  720 

How  that  we  baren  us  that  ilke  night, 
Whan  we  were  in  that  hostelrye  alight. 
And  after  wol  I  telle  of  our  viage. 
And  al  the  remenaunt  of  our  pilgrimage. 
But  first  I  pray  yow  of  your  curteisye, 
That  ye  narette  it  nat  my  vileinye^s, 
Thogh  that  I  pleynly  speke  in  this  materc, 
To  telle  yow  hir  wordes  and  hir  chere** ; 
Ne  thogh  I  speke  hir  wordes  proprely*^ 
For  this  ye  knowen  also  wel  as  I, 
Who-so  shal  telle  a  tale  after  a  man. 


730 


28  a  St.  Veronica  (a 
cloth  bearing  a  pic- 
ture of  Christ) 

20  brimful 

30  from    the    north     to 

the   south   of    Eng- 
land 

31  valise 

32  pillow-case 

33  the    veil    of    the    Vir- 

gin 

34  piece 

35  sail 


36  caught,     1.     e.,     con- 

verted 

37  cross 

38  brass 

39  in  the  country 

40  tricks 

41  best  of  all 

42  file,  polish 

43  attribute    it    not     to 

my    ill-breeding 

44  appearance 

45  exactly 


52 


FOURTEENTH  CENTURY 


He  moot  reherce,  as  nyi  as  evere  he  can, 

Everich  a2  word,  if  it  be  in  his  charges, 

Al*  speke  he  never  so  rudeliche  and  largeS; 

Or  elles  he  moot  telle  his  tale  untrewe, 

Or  feyne  thing,  or  fynde  wordes  newe. 

He  may  nat  spare,  al-thogh  he  were  his  brother ; 

He  moot  as  wel  seye  o  word  as  another. 

Crist  spak  him-self  ful  brode  in  holy  writ, 

And  wel  ye  woot,  no  vileinye  is  it.  740 

Eek  Plato  seith,  who-so  that  can  him  rede^, 

The  wordes  mote^  be  cosin  to  the  dede. 

Also  I  prey  yow  to  foryeve  it  me, 

Al8  have  I  nat  set  folk  in  hir  degree 

Here  in  this  tale,  as  that  they  sholde  stonde; 

My  wit  is  short,  ye  may  wel  understonde. 

Greet  cheres  made  our  hoste  us  everichonio, 
And  to  the  soper  sette  he  us  anon; 
And  served  us  with  vitaille  at  the  beste. 
Strong  was  the  wyn,  and    wel    to    drinke    us 

leste". 
A  semely  man  oar  hoste  was  with-alle  751 

For  to  ban  been  a  marshal  in  an  halle; 
A  large  man  he  was  with  eyen  stepeiz, 
A  fairer  burgeysis  was  ther  noon  in  Chepei* : 
Bold  of  his  speche,  and  wys,  and  wel  y-taught, 
And  of  manhod  him  lakkede  right  naught. 
Eek  therto  he  was  right  a  mery  man, 
And  after  soper  pleyenis  he  bigan, 
And  spak  of  mirthe  amonges  othere  thinges, 
Whan  that  we  hadde  maad  our  rekeningesis ;  760 
And  seyde  thus:  'Now,  lordinges,  trewely 
Ye  ben  to  me  right  M'elcome  hertely: 
For  by  my  trouthe,  if  that  I  shal  nat  lye, 
I  ne  saughi7  this  yeer  so  mery  a  compaiguye 
At  ones  in  this  herberweis  as  is  now. 
Fayn  wolde  I  doon  yow  mirthe,  wiste  I  howi». 
And  of  a  mirthe  I  am  right  now  bithoght, 
To  doon  yow  esezo^  and  it  shal  coste  noght. 

Ye  goon  to  Caunterbury ;  God  yow  spede,    769 
The  blisful  martirzi  quyte22  yow  your  mede23. 
And  wel  I  woot,  as  ye  goon  by  the  weye. 
Ye  shapen24  yow  to  talen25  and  to  pleye; 
For  trewely,  confort  ne  mirthe  is  noon 
To  ryde  by  the  weye  doumb  as  a  stoon; 
And  therefor  wol  I  maken  yow  disport, 


1  nearly 

2  every 

8  1.  e.,  In  thp  tale  com- 
mitted to  him 

4  aitbougti 

8  freeiy 

« Chaucer  couid  not 
read  Oreek 

T  muKt 

8  although 

B  entertainment 

10  everjr   one 

11  it   pfeaRed 

12  t)riKht 

13  citizen 


14  A    market   square    In 

I^ondon      (now      a 
street,    Cheapside). 

1 5  to  play,  jest 
in  paid  our  bills 

17  snw  not 
iH  Inn 

18  give    you     fun     if    I 

knew   how 

20  give    you    recreation 

21  Thomas  ft   Kecket 

22  requite    (give) 
28  reward 

24  plan 

25  to  tell   tales 


As  I  seyde  erst,  and  doon  yow  som  confort. 
And  if  yow  lyketh  alle,  by  oon  assent, 
Now  for  to  stonden  at26  my  lugement, 
And  for  to  werken  as  I  shal  yow  seye, 
To-morwe,  whan  ye  ryden  by  the  weye,         780 
Now,  by  my  fader  soule,  that  is  deed, 
But27  ye  be  merye,  I  wol  yeve  yow  myn  heed. 
Hold  up  your  bond,  withoute  more  speche.' 
Our  counseil  was  nat  longe  for  to  seche28; 
Us  thoughte  it  was  noght   worth   to   make   it 

wys2». 
And  graunted  him  with-outen  more  avysso, 
And  bad  him  seye  his  verdit,  as  him  leste. 

'Lordinges,'  quod  he,  'now  herkneth  for  the 
beste ; 
But  tak  it  not,  I  prey  yow,  in  desdeyn ; 
This  is  the  poynt,  to  speken  short  and  pleyn, 
That  ech  of  yow,  to  shorte  with  our  weye3i, 
In  this  viage,  shal  telle  tales  tweye,  792 

To  Caunterbury-ward,  I  mene  it  so. 
And  hom-ward  he  shal  tellen  othere  two. 
Of  aventures  that  whylom  han  bif  alle. 
And  which  of  yow  that  bereth  him  best  of  alle, 
That  is  to  seyn,  that  telleth  in  this  cas 
Tales  of  best  sentence  and  most  solas32, 
Shal  han  a  soper  at  our  aller  cost 
Here  in  this  place,  sitting  by  this  post,       800 
Whan  that  we  come  agayn  fro  Caunterbury. 
And  for  to  make  yow  the  more  mery, 
I  wol  my-selven  gladly  with  yow  ryde. 
Right  at  myn  owne  cost,  and  be  your  gyde. 
And  who-so  wol  my  lugement  withseye33 
Shal  paye  al  that  we  spenden  by  the  weye. 
And  if  ye  vouche-sauf  that  it  be  so, 
Tel  me  anon,  with-outen  wordes  mo. 
And  I  wol  erly  shape34  me  therfore. ' 

This    thing    was    graunted,    and    our    othes 
swore  810 

With  ful  glad  herte,  and  preyden  him  also 
That  he  wold  vouche-sauf  for  to  do  so, 
And  that  he  wolde  been  our  governour. 
And  of  our  tales  luge  and  reportour, 
And  sette  a  soper  at  a  certeyn  prys ; 
And  we  wold  reuled  been  at  his  devysss^ 
In  heigh  and  lowe;  and  thus,  by  oon  assent. 
We  been  acorded  to  his  lugement. 
And  ther-up-on  the  wyn  was  fet8«  anoon; 
We  dronken,  and  to  reste  wente  echoon,       820 
With-outen  any  lenger  taryinge. 
A-morwe,  whan  thatsT  day  bigan  to  springe, 
Up  roos  our  host,  and  was  our  aller  cokas^ 


2«by 

-'7  unless 

28  seek 

•'»  a  matter  of  delibera- 
tion 

so  consideration 

81  to  shorten  our  way 
with 


32  amusement 
S3  gainsay 
84  prepare 

35  decision 

36  fetched 

87  when 

88  cock   of   us   all    (who 

woke  them  up) 


GEOFFEEY  CHAUCEB 


53 


And  gadrede  us  togidre,  alle  in  a  flok, 
And  forth  we  riden,  a  litel  more  than  pasi, 
Un-to  the  watering  of  seint  Thomas^. 
And  there  our  host  bigan  his  hors  areste, 
And  seyde;  'Lordinges,  herkneth  if  yow  leste. 
Ye  woot  your  forwards,  and  I  it  yow  reeorde*. 
If  even-song  and  morwe-song  acorde,  830 

Lat  se  now  who  shal  telle  the  firste  tale. 
As  evere  mote  I  drinke  wyn  or  ale, 
Whoso  be  rebel  to  my  lugement 
Shal  paye  for  al  that  by  the  weye  is  spent. 
Now     draweth     cuts,     er     that     we     ferrero 

twinned ; 
He  which  that  hath  the  shortest  shal  biginne. ' 
'Sire   knight,'   quod   he,   'my   maister   and   my 

lord, 
Now  draweth  cut,  for  that  is  myn  acords. 
Cometh  neer^, '  quod  he,  '  my  lady  prioresse ; 
And    ye,    sir    clerk,    lat    be    your    shamfast- 

nesse,  840 

Ne  studieth  noghtio ;  ley  bond  to,  every  man. ' 

Anon  to  drawen  every  wight  bigan. 
And  shortly  for  to  tellen,  as  it  was. 
Were  it  by  averturen,  or  sorti2,  or  casia, 
The  sothei*  is  this,  the  cut  fil  to  the  knight, 
Of  which  f ul  blythe  and  glad  was  every  wight ; 
And  telle  he  moste  his  tale,  as  was  resoun. 
By  forward  and  by  composiciounis. 
As  ye  han  herd;   what  nedeth  wordes  mo? 
And  whan  this  goode  man  saugh  it  was  so. 
As  he  that  wys  was  and  obedient  851 

To  kepe  his  forward  by  his  free  assent, 
He  seyde:     'Sini«  I  shal  beginne  the  game, 
What,  welcome  be  the  cut,  ai"  Goddes  name! 
Now  lat  us  ryde,  and  herkneth  what  I  seye. ' 

And  with  that  word  we  riden  forth  our  weye ; 
And  he  bigan  with  right  a  mery  chereis 
His  tale  anon,  and  seyde  in  this  manere. 

The  Nonne  Preestes  Tale* 

Here  iiginneth  the  Nonne  Preestes  Tale  of  the 

Cole  and  Hen,  Chauntecleer  and 

Pertelote. 

A  povre  widwe  somdel  stopei^  in  age. 

Was  whylom2o  dwelling  in  a  narwe-'i  cotage, 

Bisyde  a  grove,  stondyng  in  a  dale. 

This  widwe,  of  which  I  telle  yow  my  tale, 

1  faster  than  a  walk 

2  Two  miles  on  the  way 

to   Canterbury. 

3  agreement 

4  remind   you  of  it 
Slots 
«  further 

7  separate 

8  decision 
B  nearer 

10  don't    meditate 
•  In  the  Ellesmere  MS.  this  is  the  twentieth  tale. 

Sir  John,  the  "Nun's  Priest,"  was  an  escort 
of  Madame  Eglentyne  ;  see  Prologue,  164.  His 
tal«  is  an  old  one,  found  in  various  languages. 


11  chance 

12  fate 

13  accident 

14  truth 

15  contract 

16  since 

17  in 

18  expression 

19  advanced 

20  once  upon  a  time 

21  narrow 


Sin  thilke22  day  that  she  was  last  a  wyf, 

In  pacience  ladde  a  ful  simple  lyf, 

For  litel  was  hir  catel  and  Mr  rent23; 

By  housbondrye,  of  such  as  God  hir  sente, 

She  fond24  hir-self,  and  eek  hir  doghtren^s  two. 

Three  large  sowes  hadde  she,  and  namo,  10 

Three    kyn,    and    eek    a    sheep    that    highte26 

Malle. 
Ful  sooty  was  hir  bour,  and  eek  hir  halle27, 
In  which  she  eet  ful  many  a  sclendre  meel. 
Of  poynaunt  sauce  hir  neded28  never  a  deel. 
No  deyntee  morsel  passed  thurgh  hir  throte; 
Hir  dyete  was  accordant  to  hir  cote. 
Eepleceioun29  ne  made  hir  nevere  syk; 
Attempree  dyete  was  al  hir  phisyk, 
And  exercyse,  and  hertes  suflBsaunce. 
The  goute  lette^o  hir  no-thing  for  to  daunce,  20 
Ne  poplexye  shentesi  nat  hir  heed; 
No  wyn  ne  drank  she,  neither  whyt  ne  reed; 
Hir  bord  was  served  most  with  whyt  and  blak, 
Milk  and  broun  breed,  in  which  she  fond  no 

lak, 
Seynd32    bacoun,    and    somtyme    an    eyS'    or 

tweye, 
For  she  was  as  it  were  a  maner  deyes*. 
A  yerd  she  hadde,  enclosed  al  aboute 
With  stikkes,  and  a  drye  dich  with-oute, 
In  which  she  hadde  a  cok,  hight  Chauntecleer, 
In  al  the  land  of  crowing  nasss  his  peer.         30 
His  vois  was  merier  than  the  merye  orgonS* 
On  messe-dayes37  that  in  the  chirche  gon; 
Wei  sikererss  ^as  his  crowing  in  his  logge**, 
Than  is  a  clokke,  or  an  abbey  orlogge*o. 
By  nature  knew  he  ech  ascensioun^i 
Of  equinoxial  in  thilke  toun; 
For  whan  degrees  fiftene  were  ascended, 
Thanne    crew    he,    that    it    mighte    nat 

amended*2. 
His  comb  was  redder  than  the  fyn  coral, 
And  batailed^s,  as  it  were  a  castel-wal. 
His  bile<*  was  blak,  and  as  the  leet^s  it  shoon; 
Lyk  asur  were  his  legges,  and  his  toon^S; 
His  nayles  whytter  than  the  lilie  flour. 


ben 


40 


since  that 

■  her    property     (chat- 
tels)   and    her    in- 
come 
supported 
daughters 
i  was  called 
Bower   and    hall    are 
terms        applicable 
to    a    castle ;    used 
here       humorously 
of      the      probably 
one-room    cottage. 
(  (reflexive)    she  need- 
ed 
I  surfeit 
I  hindered 
hurt 
:  singed    (broiled) 


33  egg 

34  sort   of  dairy-woman 

35  was  not 
86  organs 

37  mass-days 

38  surer 

39  lodging 

40  horologe 

41  he     knew     the     time 

every  hour  of  the 
day  (for  15°  of 
the  equinoctial  are 
passed  each  hour 
of  the  twenty-four) 

42  so    that     it    couldn't 

be  improved  upon 

43  embattled 

44  bill 

45  Jet 

46  toes 


54 


FOURTEENTH  CENTURY 


And  lyk  the  burnedi  gold  was  his  colour. 
This  gentil  cok  hadde  in  his  governaunce 
Sevene  hennes,  for  to  doon  all  his  plesaunce, 
Whiche  were  his  sustres  and  his  paramours, 
And  wonder  lyk  to  him,  as  of2  colours. 
Of  whiche  the  faireste  hewed  on  hir  throte 
Was  clepeds  faire  damoysele  Pertelote.  50 

Curteys  she  was,  discreet,  and  debonaire^. 
And  compaignable,  and  bar  hir-self  so  faire, 
Sin  thilke  day  that  she  was  seven  night  old. 
That  trewely  she  hath  the  herte  in  hold 
Of  Chauntecleer  loken  in  every  liths, 
He  loved  hir  so,  that  wel  him  was  therwith. 
But  such  a  loye  was  it  to  here  hem  singe, 
Whan  that  the  brighte  sonne  gan  to  springe. 
In  swete  accord,  '  my  lief  is  f aren  in  londe^. ' 
For  thilke^  tyme,  as  I  have  understonde,        60 
Bestes  and  briddes  coude  speke  and  singe. 

And  so  bifel,  that  in  a  dawenynge. 
As  Chauntecleer  among  his  wyves  alle 
Sat  on  his  perche,  that  was  in  the  halle. 
And  next  him  sat  this  faire  Pertelote, 
This  Chauntecleer  gan  gronen  in  his  throte. 
As  man  that  in  his  dreem  is  drecched^  sore. 
And  whan  that  Pertelote  thus  herde  him  rore, 
She  was  agast,  and  seyde,  'o  herte  deere, 
What  eyieth  yow,  to  grone  in  this  manere?  70 
Ye  ben  a  verray  sleper,  f y  for  shame !  ' 
And  he  answerde  and  seyde  thus,  'raadame, 
I  pray  yow,  that  ye  take  it  nat  agriefo ; 
By  God,  me  metteio  I  was  in  swich  meschief 
Right  now,  that  yet  myn  herte  is  sore  afright. 
Now    God,'    quod    he,    *my    swevenen    redei2 

aright. 
And  keep  my  body  out  of  foul  prisoun! 
Me  mette,  how  that  I  romed  up  and  doun 
Withinne  our  yerde,  wher  as  I  saugh  a  beste, 
Was    lyk    an    hound,    and    wolde    han    maad 
aresteia  80 

Upon  ray  body,  and  wolde  han  had  me  deed. 
His  colour  was  bitwixe  yelwe  and  reed; 
And  tipped  was  his  tail,  and  bothe  his  eres 
With  blak,  unlyk  the  remenant  of  his  heres; 
His  snowte  smal,  with  glowinge  even  tweye. 
Yet  of  his  look  for  fere  almost  I  deye; 
This  caused  me  my  groning.  doutelea, ' 

'Avoyi*!'  quod  she,  'fy  on  yow,  hertelesis! 
Alias!'  quod  she,  'for,  by  that  God  above. 
Now  han  ye  lost  myn  herte  and  al  my  love;  90 
I  can  nat  love  a  coward,  by  my  feith. 
For  certes,  what  so  any  womman  seith. 


1  bnrnished 

'■i  In   n'Hpe<'t  to 

^  named 

't  eracloiis 

B  locked  In  pvory  limb 

«  my  bclovod  Is  gone  to 

the    country,    gone 

away 


T  at  that 
8  troubled 
0  ami.ss 

10  I    dreamed 

11  dream 

12  Interpret 

13  seizure 

14  away 

10  heartless  one 


We  alle  desyren,  if  it  mighte  be, 
To  han  housbondes  hardy,  wyse,  and  freei«, 
And  secreei^^  and  no  nigard,  ne  no  fool, 
Ne  him  that  is  agast  of  every  toolis, 
Ne  noon  avauntouris,  by  that  God  above! 
How  dorste  ye  sayn  for  shame  unto  youre  love. 
That  any  thing  mighte  make  yow  aferd? 
Have  ye  no  mannes  herte,  and  han  a  berd?  100 
Alias!  and  conne  ye  been  agast  of  swevenis? 
No-thing,  God  wot,  but  vanitee,  in  sweven  is. 
Swevenes  engendren   of  replecciouns, 
And  ofte  of  fume,  and  of  complecciouns2o, 
Whan    humours2i    been    to22    habundant    in    a 

wight. 
Certes  this  dreem,  which  ye  han  met23  to-night, 
Cometh  of  the  grete  superfluitee 
Of  youre  rede  colera^*,  pardee. 
Which  causeth  folk  to  dremen  in  here25  dremes 
Of  arwes26,  and  of  fyr  with  rede  lenies27j      110 
Of  grete  bestes,  that  they  wol  hem  byte. 
Of  contek28j  and  of  whelpes  grete  and  lyte; 
Right  as  the  humour  of  malencolye2o 
Causeth  ful  many  a  man,  in  sleep,  to  crye, 
For  fere  of  blake  beres,  or  boles3o  blake, 
Or  elles,  blake  develes  wole  him  take. 
Of  othere  humours  coude  1  telle  also, 
That  werken  many  a  man  in  sleep  ful  wo; 
But  I  wol  passe  as  lightly  as  I  can.  119 

Lo  Catounsi,  which  that  was  so  wys  a  man, 
Seyde  he  nat  thus,  ne  do  no  fors32  of  dremes? 
Now,   sire,'   quod  she,  'whan  we  flee   fro  the 

hemes. 
For  Goddes  love,  as33  tak  som  laxatyf ; 
Up  peril  of  my  soule,  and  of  my  lyf, 
I  counseille  yow  the  beste,  I  wol  nat  lye. 
That  both  of  colere,  and  of  malencolye^o 
Ye  purge  yow;  and  for  ye  shul  nat  tarie, 
Though  in  this  toun  is  noon  apotecarie, 
I  shal  my-self  to  herbes  techen  yow,  129 

That   shul   ben    for   your   hele,    and    for   your 

prow84 ; 
And  in  our  yerd  tho  herbes  shal  I  fynde. 
The  whiche  han  of  here  propretee,  by  kyndess, 
To  purgen  yow  bincthe,  and  eek  above. 
Forget  not  this,  for  Goddes  owene  love! 
Ye  been  ful  colerik  of  compleccioun. 
Ware3«  the  sonne  in  his  ascencioun 
Ne  fynde  yow  nat  repleet  of  humours  bote; 

28  their 

26  arrows 

27  glenms 

28  contest 

20  Due  to  excess  of  bile. 
:io  bulls 

81  nionyslus  Cato 
rii  t'lko  no  notice 
3S  do   now    (pleonastic) 
34  profit 
ss  nature 
30  beware 


16  liberal 

17  trusty 

18  weapon 
HI  boaster 

20  temperaments 

21  The   four  causes  and 

classes  of  disease 
(see  Proloyui, 
420). 

22  too 

28  dreamed 

24  red    cholera     (caused 

by    too    much    bile 

and  blood) 


GEOrFKEY  CHAUCER 


55 


And  if  it  do,  I  dar  wel  leye  a  grotei, 

That  ye  shul  have  a  fevere  terciane^, 

Or  an  agu,  that  may  be  youre  bane.  140 

A  day  or  two  ye  shul  have  digestyves 

Of  wormes,  er  ye  take  your  laxatyves, 

Of  lauriol,  centaure,  and  fumetere^, 

Or  elles  of  ellebor*,  that  groweth  there, 

Of  eatapucea,  or  of  gaytres*  beryis. 

Of  erbe  yve,  growing  in  our  yerd,  that  mery  is; 

Pekke  hem  up  right  as  they  growe,  and   ete 

hem  in. 
Be  mery,  housbond,  for  your  fader  kyn! 
Dredeth  no  dreem ;   I  can  say  yow  namore. ' 
'Madame,'  quod  he,  ' graunt  mercy'!  of  your 
lore. 
But  natheles,  as  touching  dauns  Catoun,       151 
That  hath  of  wisdom  such  a  gret  renoun. 
Though  that  he  bad  no  dremes  for  to  drede, 
By  God,  men  may  in  olde  bokes  rede 
Of  many  a  man,  more  of  auctoritee 
Than  evere  Catoun  was,  so  moot  I  thee^, 
That  al  the  reversio  seyn  of  this  sentence^. 
And  han  wel  founden  by  experience, 
That   dremes   ben   significaciouns. 
As  wel  of  loye  as  tribulaciouns  160 

That  folk  enduren  in  this  lyf  present. 
Ther  nedeth  make  of  this  noon  argument ; 
The  verray  preve^^  sheweth  it  in  dede. 
Oon  of  the  gretteste  auctours  that  men  redeia 
Seith  thus,  that  whylom  two  felawes  wente 
On  pilgrimage,  in  a  ful  good  entente; 
And  happed  so,  thay  come  into  a  toun, 
Wher  as  ther  was  swich   congregacioun 
Of  peple,  and  eek  so  streiti*  of  herbergageis, 
That  they  ne  founde  as  muche  as  o  cotage,  170 
In  which  they  bothe  mighte  y-logged  be. 
Wherfor  thay  mosten,  of  necessitee. 
As  for  that  night,  departen  compaignye; 
And  ech  of  hem  goth  to  his  hostelrye, 
And  took  his  logging  as  it  wolde  falle. 
That  oon  of  hem  was  logged  in  a  stalle, 
Feris  in  a  yerd,  with  oxen  of  the  plough; 
That  other  man  was  logged  wel  y-nough. 
As  was  his  aventurei^,  or  his  fortune, 
That  us  governeth  alle  as  in  communeis.       180 
And  so  bifel,  that,  long  er  it  were  day. 
This  man  mette  in  his  bed,  ther  as  he  lay. 
How  that  his  felawe  gan  up-on  him  calle. 
And  seyde,  'alias!  for  in  an  oxes  stalle 


1  wager    a    groat    (four 

pence) 

2  tertian     (every     third 

day) 

3  laurel,  centaury,  fumi- 

tory 

4  hellebore 

5  spurge 

«  dog-wood 

7  great  thanks 

8  lord,     master      (Latin 

dominua) 


9  so    may    I    thrive    (a 

strong   affirmative ; 
cp.  1.  246) 

10  opposite 

11  opinion 

12  proof 
IS  Cicero 

14  scant 

15  lodging-places 

16  afar 

17  luck 

18  Jn  general 


This  night  I  shal  be  mordred  theri»  I  lye. 

Now  help  me,  dere  brother,  or  I  dye; 

In  alle  haste  com  to  me,'  he  sayde. 

This  man  out  of  his  sleep  for  fere  abraydeso; 

But  whan  that  he  was  wakned  of  his  sleep. 

He  turned  him,  and  took  of  this  no  keep2i,   190 

Him  thoughte22  his  dreem  nas  but  a  vanitee. 

Thus  twyes  in  his  sloping  dremed  he. 

And  atte  thridde  tyme  yet  his  felawe 

Com,  as  him  thoughte,  and  seide,  'I  am  now 

slawe23 ; 
Bihold  my  bloody  woundes,  depe  and  wyde! 
Arys  up  erly  in  the  morwe-tyde24, 
And  at  the  west  gate  of  the  toun,'  quod  he, 
*A  carte  ful  of  donge  ther  shaltow  see. 
In  which  my  body  is  hid  ful  prively; 
Do  thilke  carte  arresten25  boldely.  200 

My  gold  caused  my  mordre,  sooth  to  sayn ; ' 
And  tolde  him  every  poynt  how  he  was  slayn. 
With  a  ful  pitous  face,  pale  of  hewe. 
And  truste  wel,  his  dreem  he  fond  ful  trewe; 
For  on  the  morwe,  as  sone  as  it  was  day, 
To  his  felawes  in  he  took  the  way; 
And  whan  that  he  cam  to  this  oxes  stalle, 
After  his  felawe  he  bigan  to  calle. 
The  hostiler  answerde  him  anon, 
And  seyde,  'sire,  your  felawe  is  agon,  210 

As  sone  as  day  he  wente  out  of  the  toun.' 
This  man  gan  fallen  in  suspecioun, 
Kemembring  on  his  dremes  that  he  mette. 
And  forth  he  goth,  no  longer  wolde  he  lette2«, 
Unto  the  west  gate  of  the  toun,  and  fond 
A  dong-carte,  as  it  were  to  donge  lond. 
That  was  arrayed  in  that  same  wyse 
As  ye  han  herd  the  dede  man  devyseZT; 
And  with  an  hardy  herte  he  gan  to  crye 
Vengeaunce  and  lustiee  of  this  felonye: —    220 
'My  felawe  mordred  is  this  same  night, 
And  in  this  carte  he  lyth  gapinge  upright. 
I  crye  out  on  the  minL5tres28, '  quod  he, 
'That  sholden  kepe  and  reulen  this  citee; 
Harrow !   alias !   her  lyth  my  felawe  slayn ! ' 
What  sholde  I  more  unto  this  tale  saynf 
The   peple   out-sterte,    and    caste    the    cart    to 

grounde. 
And  in  the  middel  of  the  dong  they  founde 
The  dede  man,  that  mordred  was  al  newe.  229 

'O  blisful  God,  that  art  so  lust  and  trewe! 
Lo,  how  that  thou  biwreyest29  mordre  alway! 
Mordre  wol  out,  that  se  we  day  by  day. 
Mordre  is  so  wlatsomso  and  abhominable 
To  God,  that  is  so  lust  and  resonable, 


19  murdered  where 

20  started  up 

21  heed 

22  it  seemed  to  him 

23  slain 

24  morning-time 


25  have . .  stopped 

26  delay 

27  relate 

28  officers 

29  makest  kaown 

30  hateful 


56 


FOUETEENTH  CENTUEY 


That  he  ne  wol  nat  suffre  it  heledi  be ; 
Though  it  abyde  a  yeer,  or  two,  or  three, 
Mordre  wol  out,  this2  my  conclusioun. 
And  right  anoon,  ministres  of  that  toun 
Han  hent  the  carter,  and  so  sore  him  pyneda, 
And  eek  the  hostiler  so  sore  engyned*-,  240 

That  thay  biknewes  hir  wikkednesse  anoon, 
And  were  an-hanged  by  the  nekke-boon. 

'Here  may  men  seen  that   dremes  been  to 

drede. 
And  certes,  in  the  same  book  I  rede, 
Bight  in  the  nexte  chapitre  after  this, 
(I  gabbes  nat,  so  have  I  loye  or  blis,) 
Two  men  that  wolde  han  passed  over  see, 
For  certeyn  cause,  into  a  fer  contree, 
If  that  the  wind  ne  hadde  been  contrarie. 
That  made  hem  in  a  citee  for  to  tarie,       250 
That  stood  ful  mery  upon  an  haven-syde. 
But  on  a  day,  agayn^  the  even-tyde, 
The  wind  gan  chaunge,  and  blew  right  as  hem 

leste. 
lolif  and  glad  they  wente  un-to  hir  reste. 
And  casten  hems  ful  erly  for  to  saille; 
But  to  that  ooo  man  fel  a  greet  mervailleio. 
That  oon  of  hem,  in  sleping  as  he  lay. 
Him  mette  a  wonder  dreem,  agayn^  the  day; 
Him  thoughte  a  man  stood  by  his  beddes  syde, 
And  him  comaunded,  that  he  sholde  abyden, 
And     seyde     him     thus,     *if     thou     to-morwe 

wende,  261 

Thou  shalt  be  dreynti2;  my  tale  is  at  an  ende. ' 
He  wook,  and  tolde  his  felawe  what  he  mette, 
And  preyde  him  his  viage  for  to  letteiS; 
Asi*  for  that  day,  he  preyde  him  to  abyde. 
His  felawe,  that  lay  by  his  beddes  syde, 
Gan  for  to  laughe,  and  scorned  him  ful  faste. 
'No    dreem,'    quod    he,    'may    so    myn    herte 

agasteis, 
That  I  wol  letteis  for  to  do  my  thingesis. 
I  sette  not  a  straw  by  thy  dreminges,  270 

For  swevenes  been  but  vanitees  and  lapesi^. 
Men  dreme  al-dayis  of  owles  or  of  apes, 
And  eek  of  many  a  maseis  therwithal; 
Men  dreme  of  thing  that  nevere  was  ne  shal. 
But  sithzo  I  gee  that  thou  wolt  heer  abyde, 
And  thus  for-8leuthen2i  wilfully  thy  tyde, 
God  wot  it  reweth22  me;  and  have  good  day.' 
And  thus  he  took  his  leve,  and  wente  his  way. 
But  er  that  he  hadde  halfe  his  cours  v-seyled. 


1  hidden 

2  this  is 

a  tormented 
4  racked 
R  confeHsed 
•  lie 

7  townrd 
N  planned 
»  one 

10  marvel 

11  tarry 


12  drowned 
18  delay 
1*  at  least 

15  frighten 

16  business   matters 
IT  Jests 

18  all  the  time 
10  wild  fancy 

20  since 

21  lose  through  sloth 

22  grievcth 


Noot23    I    nat    why,    ne    what    mischaunce    it 

eyled24^ 
But  casuelly25  the  shippes  botme  rente,  281 

And  ship  and  man  under  the  water  wente 
In  sighte  of  othere  shippes  it  byside. 
That  with  hem  seyled  at  the  same  tyde. 
And  therfor,  faire  Pertelote  so  dere, 
By  swiche  ensamples  olde  maistow26  lere^i, 
That  no  man  sholde  been  to  recchelees28 
Of  dremes,  for  I  sey  thee,  doutelees. 
That  many  a  dreem  ful  sore  is  for  to  drede. 

'Lo,  in  the  lyf  of  seint  Kenelm,  I  rede,  290 
That  was  Kenulphus  sone,  the  noble  king 
Of  Mercenrike29,  how  Kenelm  mette  a  thing; 
A  lyteso  er  he  was  mordred,  on  a  day. 
His  mordre  in  his  avisiounsi  he  say32. 
His  norice33  him  expouned  every  del 
His  swevene,  and  bad  him  for  to  kepe  him  wel 
For34  traisoun;  but  he  nas  but  seven  yeer 

old. 
And  therfore  litel  taless  hath  he  told3« 
Of  any  dreem,  so  holy  was  his  herte. 
By  God,  I  hadde  leveres^  than  my  sherte       300 
That  ye  had  radss  his  legende,  as  have  I. 
Dame  Pertelote,  I  sey  yow  trewely, 
Macrobeus,  that  writ  the  avisiounss 
In  Affrike  of  the  worthy  Cipioun, 
Affermeth  dremes,  and  seith  that  they  been 
Warning  of  thinges  that  men  after  seen. 
And  forther-more,  I  pray  yow  loketh  wel 
In  the  olde  testament,  of  Daniel, 
If  he  held  dremes  any  vanitee. 
Reed  eek  of  loseph,  and  ther  shul  ye  see   310 
Wher40  dremes  ben  somtyme  (I  sey  nat  alle) 
Warning  of  thinges  that  shul  after  falle. 
Loke  of  Egipt  the  king,  daun*i  Pharao, 
His  bakere  and  his  boteler-*2  also, 
Wher^o  they  ne  felte  noon  effect  in  dremes. 
Who  so  wol  seken  actes^s  of  sondry  remes** 
May  rede  of  dremes  many  a  wonder  thing. 

'Lo  Cresus,  whiQh  that  was  of  Lyde^s  king, 
Mette  he  nat  that  he  sat  upon  a  tree, 
Which  signified  he  sholde  anhanged  bef       320 
Lo  heer  Andromacha,  Ectores  wyf, 
That  day  that  Ector  sholde  lese^s  his  lyf, 
She  dremed  on  the  same  night  biforn, 
How  that  the  lyf  of  Ector  sholde  be  lorn*'. 


23  know  not 

24  ailed  it 

26  accidentally 
20  mayest  thou 

27  learn 

28  careless 
28  Mercla 

30  little 

31  vision 

32  saw 

33  nurse 

34  for  fonr  of 

86  heed 
36  taken 

87  rather 


88  read 

89  Cicero's     Dream      of 

Scipio,  annotated 
by  the  grammarian 
Macroblus. 

40  whether 

41  lord 

42  butler 

48  the  history 
44  realms 

46  Ly  d  1  a     (In     Asia 
Minor) 

46  lose 

47  lost 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 


57 


If  thilke  day  he  wente  in-to  bataille; 

She  warned  him,  but  it  mighte  nat  availle; 

He  wente  for  to  fighte  natheles, 

But  he  was  slayn  anoom  of2  Achilles. 

But  thilke  tale  is  al  to  long  to  telle, 

And  eek  it  is  nys  day,  I  may  nat  dwelle.      330 

Shortly  I  seye,  as  for  conclusioun, 

That  I  shal  han  of  this  avisioun 

Adversitee;   and  I  seye  forther-more, 

That  I  ne  telle  of  laxatyves  no  store*. 

For  they  ben  venimouss,  I  woot  it  wel; 

I  hem  defye,  I  love  hem  nevere  a  del. 

'Now  let  us  speke  of  mirthe,  and  stinte  al 
this; 
Madame  Pertelote,  so  have  I  bliss, 
Of  o  thing  God  hath  sent  me  large  grace; 
For  whan  I  see  the  beautee  of  your  face,     340 
Ye  ben  so  scarlet-reed  about  youre  yen, 
It  maketh  al  my  drede  for  to  dyen; 
For,  also  siker^  as  In  principio, 
Mulier  est  hominis  conftisio^; 
Madame,  the  sentence  of  this  Latin  is — 
Womman  is  mannes  loye  and  al  his  blis; 

I  am  so  ful  of  loye  and  of  solas  350 

That  I  defye  bothe  sweven  and  dreem. ' 
And   with    that    word    he   fley^    doun    fro   the 

beem. 
For  it  was  day,  and  eek  his  hennea  alle; 
And  with  a  chuk  he  gan  hem  for  to  calle. 
For  he  had  founde  a  corn,  lay  in  the  yerd. 
Roial  he  was,  he  was  namore  aferd; 

He  loketh  as  it  were  a  grim  leoun; 
And  on  his  toos  he  rometh  up  and  doun,     360 
Him  deynedio  not  to  sette  his  foot  to  grounde. 
He  chukketh,  whan  he  hath  a  corn  y-founde, 
And  to  him  rennenii  thanne  his  wyves  alle. 
Thus  roial,  as  a  prince  is  in  his  halle, 
Leve  I  this  Chauntecleer  in  his  pasture; 
And  after  wol  I  telle  his  aventure. 

Whan   that    the   month   in   which  the   world 
bigan. 
That  highte  March,  whan  God  first  maked  man, 
Was  complet,  and  y-passed  were  also. 
Sin  March  bigan,  thritty  dayes  and  two,       370 
Bifel  that  Chauntecleer,  in  al  his  pryde. 
His  seven  wyves  walking  by  his  syde. 
Caste  up  his  eyen  to  the  brighte  sonne. 
That  in  the  signe  of  Taurus  hadde  y-ronne 
Twenty  degrees  and  oon,  and  somwhat  more; 
And  knew  by  kynde,  and  by  noon  other  lore. 


1  quickly 
2by 

3  nigh 

4  set     no     value     upon 

laxatives 

5  poisonous 

6  as  I  hope  for  bliss 


7  sure 

8  In   the  beginning  wo- 

man   is    man's    de- 
struction. 

9  flew 

10  he  deigned 

11  run 


That   it   was  prymeiz,   and   crew   with   blisful 

steveneis. 
'  The    Sonne, '    he    sayde,    *  is    clomben    up    on 

hevene 
Fourty  degrees  and  oon,  and  more,  y-wis. 
Madame  Pertelote,  my  worldes  blis,  380 

Herkneth  thise  blisful  briddesi*  how  they  singe. 
And  see  the  fresshe  floures  how  they  springe; 
Ful  is  myn  hert  of  revel  and  solas.' 
But  sodeinly  him  fil  a  sorweful  casis; 
For  evere  the  latter  ende  of  loye  is  wo. 
God  woot  that  worldly  loye  is  sone  agoi8; 
And  if  a  rethori^  coude  faire  endyteis. 
He  in  a  chronique  sauflyi^  mighte  it  write, 
As  for  a  sovereyn  notabilitee2o.  389 

Now  every  wys  man,  lat  him  herkne  me; 
This  storie  is  also  trewe,  I  undertake2i. 
As  is  the  book  of  Launcelot  de  Lake^a^ 
That  wommen  holde  in  ful  gret  reverence. 
Now  wol  I  torne  agayn  to  my  sentence. 

A  col23-fox,  ful  of  sly  iniquitee. 
That  in  the  grove  hadde  woned  yeres  three, 
By  heigh  imaginacioun  forn-cast24. 
The  same  night  thurgh-out  the  heggesss  brast26 
Into  the  yerd,  ther  Chauntecleer  the  faire 
Was  wont,  and  eek  his  wyves,  to  repaire;     400 
And  in  a  bed  of  wortes^^  stille  he  lay. 
Til  it  was  passed  undern28  of  the  day, 
Wayting  his  tyme  on  Chauntecleer  to  falle 
As  gladly  doon  thise  homicydes  alle. 
That  in  awayt  liggen29  to  mordre  men. 
O  false  mordrer,  lurking  in  thy  den! 
O  newe  Scariotso,  newe  Genilonsi! 
False  dissimilour32,  O  Greek  Sinonss, 
That  broghtest  Troye  al-outrely3*  to  sorwe! 
O  Chauntecleer,  acursed  be  that  morwe,       410 
That  thou  into  that  yerd  flough  fro  the  hemes! 
Thou  were  ful  wel  y-warned  by  thy  dremes, 
That  thilke  day  was  perilous  to  thee. 
But  what  that  God  forwotss  mot  nedes  be, 
After  the  opinioun  of  certeyn  clerkis. 
Witnesse  onss  him,  that  any  perfit  clerk  is, 
That  in  scole  is  gret  altercacioun 
In  this  matere,  and  greet  disputisoun, 


12  nine  o'clock 

13  voice 

14  birds 

15  fate 

16  gone 

17  rhetorician 

18  relate 

19  safely 

20  a      thing      especially 

worthy     to    be 
known 

21  affirm 

22  A    romance    of    chiv- 

a  1  r  y,       obviously 
false. 

23  coal  black 

24  pre-ordained    by    the 

supreme  conception 

25  hedges 


26  burst 

27  herbs 

28  about  eleven  a.  m. 

29  lie 

30  Judas    I  sea  riot 

31  The    traitor    that 

caused  the  defeat 
of  C  h  a  r  1  emagne 
and  the  death  of 
Roland. 

32  deceiver 

33  Designer    of    the 

wooden  horse  by 
which  Troy  was 
entered. 

34  entirely 

35  foreknows 

36  by 


58 


FOURTEENTH  CENTURY 


And  hath  ben  of  an  hundred  thousand  men. 
But  I  ne  can  not  bulte  it  to  the  breni,        420 
As  can  the  holy  doctour  Augustynz, 
Or  Boece3,  or  the  bishop  Bradwardyn<, 
Whether  that  Goddes  worthy  forwiting 
Streyneths  me  nedely  for  to  doon  a  thing, 
(Nedely  clepe  I  simple  necessitee)  ; 
Or  elles,  if  free  choys  be  graunted  me 
To  do  that  same  thing,  or  do  it  noght, 
Though  God  forwot  it,  er  that  it  was  wroght; 
Or  if  his  witing  streyneth  nevere  a  del 
But  by  necessitee  condicionels.  430 

I  wol  not  han  to  do  of  swich  matere; 
My  tale  is  of  a  cok,  as  ye  may  here, 
That  took  his  counseil  of  his  wyf,  with  sorwe, 
To  walken  in  the  yerd  upon  that  morwe 
That  he  had  met  the  dreem,  that  I  of  tolde. 
Wommennes  counseils  been  ful  ofte  colde^; 
Wommannes  counseil  broghte  us  first  to  wo, 
And  made  Adam  fro  paradys  to  go, 
Ther  as  he  was  ful  mery,  and  wel  at  ese. 
But  for  I  noots,  to  whom  it  mighte  displese. 
If  I  counseU  of  wommen  wolde  blame,         441 
Passe  over,  for  I  seyde  it  in  my  game^. 
Rede  auctours,  wher  they  trete  of  swich  matere, 
And  what  thay  seyn  of  wommen  ye  may  here. 
Thise  been  the  cokkes  wordes,  and  nat  myne; 
I  can  noon  harme  of  no  womman  divyne. 

Faire  in  the  sond,  to  bathe  hire  merily, 
Lyth  Pertelote,  and  alle  hir  sustres  by, 
Agaynio  the  sonne;   and  Chauntecleer  so  free 
Song    merier    than     the     mermayde     in     the 
see ;  450 

For  Phisiologus"   seith  sikerly. 
How  that  they  singen  wel  and  merily. 
And  so  bifel,  that  as  he  caste  his  JB^^, 
Among  the  wortes,  on  a  boterflye. 
He  was  war  is  of  this  fox  that  lay  ful  lowe. 
No-thing  ne  liste  him  thanne  for  to  crowe. 
But  cryde  anon,  'cok,  cok,'  and  up  he  sterte, 
As  man  that  was  aflfrayed  in  his  herte. 
For  naturelly  a  beest  desyreth  flee 
Fro  his  contraries,  if  he  may  it  see,  460 

Though  he  never  erst  had  seyn  it  with  his  ye. 

This  Chauntecleer,  whan  he  gan  him  espyeis, 


1  boult  it  to  the  bran  ; 

i.     e.,      thoroughly 
sift  the  question 

2  St.   Augustine 

s  Boetbius,  a  Roman 
statesman  and 
philosopher  of  the 
fifth  century  A.  I). 

4  Chancellor  at  Oxford 
in  the  fourteenth 
century. 

8  foreknowledge  con- 
strains 

6  except  by  conditional 
(as  opposed  to  sim- 
ple    or     absolute) 


necessity  (The  old 
question  whether 
foreknowledge  con- 
stitutes foreordina- 
tion.) 

7  baneful 

8  know    not 
»  Jest 

10  In 

11  Theobaldus"     PhyHo- 

loauH,  or  "Natural 
History  of  Twelve 
Animals." 

1 2  eyes 
18  aware 

14  opponent,   foe 
18  to  espy 


He  wolde  han  fled,  but  that  the  fox  anon 
Seyde,  'Gentil  sire,  alias!  wher  wol  ye  gonf 
Be  ye  aflfrayed  of  me  that  am  your  freendf 
Now  certes,  I  were  worse  than  a  feend. 
If  I  to  yow  wolde  harm  or  vileinye. 
I  am  nat  come  your  counseil  for  tespye; 
But  trewely,  the  cause  of  my  cominge 
Was  only  for  to  herkne  how  that  ye  singe.  470 
For  trewely  ye  have  as  mery  a  stevenei«, 
As  eny  aungel  hath,  that  is  in  hevene; 
Therwith  ye  han  in  musik  more  felinge 
Than  hadde  Boece,  or  any  that  can  singe. 
My  lord  your  fader  (God  his  soule  blesse!) 
And  eek  your  moder,  of  hir  gentilesse, 
Han  in  myn  hous  y-been,  to  my  gret  esei^; 
And  certes,  sire,  ful  fayn  wolde  I  yow  plese. 
But  for  men  speke  of  singing,  I  wol  saye, 
So  mote  I  broukeis  wel  myn  eyen  tweye,     480 
Save  yow,  I  herde  nevere  man  so  singe, 
As  dide  your  fader  in  the  morweninge; 
Certes,  it  was  of  herteis,  al  that  he  song. 
And  for  to  make  his  voys  the  more  strong, 
He  wolde  so  peyne  himzo,  that  with  both  his 

yen 
He  moste  winkezi,  so  loude  he  wolde  cryen. 
And  stonden  on  his  tiptoon  therwithal, 
And  strecche  forth  his  nekke  long  and  smal. 
And  eek  he  was  of  swich  discrecioun, 
That  ther  nas  no  man  in  no  regioun  490 

That  him  in  song  or  wisdom  mighte  passe. 
I  have  weel  rad  in  daun22  Burnel  the  Asse, 
Among  his  vers,  how  that  ther  was  a  cok. 
For  that  a  prestes  sone  yaf  him  a  knok 
Upon  his  leg,  whyl  he  was  yong  and  nyce^s, 
He  made  him  for  to  lese  his  benefyces*. 
But  certeyn,  ther  nis  no  comparisoun 
Bitwix  the  wisdom  and  discrecioun 
Of  your  fader,  and  of  his  subtiltee. 
Now  singeth,  sire,  for  seinte  charitee,  500 

Let  se,  conne  ye  your  fader  countref ete  f ' 
This  Chauntecleer  his  winges  gan  to  bete, 
As  man  that  coude  his  tresoun  nat  espye, 
So  was  he  ravisshed  with  his  flaterye. 

Alias!   ye  lordes,  many  a  fals  flatourss 
Is  in  your  eourtes,  and  many  a  lo3engeour2«. 
That  plesen  yow  wel  more,  by  my  feith. 
Than  he  that  soothfastnesse  unto  yow  seith. 
Redeth  EcclesiastezT  of  flaterye; 
Beth  war,  ye  lordes,  of  hir  trecherye.  510 


16  voice 

17  to    my    great    pleas- 

ure ;   1.  e.,  the  fox 
had  eaten  them 

18  have  the  use  of 
18  from  his   heart 

20  strain  himself 

21  he    must    shut    both 

eyes 


22  lord     (This    was    an 

old  story.) 
2.t  foolish 
24 1.    e.,   by   crowiuK  so 

late  that  the  youth 

did    not    awake    in 

time 
2R  flatterer 
20  deceiver 
27  EccU'8ia8tic»8,  xll.  10. 


GEOFFBEY  CHAUCER 


59 


This  Chauntecleer  stood  hye  upon  his  toos, 
Strecehing  bis  nekke,  and  held  his  eyeu  cloos, 
And  gan  to  crowe  loude  for  the  nonesi ; 
And  daun  Russel^  the  foxe  sterte  up  at  ones, 
And  by  the  gargats  hente  Chauntecleer, 
And  on  his  bak  toward  the  wode  him  beer*, 
For  yet  ne  was  ther  no  man  that  him  sewed^. 
O  destinee,  that  mayst  nat  ben  eschewed! 
Alias,  that  Chauntecleer  fleigh  fro  the  hemes! 
Alias,  his  wyf  ne  roghte^  nat  of  dremes!       S20 
And  on  a  Friday  fil  al  this  meschaunce. 
O  Venus,  that  art  goddesse  of  plesaunce, 
Sin  that  thy  servant  was  this  Chauntecleer, 

Why  woldestow  suffre  him  on  thy  day  to  dye? 
O  Gaufred,  dere  mayster  soverayn^, 
That,  whan  thy  worthy  king  Richard  was  slayn 
With  shot,  compleynedest  his  deth  so  sore. 
Why  ne  hadde  I  now  thy  sentence^  and  thy 

lore. 
The  Friday  for  to  chide,  as  diden  ye  I         531 
(For  on  a  Friday  sooth ly  slayn  was  he.) 
Than   wolde  I   sliewe   yow   how   that   I   coude 

pleynefl 
For  Chauntecleres  drede,  and  for  his  peyne. 

Certes,  swich  cry  ne  lamentacioun 
Was  nevere  of  ladies  maad,  whan  Ilioun 
Was    wonne,    and    Pirrusio    with    his    streiten 

swerd. 
Whan  he  hadde  hent  king  Priam  by  the  berd, 
And  slayn  him  (as  saith  us  Eneydos)^-, 
As  maden  alle  the  hennes  in  the  closis^  540 

Whan  they  had  seyn  of  Chauntecleer  the  sighte. 
But  sovereynlyi*  dame  Pertelote  shrightei^^ 
Ful  louder  than  dide  Hasdrubalesis  wyf, 
Whan  that  hir  housbond  hadde  lost  his  lyf, 
And  that  the  Romayns  hadde  brend  Cartage, 
She  was  so  ful  of  torment  and  of  rage. 
That  wilfully  into  the  fyr  she  stertei^, 
And  brendeis  hir-selven  with  a  stedfast  herte. 
O  woful  hennes,  right  so  cryden  ye. 
As,  whan  that  Nero  brende  the  citee  550 

Of  Rome,  cryden  senatoures  wyves. 
For  that  hir  housbondes  losten  alle  hir  lyres; 
Withouten  gilti9  this  Nero  hath  hem  slayn. 
Now  wol  I  tome  to  my  tale  agayn: 

This  sely2o  widwe,  and  eek  hir  doghtres  two. 


1  occasion 

2  As  the  ass  was  called 

Burnel  because  he 
is  brown,  so  the 
fox  was  called  Rus- 
sell because  he  is 
red. 

3  throat 

4  bore 

5  followed 

6  did  not  care  for 

7  Chaucer  is  making  fun 

of    an    old    writer, 


Geoffrey     de      Vin- 
sauf. 

8  power  of  expression 

9  complain 

10  Pyrrhus 

11  drawn 

12  The  Aeneid. 

13  enclosure 

14  surpassingly 

15  shrieked 

16  A  king  of  Carthage. 

17  leaped 

18  burned 

19  guilt 

20  pious 


Herden  thise  hennes  crye  and  maken  wo, 
And  out  at  dores  sterten  thay  anoon, 
And  syen  the  fox  toward  the  grove  goon, 
And  bar  upon  his  bak  the  cok  away; 
And  cryden,  'Out!  harrow!  and  weylaway!  560 
Ha,  ha,  the  fox ! '  and  after  him  they  ran, 
And  eek  with  staves  many  another  man; 
Ran  CoUe  our  dogge,  and  Talbot2i,  and  Ger- 

land2i, 
And  Malkin22j  with  a  distaf  in  hir  hand; 
Ran  cow  and  calf,  and  eek  the  verray  hogges 
So  were  they  fered  for  berking  of  the  dogges 
And  shouting  of  the  men  and  wimmen  eke, 
They  ronne  so,  hem  thoughte  hir  herte  breke. 
They  yelleden  as  feendes  doon  in  helle; 
The  dokes  cryden  as  men  wolde  hem  quelless; 
The  gees  for  fere  flowen  over  the  trees;       571 
Out  of  the  hyve^  cam  the  swarm  of  bees ; 
So  hidous  was  the  noyse,  a !  benedicite  !-* 
Certes,  he  lakke  Strawss^  and  his  meyneess^ 
Ne  maden  nevere  shoutes  half  so  shrille. 
Whan  that  they  wolden  any  Fleming  kille. 
As  thilke  day  was  maad  upon  the  fox. 
Of  bras  thay  broghten  bemes27  and  of  box28j 
Of  horn,   of  boon,  in  whiche  they  blewe  and 

pouped29^ 
And  therwithal  thay  shryked  and  they  houpedso ; 
It  semed  as  that  hevene  sholde  falle.  581 

Now,  gode  men,  I  pray  yow  herkneth  alle! 

Lo,  how   fortune  turneth  sodeinly 
The  hope  and  pryde  eek  of  hir  enemy! 
This  cok,  that  lay  upon  the  foxes  bak. 
In  al  his  drede,  un-to  the  fox  he  spak, 
And  seyde,  'sire,  if  that  I  were  as  ye. 
Yet  sholde  I  seyn  (as  wissi  God  helpe  me), 
Turneth  agayn,  ye  proude  cherles  aUe! 
A  verray  pestilence  up-on  yow  falle!  590 

Now  am  I  come  un-to  this  wodes  syde, 
Maugree32  your  heed,  the  cok  shal  heer  abyde; 
I  wol  him  ete  in  f  eith,  and  that  anon. ' — 
The  fox  answerde,  'In  feith,  it  shal  be  don,' — 
And  as  he  spak  that  word,  al  sodeinly 
This  cok  brak  from  his  mouth  deliverlysa^ 
And  heighe  upon  a  tree  he  fleigh  anon. 
And  whan  the  fox  saugh  that  he  was  y-gon, 
'  Alias ! '  quod  he,  '  O  Chauntecleer,  alias ! 
I  have  to  yow,'  quod  he,  'y-doon  trespas,     600 
Tn-as-muche  as  I  maked  yow  aferd, 
Whan   I   yow   hente,   and   broghte  out  of  the 

yerd; 


21  a  dog  (  ?) 

22  a  servant  girl 

23  kill 

24  bless  ye 

25  Jack     Straw,     leader 

with  Wat  Tyler  in 
the  Peasants'  Re- 
volt of  1381 :  said 
t  o  have  killed 
"many     Flemings," 


c  o  m  p  e  t  i  tors    in 
trade. 

26  followers 

27  horns 

28  wood 

2!)  made  a  noise  with  a 
horn 

30  whooped 

31  certainly 

32  in  spite  of 

33  quickly 


60 


FOURTEENTH  CENTURY 


610 


him 


620 


But,  sire,  I  dide  it  in  no  wikkei  entente; 
Cora  doun,  and  I  shal  telle  yow  what  I  mente. 
I  shal  seye  sooth  to  yow,  God  help  me  so.' 
*  Nay  than, '  quod  he,  '  I  shrewes  us  bothe  two, 
And  first  I  shrewe  my-self,  bothe  blood  and 

bones. 
If  thou  bigyle  me  ofter  than  ones. 
Thou  shalt  namore,  thurgh  thy  flaterye 
Do3  me  to  singe  and  winke  with  myn  ye. 
For  he  that  winketh,  whan  he  sholde  see, 
Al  wilfully,  God  lat  him  never  thee*! 
'Nay,'    quod    the    fox,    'but    God    yive 

meschaunce. 
That  is  so  undiscreet  of  governaunce. 
That  iangleths  whan  he  sholde  holde  his  pees.' 

Lo,  swich  it  is  for  to  be  recchelees, 
And  necligent,  and  truste  on  flaterye. 
But  ye  that  holden  this  tale  a  folye, 
As  of  a  fox,  or  of  a  cok  and  hen, 
Taketh  the  moralitee  therof,  good  men. 
For  seint  Paul  seith,  that  al  that  writen  is, 
To  our  doctrynes  it  is  y-write,  y-wis. 
Taketh  the  fruyt,  and  lat  the  chaf  be  stille. 

Now,  gode  God,  if  that  it  be  thy  wille, 
As  seith  my  lord,  so  make  us  alle  good  men; 
And  bringe  us  to  his  heighe  blisse.     Amen". 

From    THE   LEGEND   OF   GOOD    WOMEN. 

The  Story  of  Thisbe  op  Babylon,  Martyr 

Incipit  Legende   Tesha  Bdbilon,   Martiris 

At  Babiloyne  whilom  fil  it*  thus, — 
The  whiche  toun  the  queene  Semyramuss 
Leet  dichen  al  about,  and  walles  makeio 
Ful  hye,  of  harde  tiles  wel  y-bake:  709 

There  were  dwellynge  in  this  noble  toune 
Two  lordes,  which  that  were  of  grete  renoune, 
And  wonedenii  so  neigh  upon  a  grene, 
That  ther  nas  but  a  stoon  wal  hem  betwene, 
As  ofte  in  grette  tounes  is  the  wone. 
And  sooth  to  seyn,  that  o  man  had  a  sone, 
Of  al  that  londe  oon  of  the  lustieste; 
That  other  had  a  doghtre,  the  faireste 
That     esteward     in     the     worlde     was     thoi2 
dwellynge.  7  IS 

The  name  of  everyeheis  gan  to  other  spryngei*, 
By  wommen  that  were  neyghebores  aboute; 
For  in  that  contre  yit,  withouten  doute. 


1  wicked 

2  curse 

3  cause 

4  prosper 

5  chatters 

6  inRtructioD 

7  A  sort  of  tK'nedlctlon  : 

the  "my  lord"  re- 
fers probably  to 
the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury. 

8  it  happened 

B  Bemiramis,      wife     of 


Xlnus,  the  myth- 
ical king  and 
founder  of  Nine- 
veh. 

10  caused     to     be     sur- 

rounded by  ditclies 
uud  walls 

11  dwelt    (wone   In   714 

•—custom) 

12  then 
IS  each 

14  came   to   the  ears  of 
the  other 


Maydens  ben  y-kept  for  jelousye 

Ful  streyteis,  leste  they  diden  somme  folye. 

This  yonge  man  was  cleped  Piramus, 
And    Tesbe    highte    the    maide, — Nasoi"    seith 

thus. 
And  thus  by  reporte  was  hir  name  y-shovei^. 
That  as  they  wex  in  age,  wex  hir  love. 
And  certeyn,  as  by  reson  of  hir  age, 
Ther  myghte  have  ben  betwex  hem  mariage, 
But  that  hir  fadres  nokUs  it  not  assente,      730 
And  both  in  love  y-like  score  they  brenteio, 
That  noon  of  al  hir  frendes  myghte  it  lette-o. 
But  prevely2i  somtyme  yit  they  mette 
By  sleight,  and  spoken  somme  of  hir  desire, 
As  wre  the  glede22  and  hotter  is  the  fire; 
Forbeede  a  love,  and  it  is  ten  so  woode23. 

This    wal,    which    that    bitwixe    hem    bothe 
stoode, 
Was  cloven  a-two,  right  fro  the  toppe  adoun, 
Of  olde  tyme,  of  his  foundacioun.  739 

But  yit  this  clyfte  was  so  narwe  and  lite24 
It  was  nat  seene,  deere  ynogh  a  myte^s; 
But  what  is  that  that  love  kannat  espye? 
Ye  lovers  two,  if  that  I  shal  nat  lye, 
Ye  founden  first  this  litel  narwe  clifte, 
And  with  a  soune  as  softe  as  any  shryfte28, 
They  leete  hir  wordes  thurgh  the  clifte  pace, 
And  tolden,  while  they  stoden  in  the  place, 
Al  hire  compleynt  of  love,  and  al  hire  wo. 
At  every  tyme  whan  they  dorste  so.  749 

Upon  the  o  syde  of  the  walle  stood  he, 
And  on  that  other  syde  stood  Tesbe, 
The  swoote  soun  of  other  to  receyve. 

And  thus  here27  wardeyn  wokle  they  disceyve, 
And  every  day  this  walle  they  wolde  threetezs^ 
And  wisshe  to  God  that  it  were  doun  y  bete. 
Thus   wolde   they  seyn:      'Alias,   thou   wikked 

walle ! 
Thurgh  thyn  envye  thow  us  lettest29  alle! 
Why  nyltow  cleve3o,  or  fallen  al  a-two? 
Or  at  the  leeste,  but  thow  wouldest  sosi, 
Yit  woldestow  but  ones  let  us  meete,  760 

Or  ones  that  we  myghte  kyssen  sweete, 
Than  were  we  covered^a  of  oure  cares  colde. 
But  natheles,  yit  be  we  to  thee  holdess, 
In  as  muche  as  thou  suffrest  for  to  goon 
Our  wordes  thurgh  thy  lyme  and  eke  thy  stoon; 


15  strictly 

10  Ovid  (Publius  Ovid- 
lus  Naso)  in  Meta- 
morphoses iv  55, 
flf.,  whence  this 
story  is  taiipn. 

17  their     names    were 

brought        forward 
(literally  pushed) 

18  would   not 
10  burned 

•JO  prevent 

21  secretly 

22  cover      the      glowing 

coal 


23  ten     times     as     pas- 

sionate 

24  little 

25  scarcely  at  all 
20  confession 

27  their 

28  threaten 
20  hinderest 

30  wilt  thou  not  cleave 

in  two 
81  if  thou  wouldest  not 

do  that 
32  recovered 
S3  beholden 


GEOFFEEY  CHAUCER 


61 


Yet  oghte  we  with  the  ben  wel  apayedei.' 

And  whan  these  idel  wordes  weren  sayde, 
The  colde  walle  they  wolden  kysse  of  stoon, 
And  take  hir  leve,  and  forth  they  wolden  goon. 
And  this  was  gladly  in  the  evetyde,  770 

Or  wonder  erly,  lest  men  it  espyede. 
And  longe  tyme  they  wroght  in  this  manere, 
Til  on  a  day,  whan  Phebuss  gan  to  cleres — 
Aurora  with  the  stremes  of  hire  hete* 
Had  dried  uppe  the  dewe  of  herbes  wete — 
Unto  this  clyfte,  as  it  was  wont  to  be, 
Come  Piramus,  and  after  come  Tesbe. 
And  plighten  trouthes  fully  in  here  faye^, 
That  ilke  same  nyght  to  Steele  awaye, 
And  to  begile  hire  wardeyns  everychone,     780 
And  forth  out  of  the  citee  for  to  gone. 
And,  for  the  feeldes  ben  so  broode  and  wide, 
For  to  meete  in  o  place  at  o  tyde 
They  sette  markes,  hire  metyng  sholde  bee 
TherT  kyng  Nynus  was  gravens,  under  a  tree, — 
For  olde  payenss,  that  ydOles  heriedeio, 
Useden  tho  in  feeldes  to  ben  beriedeii, — 
And  faste  by  his  grave  was  a  welle. 
And,  shortly  of  this  tale  for  to  telle. 
This  covenaunt  was  aflfermed  wonder  faste,  790 
And  longe  hem  thoghte  that  the  sonne  laste, 
That  it  nere  goonis  under  the  see  adoun. 

This  Tesbe  hath  so  greete  affeceioun. 
And  so  grete  lykynge  Piramus  to  see, 
That  whan  she  seigh  hire  tyme  myghte  bee, 
At  nyght  she  staleis  awey  ful  prevely. 
With  hire  face  y-wympled  subtilly. 
For  al  hire  frendes,  for  to  save  hire  trouthe. 
She  hath  forsake;  alias,  and  that  is  routhei*, 
That  ever  woman  wolde  be  so  trewe  800 

To  trusten  man,  but  she  the  bet  hym  knewei^ ! 
And  to  the  tree  she  goth  a  ful  goode  paas^o, 
For  love  made  hir  so  hardy  in  this  caas; 
And  by  the  welle  adoun  she  gan  hir  dresseiT. 
Alias!  than  comith  a  wilde  leonesse 
Out  of  the  woode,  withouten  more  arresteis. 
With  blody  mouth,  of  strangelynge  of  a  beste, 
To  drynken  of  the  welle  ther  as  she  sat. 
And  whan  that  Tesbe  had  espyed  that. 
She  rysti9  hir  up,  with  a  ful  drery  herte,       810 
And  in  a  cave  with  dredful  foot  she  sterte. 
For  by  the  moone  she  saugh  it  wel  withalle. 
And  as  she  ranne,  hir  wympel  leet  she  falle, 
And     tooke     noon     hede,     so     sore     she    was 
awhaped20j 

1  pleased 

2  Apollo,   the  sun-god 
s  shine  clearly 

4  heat 

5  troth 

6  faith 

7  where 

8  burled 
»  pagans 
10  worshipped 


11  then     used     to     be 
buried   in  fields 

12  were  not  gone 

13  stole 

14  pity 

15  unless  she  knew  him 
better 

16  quickly 

17  took  her  station 

18  delay 
18  riseth 


And  eke  so  glade  that  she  was  escaped; 
And  ther  she  sytte,  and  darketh^i  wonder  stille. 
Whan  that  this  lyonesse  hath  dronke  hire  fille, 
Aboute  the  welle  gan  she  for  to  wynde22^ 
And  ryght  anon  the  wympil  gan  she  fynde, 
And  with  hir  blody  mouth  it  al  to-rente.     820 
Whan  this  was  don,  no  lenger  she  ne    stente23, 
But  to  the  woode  hir  wey  than  hath  she  nome24. 

And  at  the  laste  this  Piramus  is  come. 
But  al  to  longe,  alias,  at  home  was  hee! 
The  moone  shone,  men  myghte  wel  y-see, 
And  in  his  wey,  as  that  he  come  ful  faste, 
His  eyen  to  the  grounde  adoun  he  caste; 
And  in  the  sonde  as  he  behelde  adoun2">, 
He  seigh  the  steppes  broode  of  a  lyoun; 
And  in  his  herte  he  sodeynly  agroos^u,  830 

And  pale  he  wex,  therwith  his  heer  aroos, 
And    nere  he    come,   and    founde    the   wympel 

tome. 
'Alias,'  quod  he,  'the  day  that  I  was  borne! 
This  0  nyght  wol  us  lovers  bothe  slee! 
How  shulde  I  axen  mercy  of  Tesbee, 
Whan  I  am  he  that  have  yow  slayne,  alias? 
My  byddyng  hath  i-slayn  yow  in  this  caas! 
Alias,  to  bidde  a  woman  goon  by  nyghte 
In  place  ther  as27  peril  fallen  myghte! 
And  I  so  slowe!  alias,  I  ne  hadde  be28  840 

Here  in  this  place,  a  furlong  wey  or  ye29 ! 
Now  what  lyon  that  be  in  this  foreste. 
My  body  mote  he  rentenso^  or  what  beste 
That  wilde  is,  gnawen  mote  he  now  my  herte ! ' 
And  with  that  worde  he  to  the  wympel  sterte. 
And  kiste  it  ofte,  and  wepte  on  it  ful  sore; 
And  seyde,  'Wympel,  alias!  ther  nys  no  moresi. 
But  thou  shalt  feele  as  wel  the  blode  of  me. 
As  thou  hast  felt  the  bledynge  of  Tesbe. ' 
And    with    that    worde    he    smot    hym    to    the 

herte;  850 

The  blood  out  of  the  wounde  as  brode  sterte 
As  water,  whan  the  conduyte  broken  is. 

Now  Tesbe,  which  that  wyste32  nat  of  this, 
But  syttyng  in  hire  drede,  she  thoghte  thus: 
'If  it  so  falle  that  my  Piramus 
Be  comen  hider,  and  may  me  nat  y-fynde, 
He  may  me  holden  f als,  and  eke  unkynde. ' 
And  oute  she  comith,  and  after  hym  gan  espien 
Bothe  with  hire  herte  and  with  hire  eyen; 
And  thoghte,  *I  wol  him  tellen  of  my  drede, 
Bothe  of  the  lyonesse  and  al  my  dede. '       861 
And  at  the  laste  hire  love  than  hath  she  founde, 
Betynge  with  his  helisss  on  the  grounde, 
Al  blody;  and  therwithal  abak  she  sterte, 


20  amazed 

21  lies  hid 

22  roam 

23  stopped 

24  taken 

25  looked  down 

26  shuddered 

27  where 


28  that  I  had  not  been 

29  a    short   time    before 

you 

30  may  he  rend 

31  nothing  remains 

32  who  knew 

•13  i.  e.,  still  pulsating 


FOURTEENTH  CENTURY 


And  lyke  the  wawesi  quappez  gan  hir  herte, 
And  pale  as  boxes  she  wax,  and  in  a  throwe* 
Avised  hirs,  and  gan  him  wel  to  knowe, 
That  it  was  Piramus,  hire  herte  dere. 

Who  koude  write  which  a  dedely  chere 
Hath    Tesbe   nowf    and    how    hire    heere^    she 
rente?  870 

And  how  she  gan  hir-selve  to  turmentef 
And    how    she    lyth    and    swowneth    on    the 

groundet 
And  how  she  wepe  of  teres  f ul  his  wounde  ? 
How    medleth^    she   his    blood    with   hir    com- 

pleyntet 
How  with  his  blood  hir-selven  gan  she  peyntel 
How  clippeths  she  the  dede  corps?  alias! 
How  doth  this  woful  Tesbe  in  this  cas? 
How  kysseth  she  his  frosty  mouthe  so  colde? 
Who    hath    don    this?    and   who    hath    ben    so 
bolde  879 

To  sleen  my  leefe?     O  speke,  Piramus! 
I  am  thy  Tesbe,  that  thee  calleth  thus ! ' 
And  therwithal  she  lyfteth  up  his  heed. 

This  woful  man,  that  was  nat  fully  deed. 
Whan  that  he  herde  the  name  of  Tesbe  crien», 
On  hire  he  caste  his  hevy  dedely  eyen, 
And  doun  agayn,  and  yeldeth  up  the  goste. 

Tesbe  rist  uppe,  withouten  noyse  or  bosteio, 
And  saugh  hir  wympel  and  his  empty  shethe, 
And   eke    his    swerde,    that   him    hath    don   to 

dethe. 
Than  spake  she  thus:    *  Thy  woful  hande, '  quod 
she,  890 

'Is  strong  ynogh  in  swiche  a  werke  to  me; 
For   love  shal   me  yive   strengthe   and  hardy- 

nesse, 
To  make  my  wounde  large  ynogh,  I  gesse. 
I  wole  then  folowen  ded,  and  I  wol  be 
Felawe  and  cause  eke  of  thy  deeth, '  quod  she. 
'And  thogh  that  nothing  save  the  deth  only 
Myghte  the  fro  me  departed  2  trewely, 
Thou  shal  no  more  departe  now  fro  me 
Than  fro  the  deth,  for  T  wol  go  with  the. 

'And  now,  ye  wrecched  jelouse  fadres  oure, 
W6,  that  weren  whilome  children  youre,       901 
We  prayen  yow,  withouten  more  envye. 
That  in  o  grave  i-fereis  we  moten  lye, 
Syn  love  hath  broght  us  to  this  pitouse  ende. 
And  ryghtwis  God  to  every  lover  sende, 
That  loveth  trewely,  more  prosperite 
Than  ever  hadde  Piramus  and  Tesbe. 
And  let  no  gentile  woman  hire  assure. 
To  putten  hire  in  swiche  an  fiventure. 
But  God  forbede  but  a  woman  kan  910 

Ben   also  trewe  and  lovynge  as  a  man, 


And  for  my  parte  I  shal  anon  it  kythei* ! ' 
And  with  that  worde  his  swerde  she  took  as 

switheis, 
That  warme  was  of  hire  loves  blood,  and  hole, 
And  to  the  herte  she  hire-selven  smote. 

And  thus  are  Tesbe  and  Piramus  agoie. 
Of  trewe  men  I  fynde  but  fewe  mo 
In  al  my  bookes,  save  this  Piramus, 
And  therfore  have  I  spoken  of  hym  thus 
For  it  is  deyntee  to  us  men  to  fyncie  920 

A  man  that  kan  in  love  be  trewe  and  kynde. 

Here  may  ye  seen,  what  lover  so  he  be, 
A  woman  dar  and  kan  as  wel  as  he. 


THE  COMPLEYNT  OF  CHAUCER  TO  HIS 
PURSE 

To  you,  my  purse,  and  to  noon   other  wyght 
Compleyne  I,  for  ye  be  my  lady  dere! 

I  am  so  sorry  now  that  ye  been  light ; 
For,  eertes,  but  ye  make  me  hevy  cherei^^ 
Me  were  as  leef  be  leyd  upon  my  bereis. 

For  whiche  unto  your  mercy  thus  I  crye, — 

Bethi9  hevy  ageyn,  or  elles  motzo  I  dye! 

Now  voucheth  sauf2i  this  day  or  hit22  be  nyght, 
That  I  of  you  the  blisful  soun23  may  here24. 

Or  see  your  colour  lyk  the  sonne  bright,         10 
That  of  yelownesse  hadde  never  peress, 
Ye  be  my  lyf !  ye  be  myn  hertes  stere26! 

Quene  of  comfort  and  of  good  companye! 

Beth  hevy  ageyn,  or  elles  mot  I  dye. 

Now,  purse,  that  be  to  me  my  lyves  light 
And  saveour,  as  doun27  in  this  worlde  here. 

Out  of  this  toun  help  me  throgh  your  myght, 
Syn28  that  ye  wole  not  been  my  tresorere2C; 
For  I  am  shave  as  nye  as  is  a  freres". 

But  yet  I  pray  unto  your  curtesye,  20 

Beth  hevy  ageyn,  or  elles  mot  I  dye! 
L'Envoye  De  Chaucer 

O  conquerour  of  Brutes  AlbiounSi, 

Which  that  by  lyne  and  free  eleccioun 

Ben  verray  kyng,  this  song  to  you  I  sende. 
And  ye  that  mowenS2  al  myn  harm  amende. 

Have  mynde  upon  my  supplicacioun ! 


1  WflTPS 

2  flutter 

«  box-wood 
4  moment 
•  coDildered 


«  hair 

7  mlngleth 

8  embracetb 

9  spoken 


10  outcry 

11  thee 

12  separate 
18  together 


14  show 

15  quickly 

16  gone 

17  unless    you     put    on 

for  me  a  lieavy 
look  (with  a  play 
on  the  word  heavy, 
which  usually  in 
this  connection 
means  sad) 

18  I    would   as  soon   he 

laid  upon  my  bier 

19  be 

20  must 

21  vouchsafe,   grant 

22  before  it 


23  sound 

24  hear 
26  peer 

26  helm,  guide 

27  down 

28  since 

29  treasurer 

so  shaven  as  close  ns  a 
friar  (terribly 
hard   pinched) 

31  Henry  IV.  had  just 
been  made  king. 
Brutus  was  a 
legendary  klnu  <>f 
England    (Albion). 

.12  can 


THE  TRAVELS  OF  SIR  JOHN  MANDEVILLE 


63 


From  THE  TRAVELS  OF  SIR 
JOHN  MANDEVILLE* 

Prologue 

Forasmuch  as  the  land  beyond  the  sea,  that 
is  to  say  the  Holy  Land,  that  men  call  the  Land 
of  Promission  or  of  Behesti,  passing  all  other 
lands,  is  the  most  worthy  land,  most  excellent, 
and  lady  and  sovereign  of  all  other  lands,  and 
is  blessed  and  hallowed  of  the  precious  body 
and  blood  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ;  in  the 
which  land  it  liked  him  to  take  flesh  and  blood 
of  the  Virgin  Mary,  to  environs  that  holy  land 
with  his  blessed  feet;  .  .  .  and  forasmucli 
as  it  is  long  time  passed  that  there  was  no 
general  passage  ne  voyage  over  the  sea;  ami 
many  men  desire  for  to  hear  speak  of  the  Holy 
Land,  and  have  thereof  great  solace  and  com 
fort; — I,  John  Mandeville,  Knight,  albeit  I  be 
not  worthy,  that  was  born  in  England,  in  the 
town  of  St,  Albans,  and  passed  the  sea  in  the 
year  of  our  Lord  Jesu  Christ,  1322,  in  the  day 
of  St.  Michael;  and  hitherto  have  been  long 
time  over  the  sea,  and  have  seen  and  gone 
through  many  diverse  lands,  and  many  prov- 
inces and  kingdoms  and  isles;  and  have  passed 
throughout  Turkey,  Armenia  the  little  and  the 
great;  through  Tartary,  Persia,  Syria,  Arabia, 
Egypt  the  high  and  the  low;  through  Libya, 
Chaldea,  and  a  great  part  of  Ethiopia; 
through  Amazonia,  Ind  the  less  and  the 
moret,  a  great  part;  and  throughout  many 
other  isles  that  be  about  Ind,  where  dwell  many 
diverse  folks,  and  of  diverse  manners  and  laws, 
and  of  diverse  shapes  of  men;  ...  I  shall 
tell  the  way  that  they  shall  hold  thither.  For 
I  have  oftentimes  passed  and  ridden  that  way, 
with  good  company  of  many  lords.  God  be 
thanked ! 

And  ye  shall  understand  that^  I  have  put 
this  book  out  of  Latin  into  French,  and  trans- 
lated it  again  out  of  French  into  English,  that 
every  man  of  my  nation  may  understand  it. 
But  lords  and  knights  and  other  noble  and 
worthy    men    that    cons  Latin  but  little,  and 

1  Land  of  Promise  3  know 

2  go  about 

•  This  book,  which  was  extremely  popular  in  its 
day,  was  accepted  then  and  long  after  In  good 
faith.  We  now  know  it  to  be  mainly  a  com- 
pilation from  other  books  of  travel,  Ingeniously 
passed  off  as  a  record  of  original  experience. 
"Mandeville"  is  probably  a  fictitious  name. 
The  oldest  MS.  is  in  French,  dated  1371. 
The  English  translation  from  which  our  selec- 
tions are  taken  was  made  after  1400,  and 
therefore  represents  the  language  of  the  gen- 
eration succeeding  Chaucer.  The  spelling  is 
modernized.     See  Eng.  Lit.,  p.  44. 

t  Mandeville  here  couples  the  fabulous  land  of  the 
Amazons  with  the  actual  Lesser  and  Greater 
India. 


have  been  beyond  the  sea,  know  and  under- 
stand if  I  say  truth  or  no,  and  if  I  err  in 
devising*,  for  forgetting  or  else,  that  they  may 
redress  it  and  amend  it.  For  things  passed 
out  of  long  time  from  a  man 's  mind  or  from 
his  sight,  turn  soon  into  forgetting;  because 
thats  the  mind  of  man  ne  may  not  be  com- 
prehended ne  withholden,  for  the  frailty  of 
mankind.J 

Of  the  Ceoss  op  due  Loed  Jesu  Cheist 

At  Constantinople  is  the  cross  of  our  Lord 
Jesu  Christ,  and  his  coat  without  seams,  that 
is  elept  tunica  inconsutilis^,  and  the  sponge, 
and  the  reed,  of  the  which  the  Jews  gave  our 
Lord  eisel''  and  gall,  ins  the  cross.  And  there 
is  one  of  the  nails  that  Christ  was  nailed  with 
on  the  cross.  And  some  men  trow  that  half 
the  cross,  that  Christ  was  done  on,  be  in 
Cyprus,  in  an  abbey  of  monks,  that  men  call 
the  Hill  of  the  Holy  Cross;  but  it  is  not  so. 
For  that  cross,  that  is  in  Cyprus,  is  the  cross 
in  the  which  Dismas  the  good  thief  was  hanged 
on.  But  all  men  know  not  that;  and  that  is 
evil  y-done9.  For  for  profit  of  the  offering 
they  say  that  it  is  the  cross  of  our  Lord  Jesu 
Christ. 

And  ye  shall  understand  that  the  cross  of 
our  Lord  was  made  of  four  manner  of  trees, 
as  it  is  contained  in  this  verse, — In  cruce  -fit 
pahna,  cedrus,  cypressus,  oliva.  For  that  piece 
that  went  upright  from  the  earth  to  the  head 
was  of  cypress;  and  the  piece  that  went  over- 
thwart,  to  the  which  his  hands  were  nailed,  was 
of  palm;  and  the  stock,  that  stood  within  the 
earth,  in  the  which  was  made  the  mortise,  was 
of  cedar;  and  the  table  above  his  head,  that 
was  a  foot  and  an  half  long,  on  the  which  the 
title  was  written  in  Hebrew,  Greek,  and  Latin, 
that  was  of  olive.     .     .     . 

And  the  Christian  men,  that  dwell  beyond 
the  sea,  in  Greece,  say  that  the  tree  of  the 
cross,  that  we  call  cypress,  was  of  that  tree 
that  Adam  ate  the  apple  off;  and  that  find 
they  written.  And  they  say  also  that  their 
scripture  saith  that  Adam  was  sick,  and  said 
to  his  son  Seth,  that  he  should  go  to  the  angel 
that  kept  Paradise,  that  he  would  send  him  oil 
of  mercy,  for  to  anoint  with  his  members,  that 
he  might  have  health.  And  Seth  went.  But 
the  angel  would  not  let  him  come  in;  but  said 


4  relating 

5  because 

6  called    "the    tunic  nn- 

sewn" 

7  vinegar 

t  Possibly  "Sir  John"  means  to  give  the  reader  a 
sly  hint  here  that  it  is  also  one  of  the  frail- 
ties of  mankind  to  tell  big  stories. 


8  on 

9  Old     past     participle ; 

y   equals  German 
ge. 


64 


FOURTEENTH  CENTUEY 


to  him,  that  he  might  not  have  the  oil  of 
mercy.  But  he  took  hira  three  grains  of  the 
same  tree  that  Ids  father  ate  the  apple  off; 
and  bade  hiin,  as  soon  as  his  father  was  dead, 
that  he  should  put  these  three  grains  under  his 
tongue,  and  graved  hira  so:  and  so  he  did.  And 
of  these  three  grains  sprang  a  tree,  as  the 
angel  said  that  it  should,  and  bare  a  fruit, 
through  the  which  fruit  Adam  should  be  saved. 
And  when  Seth  came  again,  he  found  his  father 
near  dead.  And  when  he  was  dead,  he  did  with 
the  grains  as  the  angel  bade  him;  of  the  which 
sprung  three  trees,  of  the  which  the  cross  was 
made,  that  bare  good  fruit  and  blessed,  our 
Lord  Jesu  Christ;  through  whom  Adam  and  all 
that  come  of  him  should  be  saved  and  deliv- 
ered from  dread  of  death  without  end,  but2  it 
be  their  own  default. 

How  Roses  came  first  into  the  World 

And  a  little  from  Hebron  is  the  mount  of 
Mamre,  of  the  which  the  valley  taketh  his 
name.  And  there  is  a  tree  of  oak,  that  the 
Saracens  clepes  Dirpc,  that  is  of  Abraham's 
time:  the  which  men  clepe  the  Dry  Tree,  And 
they  say  that  it  hath  been  there  since  the  be- 
ginning of  the  world,  and  was  some-time  green 
and  bare  leaves,  unto  the  time  that  our  Lord 
died  on  the  cross,  and  then  it  dried:  and  so  did 
all  the  trees  that  were  then  in  the  world.  And 
some  say,  by  their  prophecies,  that  a  lord,  a 
prince  of  the  west  side  of  the  world,  shall  win 
the  Land  of  Promission,  that  is  the  Holy  Land, 
with  help  of  Christian  men,  and  he  shall  do 
sing*  a  mass  under  that  dry  tree;  and  then 
the  tree  shall  wax  green  and  bear  both  fruit 
and  leaves,  and  through  that  miracle  many 
Jews  and  Saracens  shall  be  turned  to  Christian 
faith:  and  therefore  they  do  great  worship 
thereto,  and  keep  it  full  busily^.  And,  albeit 
so,  that  it  be  dry,  natheless^  yet  he^  beareth 
great  virtue,  for  certainly  he  that  hath  a  little 
thereof  upon  him,  it  healeth  him  of  the  falling 
evil,  and  his  horse  shall  not  be  afoundered. 
And  many  other  virtues  it  hath;  wherefore  men 
hold  it  full  precious. 

From  Hebron  men  go  to  Bethlehem  in  half 
a  day,  for  it  is  but  five  mile;  and  it  is  full 
fair  way,  by  plains  and  woods  full  delectable. 
Bethlehem  is  a  little  city,  long  and  narrow  and 
well  walled,  and  in  each  side  enclosed  with 
good  ditches:  and  it  was  wont  to  be  clept 
Ephrata,  as  holy  writ  saith,  Ecce,  audivimus 
eum  in  Ephrata,  that  is  to  say,  'Lo,  we  heard 

1  bury 

2  linlPKS 

s  call 

4  cause  to  be  sung 


8  very    attentively 
6  nevertheless 
Tit 


him  in  Ephrata.'  And  toward  the  east  end  of 
the  city  is  a  full  fair  church  and  a  gracious, 
and  it  hath  many  towers,  pinnacles  and  cor- 
ners, full  strong  and  curiously  made;  and 
within  that  church  be  forty-four  pillars  of 
marble,  great  and  fair. 

And  between  the  city  and  the  church  is  the 
field  Floridus,  that  is  to  say,  the  'field  flour- 
isheds. '  Forasmuch  as  a  fair  maiden  was 
blamed  with  wrong,  and  slandered;  for  which 
cause  she  was  demned  to  death,  and  to  be 
burnt  in  that  place,  to  the  which  she  was  led. 
And  as  the  fire  began  to  burn  about  her,  she 
made  her  prayers  to  our  Lord,  that  as  wisely» 
as  she  was  not  guilty  of  that  sin,  that  he  would 
help  her  and  make  it  to  be  known  to  all  men, 
of  his  merciful  grace.  And  when  she  had  thus 
said,  she  entered  into  the  fire,  and  anon  was  the 
fire  quenched  and  out;  and  the  brands  that 
were  burning  became  red  rose-trees,  and  the 
brands  that  were  not  kindled  became  white 
rose-trees,  full  of  roses.  And  these  were  the 
first  rose-trees  and  roses,  both  white  and  red, 
that  ever  any  man  saw;  and  thus  was  this 
maiden  saved  by  the  grace  of  God.  And  there- 
fore is  that  field  clept  the  field  of  God  flour- 
ished, for  it  was  full  of  roses. 

How  the  Earth  and  Sea  be  of  round  Form 

AND  Shape,  by  proof  of  the  Star  that 

IS   CLEPT   Antarctic,   that   is 

FIXED  IN  the  South* 

In  that  land,  ne  in  many  other  beyond  that, 
no  man  may  see  the  Star  Transmontane,  that 
is  clept  the  Star  of  the  Sea,  that  is  unmovable 
and  that  is  toward  the  north,  that  we  clepe  the 
Lode-star.  But  men  see  another  star,  the  con- 
trary to  hira,  that  is  toward  the  south,  that  is 
clept  Antarctic.  And  right  as  the  ship-men 
take  their  advice  here  and  govern  them  by  the 
Lode-star,  right  so  do  the  men  beyond  those 
parts  by  the  star  of  the  south,  the  which  star 
appeareth  not  to  us.  And  this  star  that  is 
toward  the  north,  that  we  clepe  the  Lode-star, 
ne  appeareth  not  to  them.  For  which  cause  men 
may  well  perceive  that  the  land  and  the  sea 
be  of  round  shape  and  form;  for  the  part  of 
the  firmament  showeth  in  one  country  that 
showeth  not  in  another  country.  And  men  may 
well  prove  by  experience  and  subtle  compass- 
ment  of  wit,  that  if  a  man  found  passages 
by  ships  that  would  go  to  search  the  world, 
men  might  go  by  ship  all  about  the  world  and 
above  and  beneath. 

s  In  flower  »  certainly 

•  An  example  of  the  speculations  that  were  rire 
long  before  Columbus  undertook  his  voyage. 


THE  TRAVELS  OF  SIR  JOHN  MANDEVHiLE 


65 


The  which  thing  I  prove  thus  after  that  I 
have  seen.  For  I  have  been  toward  the  parts 
of  Brabanti,  and  beholden  the  Astrolabe  that 
the  star  that  is  clept  the  Transmontane  is  fifty- 
three  degrees  high ;  and  more  further  in  Al- 
mayne2  and  Bohemia  it  hath  fifty-eight  de- 
grees; and  more  further  toward  the  parts  sep- 
tentrionals  it  is  sixty- two  degrees  of  height  and 
certain  minutes;  for  I  myself  have  measured 
it  by  the  Astrolabe.  Now  shall  ye  know,  that 
against  the  Transmontane  is  the  tother  star 
that  is  clept  Antartie,  as  I  have  said  before. 
And  those  two  stars  ne  move  never,  and  by  them 
turneth  all  the  firmament  right  as  doth  a  wheel 
that  turneth  by  his  axle-tree.  So  that  those 
stars  bear  the  firmament  in  two  equal  parts,  so 
that  it  hath  as  much  above  as  it  hath  beneath. 
After  this  I  have  gone  toward  the  parts  merid- 
ional, that  is,  toward  the  south,  and  I  have 
found  that  in  Libya  men  see  first  the  star 
Antarctic.  And  so  far  I  have  gone  more  fur- 
ther in  those  countries,  that  I  have  found  that 
star  more  high;  so  that  toward  the  High  Libya 
it  is  eighteen  degrees  of  height  and  certain 
minutes  (of  the  which  sixty  minutes  make  a 
degree).  After  going  by  sea  and  by  land  to- 
ward this  country  of  that  I  have  spoken,  and 
to  other  isles  and  lands  beyond  that  country, 
I  have  found  the  Star  Antarctic  of  thirty-three 
degrees  of  height  and  more  minutes.  And  if  I 
had  had  company  and  shipping  for  to  go  more 
beyond,  I  trow  well,  in  certain,  that  we  should 
have  seen  all  the  roundness  of  the  firmament 
all  about.     .     .     . 

And  wit  well,  that,  after  that*  I  may  per- 
ceive and  comprehend,  the  lands  of  Prester 
John,*  Emperor  of  Ind,  be  under  us.  For  in 
going  from  Scotland  or  from  England  toward 
Jerusalem  men  go  upwards  always.  For  our 
land  is  in  the  low  part  of  the  earth  toward  the 
west,  and  the  land  of  Prester  John  is  in  the 
low  part  of  the  earth  toward  the  east.  And 
they  have  there  the  day  when  we  have  the 
night;  and  also,  high  to  the  contrary,  they 
have  the  night  when  we  have  the  day.  For  the 
earth  and  the  sea  be  of  round  form  and  shape, 
as  I  have  said  before;  and  that  that  men  go 
upward  to  one  coasts,  men  go  downward  to 
another  coast. 

Also  ye  have  heard  me  say  that  Jerusalem 
is  in  the  midst  of  the  world.  And  that  may 
men  prove,  and  show  there  by  a  spear,  that  is 

1  Holland  *  And    know    well    that, 

2  Germany  according  to  what 

3  north  5  and    that    as    men    go 

upward   to    one   re- 
gion 
•  Prester  is  "presbyter,"  an  elder  or  priest.     This 
fabulous   Christian   monarch   was  supposed  to 
have  conquered  the  Saracens  in  the  East. 


pights  into  the  earth,  upon  the  hour  of  mid- 
day, when  it  is  equinox,  that  showeth  no  shad- 
ow on  no  side.  And  that  it  should  be  in  the 
midst  of  the  world,  David  witnesseth  it  in  the 
Psalter,  where  he  saith,  Deus  operatus  est 
salutem  in  medio  terraeJ  Then,  they  that 
part  from  those  parts  of  the  west  for  to  go 
toward  Jerusalem,  as  many  joumeys^  as  they 
go  upward  for  to  go  thither,  in  as  many  jour- 
neys may  they  go  from  Jerusalem  unto  other 
confines  of  the  superficialty  of  the  earth  be- 
yond. And  when  men  go  beyond  those  jour- 
neys toward  Ind  and  to  the  foreign  isles,  all 
is  environings  the  roundness  of  the  earth  and 
of  the  sea  under  our  countries  on  this  half. 

And  therefore  hath  it  befallen  many  times 
of  one  thing  that  I  have  heard  countedio  when 
I  was  young,  how  a  worthy  man  departed  some- 
time from  our  countries  for  to  go  search  the 
world.  And  so  he  passed  Ind  and  the  isles  be- 
yond Ind,  where  be  nore  than  5000  isles.  And 
so  long  he  went  by  sea  and  land,  and  so  en- 
vironed the  world  by  many  seasons,  that  he 
found  an  isle  where  he  heard  speak  his  own 
language,  calling  an  oxen  in  the  plough  such 
words  as  men  speak  to  beasts  in  his  own  coun- 
try; whereof  he  had  great  marvel,  for  he  knew 
not  how  it  might  be.  But  I  say  that  he  had 
gone  so  long  by  land  and  by  sea,  that  he  had 
environed  all  the  earth ;  that  he  was  come  again 
environing,  that  is  to  say,  going  about,  unto 
his  own  marchesii,  and  if  he  would  have  passed 
further,  he  would  have  found  his  country  and 
his  own  knowledge.  But  he  turned  again  from 
thence,  from  whence  he  was  come  from.  And 
so  he  lost  much  painful  labor,  as  himself  said 
a  great  whUe  after  that  he  was  come  home. 
For  it  befell  after,  that  he  went  into  Norway. 
And  there  tempest  of  the  sea  took  him,  and  he 
arrived  in  an  isle.  And  when  he  was  in  that 
isle,  he  knew  well  that  it  was  the  isle  where  he 
had  heard  speak  his  own  language  before,  and 
the  calling  of  oxen  at  the  plow;  and  that  was 
possible  thing. 

But  now  it  seemeth  to  simple  men  unlearned, 
that  men  ne  may  not  go  under  the  earth,  and 
also  that  men  should  fall  toward  the  heaven 
from  under.  But  that  may  not  be,  upon  less 
thani2  we  may  fall  toward  heaven  from  the 
earth  where  we  be.  For  from  what  part  of  the 
earth  that  men  dwell,  either  above  or  beneath, 
it  seemeth  always  to  them  that  dwell  that  they 


6  set 

7  The  Lord  wrought  sal- 

vation In  the  midst    lO  recounted 
of  the  earth.      (See    n  borders 
Psalms,  74  :12.)  12  unless 

8  days'  travel 


9  they  are  all  the  while 
encircling 


66 


FOURTEENTH  CENTURY 


go  more  right  than  any  other  folk.  And  right 
as  it  seemeth  to  us  that  they  be  under  us,  right 
so  it  seemeth  to  them  that  we  be  under  them. 
For  if  a  man  might  fall  from  the  earth  unto 
the  firmament,  by  greater  reason  the  earth  and 
the  sea  that  be  so  great  and  so  heavy  should 
fall  to  the  firmament:  but  that  may  not  be, 
and  therefore  saith  our  Lord  God,  Non  timeas 
me,  qui  suspendi  terrain  ex  nihilo!^^ 

And  albeit  that  it  be  possible  thing  that 
men  may  so  environ  all  the  world,  natheless,  of 
a  thousand  persons,  one  ne  might  not  happen 
to  return  into  his  country.  For  the  greatness 
of  the  earth  and  of  the  sea,  men  may  go  by  a 
thousand  and  a  thousand  other  ways,  that  no 
man  could  ready  himi*  perfectly  toward  the 
parts  that  he  came  from,  but  if  it  were  by  ad- 
venture and  hap,  or  by  the  grace  of  God.  For 
the  earth  is  full  large  and  full  great,  and  holds 
in  roundness  and  about  environis,  by  above 
and  by  beneath,  20425  miles,  after  the  opinion 
of  old  wise  astronomers;  and  their  sayings  I 
reprove  nought.  But,  after  my  little  wit,  it 
seemeth  me,  saving  their  reverence,  that  it  is 
more. 

And  for  to  have  better  understanding  I  say 
thus.  Be  there-  imagined  a  figure  that  hath  a 
great  compass.  And,  about  the  point  of  the 
great  compass  that  is  clept  the  centre,  be  made 
another  little  compass.  Then  after,  be  the 
great  compass  devised  by  lines  in  many  parts, 
and  that  all  the  lines  meet  at  the  centre.  So, 
that  in  as  many  parts  as  the  great  compass 
shall  be  departedis,  in  as  many  shall  be  de- 
parted the  little,  that  is  about  the  centre, 
albeit  that  the  space  be  less.  Now  then,  be 
the  great  compass  represented  for  the  firma- 
ment, and  the  little  compass  represented  for 
the  earth.  Now  then,  the  firmament  is  devised 
by  astronomers  in  twelve  signs,  and  every 
sign  is  devised  in  thirty  degrees;  that  is,  360 
degrees  that  the  firmament  hath  above.  Also, 
be  the  earth  devised  in  as  many  parts  as  the 
firmament,  and  let  every  part  answer  to  a  de- 
gree of  the  firmament.  And  wit  it  well,  that, 
after  the  authors  of  astronomy,  700  furlongs 
of  earth  answer  to  a  degree  of  the  firmament, 
and  those  be  eighty-seven  miles  and  four  fur- 
longs. Now  be  that  here  multiplied  by  360 
Bithes'T,  and  then  they  be  31,500  miles  everyis 
of  eight  furlongs,  afterJ»  miles  of  our  country. 
So  much  hath  the  earth  in  roundness  and  of 


18  Have  no  fear  of  me, 
who      hanged      the 
earth    upon    nothing. 
(See  Job,  26:7.) 

14  direct  himself 


15  approximately 

16  divided 

17  timos 
i«  each 

10  according   to 


height  environ,   after  mine  opinion  and  mine 
understanding. 

Op  the  Trees  that  Bear  Meal,  Honey,  Wine, 
AND  Venom;  and  of  Other  Marvels 
After  that  isle,  in  going  by  sea,  men  find 
another  isle,  good  and  great,  that  men  clepe 
Patheni,  that  is  a  great  kingdom  full  of  fair 
cities  and  full  of  towns.     In  that  land  grow 
trees  that  grow  meal,  whereof  men  make  good 
bread  and  white  and  of  good  savor;    and  it 
seemeth  as  it  were  of  wheat,  but  it  is  not  al- 
Iinges2  of  such  savor.    And  there  be  other  trees 
that  bear  honey  good  and  sweet,  and  other  trees 
that  bear  venom,  against  the  which  there  is  no 
medicine  but   one;    and  that  is   to   take  their 
propers    leaves    and    stamp    them    and    temper 
them  with  water  and  then  drink  it,  and  else  he 
shall  die;   for  triacle*  will  not  avail,  ne  none 
other  medicine.     Of  this  venom  the  Jews  had 
let  seek  ofs   one  of  their   friends  for  to  em- 
poison all  Christianity,  as  I  have  heard  them 
say  in  their  confession  before  their  dying:  but 
thanked  be  Almighty  God !  they  failed  of  their 
purpose ;  but  always  theyo  make  great  mortality 
of  people.     And  other  trees  there  be  also  that 
bear  wine  of  noble   sentiment^.     And  if  you 
like  to  hear  how  the  meal  cometh  out  of  the 
trees  I  shall  say  you.    Men  hew  the  trees  with 
an  hatchet,  all  about  the  foot  of  the  tree,  till 
that  the  bark  be  parted  in  many  parts,  and 
then  cometh  out  thereof  a  thick  liquor,  the  which 
they  receive  in  vessels,  and  dry  it  at  the  heat 
of  the  sun;  and  then  they  have  it  to  a  mill  to 
grind  and  it  becometh  fair  meal  and  whites. 
And  the  honey  and  the  wine  and  the  venom  be 
drawn  out  of  other  trees  in  the  same  manner, 
and  put  in  vessels  for  to  keep. 

In  that  isle  is  a  dead  sea,  that  is  a  lake  that 
hath  no  ground^:  and  if  anything  fall  into  that 
lake  it  shall  never  come  up  again.  In  that  lake 
grow  reeds,  that  be  canes,  that  they  clepe 
Thabyio,  that  be  thirty  fathoms  long;  and  of 
these  canes  men  make  fair  houses.  And  there 
be  other  canes  that  be  not  so  long,  that  grow 
near  the  land  and  have  so  long  roots  that  en- 
dure well  a   four  quarters"   of  a  furlong  or 


lelon  of  the 
I<]ast  Indies ;  the 
island  described 
just  before  this  is 
.Tava.  But  India 
and  China  are 
themselves  spoken 
of  as  islands. 

■i  altogether 

■5  own 

» Or  treacle ;  a  com- 
pound in  ancient 
medicine     supposed 


to    be    a    universal 

antidote. 
5  had    caused    to    be 

sought  by 
a  i.e.,   the  venomous 

trees 

7  taste 

8  Tapioca     is     prepared 

thus   from   cassava 
roots. 

9  bottom 

10  bamboos 

11  extend    quite    one- 

fourth   (?) 


THE  TRAVELS  OF  SIB  JOHN  MANDEVILLE 


67 


more;  and  at  the  knots  of  those  roots  men 
find  precious  stones  that  have  great  virtues. 
And  he  that  beareth  any  of  them  upon  him, 
iron  ne  steel  may  not  hurt  him,  ne  draw  no 
blood  upon  him;  and  therefore,  they  that  have 
those  stones  upon  them  fight  full  hardily  both 
upon  sea  and  land,  for  men  may  not  harm  them 
on  no  part.  And  therefore,  they  that  know  the 
manner,  and  shall  fight  with  them,  they  shoot 
to  them  arrows  and  quarrels  without  iron  or 
steel,  and  so  they  hurt  them  and  slay  them. 
And  also  of  those  canes  they  make  houses  and 
ships  and  other  things,  as  we  have  here,  making 
houses  and  ships  of  oak  or  of  any  other  trees. 
And  deem  no  man  that  I  say  it  but  for  a  trifle, 
for  I  have  seen  of  the  canes  with  mine  own 
eyes,  full  many  times,  lying  upon  the  river  of 
that  lake,  of  the  which  twenty  of  our  fellows 
ne  might  not  lift  up  ne  bear  one  to  the  earth. 


Or  THE  Paradise  Terbestbial 

And  beyond  the  land  and  the  isles  and  the 
deserts  of  Prester  John's  lordship,  in  going 
straight  toward  the  east,  men  find  nothing  but 
mountains  and  rocks,  full  great.  And  there  is 
the  dark  region,  where  no  man  may  see,  neither 
by  day  ne  by  night,  as  they  of  the  country  say. 
And  that  desert  and  that  place  of  darkness 
dure  from  this  coast  unto  Paradise  terrestrial, 
where  thati  Adam,  our  foremostz  father,  and 
Eve  were  put,  that  dwelled  there  but  little 
while;  and  that  is  towards  the  east  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  earth.  But  that  is  not  that  east 
that  we  clepe  our  east  on  this  half,  wh<»re  the 
sun  riseth  to  us.  For  when  the  sun  is  east  in 
those  parts  towards  Paradise  terrestrial,  it  is 
theti  midnight  in  our  part  on  this  half,  for  the 
roundness  of  the  earth,  of  the  which  I  have 
toucheds  to  you  of  before.  For  our  Lord  God 
made  the  earth  all  round  in  the  mid  place  of 
the  firmament.  And  there  asi  mountains  and 
bills  be  and  valleys,  that  is  not  but  only  of* 
Noah's  flood,  that  wasted  the  soft  ground  and 
the  tender,  and  fell  down  into  valleys,  and  the 
hard  earth  and  the  rocks  abide'  mountains, 
Mhen  the  soft  earth  and  tender  waxed  nesh« 
through  the  water,  and  fell  and  became  valleys. 

Of  Paradise  ne  can  I  not  speak  properly. 
For  I  was  not  there.  It  is  far  beyond.  And 
that  forthinketh  me^.  And  also  I  was  not 
worthy.  But  as  I  have  heard  say  ofs  wise  men 
beyond,  I  shall  tell  you  with  good  wilL 

1  where  5  remained 

2  first  «  soft 

3  related  7  causes  me  regret 

4  from  nothing  else  than  s  by 


Paradise  terrestrial,  as  wise  men  say,  is  the 
highest  place  of  earth,  that  is  in  all  the  world. 
And  it  is  so  high  that  it  toucheth  nigh  to  the 
circle  of  the  moon,  there  as  the  moon  maketh 
her  turn;  for  she  is  so  high  that  the  flood  of 
Xoah  ne  might  not  come  to  her,  that  would 
have  covered  all  the  earth  of  the  world  all 
about  and  above  and  beneath,  save  Paradise 
only  alone.  And  this  Paradise  is  enclosed  all 
about  with  a  wall,  and  men  wit  not  whereof  it 
is;  for  the  walls  be  covered  all  over  with  moss, 
as  it  seemeth.  And  it  seemeth  not  that  the 
wall  is  stone  of  nature,  ne  of  none  other  thing 
that  the  wall  is.  And  that  wall  stretcheth  from 
the  south  to  the  north,  and  it  hath  not  but  one 
entry  that»  is  closed  with  fire,  burning;  so  that 
no  man  that  is  mortal  ne  dare  not  enter. 

And  in  the  most  high  place  of  Paradise,  even 
in  the  middle  place,  is  a  well  that  casteth  out 
the  four  floods  that  run  by  divers  lands.  Of 
the  which  the  first  is  clept  Pison,  or  Ganges, 
that  is  all  one;  and  it  runneth  throughout  Ind 
or  Emlak,  in  the  which  river  be  many  precious 
stones,  and  much  of  lignum  aloes  lo  and  much 
gravel  of  gold.  And  that  other  river  is  clept 
Nilus  or  Gison,  that  goeth  by  Ethiopia  and 
after  by  Egypt.  And  that  other  is  clept  Tigris, 
that  runneth  by  Assyria  and  by  Armenia  the 
great.  And  that  other  is  clept  Euphrates,  that 
runneth  also  by  Media  and  Armenia  and  by 
Persia.  And  men  there  beyond  say,  that  all 
the  sweet  waters  of  the  world,  above  and  be- 
neath, take  their  beginning  of  the  well  of  Para- 
dise, and  out  of  that  well  all  waters  come  and 

go. 

The  first  river  is  clept  Pison,  that  is  to  say 
in  their  language,  Assembly;  for  many  other 
rivers  meet  them  there,  and  go  into  that  river. 
And  some  men  clepe  it  Ganges,  for  a  king  that 
was  in  Ind,  that  hight"  Gangeres,  and  that  it 
ran  throughout  his  land.  And  that  water  is  in 
some  place  clear,  and  in  some  place  troubled, 
in  some  place  hot,  and  in  some  place  cold. 

The  second  river  is  clept  Nilus  or  Gison;  for 
it  is  always  troubleiz;  and  Gison,  in  the  lan- 
guage of  Ethiopia,  is  to  say,  tronble,  and  in 
the  language  of  Egypt  also. 

The  third  river,  that  is  clept  Tigris,  is  as 
much  for  to  say  as,  fast-running;  for  he  run- 
neth more  fast  than  any  of  the  tother;  and 
also  there  is  a  beast,  that  is  clept  Tigris,  that 
is  fast-running. 

The  fourth  river  is  clept  Euphrates,  that  is 
to  say,  well-bearing;  for  here  grow  many  goods 


9  which 

10  A  fragrant  oriental  wood. 

11  was  called 

12  troabled,   murky 


6S 


FOUKTEENTH  CENTUEY 


upon    that   river,    as   corn,    fruits,    and   other 
goods  enough  plenty. 

And  ye  shall  understand  that  no  man  that  is 
mortal  ne  may  not  approach  to  that  Paradise. 
For  by  land  no  man  may  go  for  wild  beasts 
that  be  in  the  desert,  and  for  the  high  moun- 
tains and  great  huge  rocks  that  no  man  may 
pass  by,  for  the  dark  places  that  be  there,  and 
that  many.  And  by  the  rivers  may  no  man  go. 
For  the  water  runneth  so  rudely  and  so  sharply, 
because  that  it  cometh  down  so  outrageously 
from  the  high  places  above,  that  it  runneth  in 
so  great  waves,  that  no  ship  may  not  row  ne 
sail  against  it.  And  the  water  roareth  so,  and 
maketh  so  huge  a  noise  and  so  great  tempest, 
that  no  man  may  hear  other  in  the  ship,  though 
he  cried  with  all  the  craft  that  he  could  in  the 
highest  voice  that  he  might.  Many  great  lords 
have  assayed  with  great  will,  many  times,  for 
to  pass  by  those  rivers  towards  Paradise,  with 
full  great  companies.  But  they  might  not 
speed  on  their  voyage.  And  many  died  for 
weariness  of  rowing  against  those  strong  waves. 
And  many  of  them  became  blind,  and  many 
deaf,  for  the  noise  of  the  water.  And  some 
were  perished  and  lost  within  the  waves.  So 
that  no  mortal  man  may  approach  to  that  place, 
without  special  grace  of  God,  so  that  of  that 
place  I  can  say  you  no  more;  and  therefore  I 
shall  hold  me  still,  and  return  to  that  that  I 
have  seen. 

Conclusion 

And  ye  shall  understand,  if  it  like  you,  that 
at  mine  home-coming  I  came  to  Rome,  and 
showed  my  life  to  our  holy  father  the  pope,  and 
was  assoiledi  of  all  that  lay  in  my  conscience, 
of  many  a  diverse  grievous  point;  as  men  must 
needs  that  be  in  company,  dwelling  amongst  so 
many  a  diverse  folk  of  diverse  sect  and  of  be- 
lief, as  I  have  been.  And  amongst  all  I  showed 
him  this  treatise,  that  I  had  made  after  in- 

1  absolved 


formation  of  men  that  knew  of  things  that  I 
had  not  seen  myself,  and  also  of  marvels  and 
customs  that  I  had  seen  myself,  as  far  as  God 
would  give  me  grace;  and  besought  his  holy 
fatherhood  that  my  book  might  be  examined 
and  proved  by  the  advice  of  his  said  council. 
And  our  holy  father,  of  his  special  grace,  re- 
mitted my  book  to  be  examined  and  proved  by 
the  advice  of  his  said  counsel.  By  the  which 
my  book  was  proved  for  true,  insomuch  that 
they  showed  me  a  book,  that  my  book  was  ex- 
amined by,  that  comprehended  full  more,  by 
an  hundred  part,  by  the  which  the  Mappa 
Mundi2  was  made  after.  And  so  my  book 
(albeit  that  many  men  ne  list  not  to  give 
credence  to  nothing  but  to  that  that  they  see 
with  their  eye,  ne  be  the  author  ne  the  person 
never  so  true)  is  affirmed  and  proved  by  our 
holy  father,  in  manner  and  form  as  I  have  said. 

And  I,  John  Mandeville,  knight,  abovesaid 
(although  I  be  unworthy),  that  departed  fr<jm 
our  countries  and  passed  the  sea,  the  year  of 
grace  a  thousand  three  hundred  and  twenty-two, 
that  have  passed  many  lands  and  many  isles 
and  countries,  and  searched  many  full  strange 
places,  and  have  been  in  many  a  full  good  hon- 
orable country,  and  at  many  a  fair  deed  of 
arms  (albeit  that  I  did  none  myself,  for  mine 
unable  insufficience),  now  I  am  come  home, 
maugre  myself,  to  rest,  for  gouts  arthritic  that 
me  distrains  that  define*  the  end  of  my  labor; 
against  my  will  (God  knoweth). 

And  thus,  taking  solace  in  my  wretched  rest, 
recording  the  time  past,  I  have  fulfilled  these 
things,  and  put  them  written  in  this  book,  as 
it  would  come  into  my  mind,  the  year  of  grace 
a  thousand  three  hundred  and  fifty-six,  in  the 
thirty- fourth  year  that  I  departed  from  our 
countries.  Wherefore  I  pray  to  all  the  readers 
and  hearers  of  this  book,  if  it  please  them,  that 
they  would  pray  to  God  for  me;  and  I  shall 
pray  for  them. 


2  Map  of  the  World. 

3  afflict 


4  mark 


THE  FIFTEENTH  AND  EARLY  SIXTEENTH 

CENTURIES 


BALLADS 

EOBIN  HOOD  AND  THE  MONK.* 

1  In  somer,  when  the  shawesi  be  sheyne^, 

And  leves  be  large  and  long, 
Hit  is  full  mery  in  f eyre  foreste 
To  here  the  foulyss  song: 

2  To  se  the  dere  draw  to  the  dale, 

And  leve  the  hilles  hee. 
And  shadow  hem  in  the  leves  grene, 
Under  the  grene-wode  tre. 

3  Hit  befel  on  Whitsontide, 

Erly  in  a  May  momyng, 
The  son  up  feyre  can*  shyne, 
And  the  briddis  mery  can  syng. 

4  '  This  is  a  mery  momyng, '  seid  Litull  John, 

'Be*  hym  that  dyed  on  tre; 
A  more  mery  man  thens  I  am  one 
Lyres  not  in  Christiante. 

5  *Pluk  up  thi  hert,  my  dere  mayster,' 

Ldtull  John  can*  sey, 
And  thynk  hit  is  a  fuU  fayre  tymc 
In  a  momyng  of  May.' 

6  '  Ye,  onT  thyng  greves  me, '  seid  Kobyn, 

'And  does  my  hert  mych  woo; 
That  I  may  not  no  solem  day 
To  mas  nor  matyns  goo. 

7  'Hit  is  a  fourtnet  and  more,'  seid  he, 

'Syn  I  my  savyour  see*; 
Today  wil  I  to  Notyngham, 

With  the  myght  of  mylde  Marye.' 

8  Than  spake  Moche,  the  mylner  sun», 

Ever  more  wel  hym  betyde! 


1  woods 

•  than 

2  beautlfnl 

7  one 

3  birds' 

8  partook   of   the   sacra- 

*dld 

ment 

5  by 

9  miller's  son 

*  From  a  MS.  of  aboat  1450.  thongh  the  ballad  is 
probably  macb  earlier.     See  Eng.  Lit.,  p.  ^. 


'Take  twelve  of  thi  wyght  yemenio. 

Well  weppynd,  be  thi  aide. 
Such  on  wolde  thi  selfe  slonn. 

That  twelve  dar  not  abyde^^.' 

9     'Of  all  my  mery  men,'  seid  Bobyn, 
'Be  mj  feith  I  wil  non  have. 
But  Litull  John  shall  beyre  my  bow. 
Til  that  me  listis  to  drawe.' 

10  'Thou   shall   b^re  thin  own,'   s^d  Litull 

Jon, 
'Maister,  and  I  wyl  beyre  myne. 
And  we  well  shete  a  penyi*,'   seid  Litull 

Jon, 
'Under  the  grene-wode  lyneis.' 

11  *  I  wU  not  shete  a  peny, '  seyd  Bobyn  Hode, 

'In  feith,  Litull  John,  with  the. 
But   ever   for  on   as^*  thou   shetis,'   seide 
Bobyn, 
'In  feith  I  holdeiT  the  thre.' 

12  Thus  shet  thei  forth,  these  yemen  tool", 

Bothe  at  buskei»  and  bromezo, 
Til  Litull  John  wan  of  his  maister 
Five  shillings  to^i  hose  and  shone':. 

13  A  ferlyz*  strife  fel  them  betwene. 

As  they  went  bi  the  wey; 
Litull  John  seid  he  had  won  five  shillings, 
And  Bobyn  Hode  seid  schortly  nay. 

14  With  that  Bobyn  Hode  lyed"  Litul  Jon, 

And  smote  hym  with  his  hande; 
Litul  Jon  waxed  wroth  therwith. 
And  pulled  out  his  bright  bronde. 

15  'Were  thou  not   my  maister,'  seid  Litull 

John, 

10  brave  yeomen  iT  wager 

11  slay  is  two 

12  wbo    would    not   dare    i>  bosh 

withstand  twelve  20  broom   (heather) 

13  it  pleases  me  21  for 

14  sboot     for    a    penny  22  shoes 

15  linden  2S  strange 

i«  unless   for    each   one   **  gave  the  lie  to 
that 


70 


FIFTEENTH  AND  EARLY  SIXTEENTH  CENTURIES 


'Thou  shuldis  by25  hit  ful  sore; 
Get  the  a  man  wher  thou  wit, 
For  thou  getis  me  no  more.' 

16  Then  Robyn  goes  to  Notyngham, 

Hym  selfe  mornyng  allone, 
And  LituU  John  to  mery  Scherwode, 
The  pathes  he  knew  ilkone^^. 

17  Whan  Eobyn  came  to  Notyngham, 

Sertenly  withouten  layn27, 
He  prayed  to  God  and  myld  Mary 
To  bryng  hym  out  savezs  agayn. 

18  He  gos  in  to  Seynt  Mary  chirch, 

And  kneled  down  before  the  rode29; 
Alle  that  ever  were  the  church  within 
Beheld  wel  Eobyn  Hode. 

19  Beside  hym  stod  a  gret-hedid  munke, 

I  pray  to  God  wooso  he  be! 
Fful  sone  he  knew  gode  Eobyn, 
As  sone  as  he  hym  se. 

20  Out  at  the  durre  he  ran, 

Fful  sone  and  anon; 
Alle  the  gatis  of  Notyngham 
He  made  to  be  sparredsi  everychon. 

21  'Else  up,'  he  seid,  'thou  prowde  schereff, 

Buske''2  the  and  make  the  bownesa ; 
I  have  spyed  the  kynggis  felon, 
Ffor  sothe  he  is  in  this  town. 

22  'I  have  spyed  the  false  felon. 

As  he  stondis  at  his  masse; 
Hit  is  longs*  of  the,'  seide  the  munke, 
'And35  ever  he  fro  us  passe. 

23  'This  traytur  name  is  Eobyn  Hode, 

Under  the  grene-wode  lynde; 
He  robbyt  me  onysao  of  a  hundred  pound, 
Hit  shalle  never  out  of  my  mynde. ' 

24  Up  then  rose  this  prowde  shereff. 

And  radlyST  made  hym  yare^s; 
Many  was  the  moder  son 

To  the  kyrk  with  hym  can  fare. 

25  In  at  the  durres  thei  throlys*  thrast, 

With  staves  ful  gode  wones*; 


2B  aby.  atone  for 
26  pach  one 
2T  lying 

28  safe 

29  rood,   cro88 
so  unhappy 

81  barred 

•2  prepare  thee 


S8  ready 
S4  because 
86  If 

86  once 

87  quickly 

88  stoutly 
8»  number 


'Alas,  alas,'  seid  Eobyn  Hode, 
'  Now  mysse  I  Litull  John. ' 

26  But  Eobyn  toke  out  a  too-hond  sworde. 

That  hangit  down  be  his  kne; 
Ther  asi  the   schereff  and  his  men  stode 
thyckust, 
Thedurwarde  wolde  he. 

27  Thryes  thorowout  them  he  ran  then 

For  sothe  as  I  yow  sey. 
And  woundyt  mony  a  moder  son, 
And  twelve  he  slew  that  day. 

28  His  sworde  upon  the  schireff  hed 

Sertanly  he  brake  in  too; 
'The  smyth  that  the  made,'  seid  Eobyn, 
'I  pray  God  wyrke  hym  woo. 

29  'Ffor  now  am  I  weppynlesse, '  seid  Eobyn, 

'Alasse!  agayn  my  wylle; 
But  if2  I  may  fle  these  traytors  fro, 
I  wot  thei  wil  me  kyll. ' 

30  Eobyn  in  to  the  churche  ran, 

Throout  hem  everilkon,* 

31  Sum3  fel  in  swonyng  as  thei  were  dede, 

And  lay  stil  as  any  stone; 
Non  of  theym  were  in  her  mynde 
But  only  Litull  Jon. 

32  'Let  be  your  rule*,*  seid  Litull  Jon, 

'Ffor  his  luf  that  dyed  on  tre. 
Ye  that  shulde  be  dughty  men; 
Het  is  gret  shame  to  se. 

33  'Oure  maister  has  bene  hard  bystodes 

And  yet  scapyd  away; 
Pluk  up  your  hertis,  and  leve  this  mone, 
And  harkyn  what  I  shal  say. 

34  'He  has  servyd  Oure  Lady  many  a  day, 

And  yet  wil,  securlyS; 
Therfor  I  trust  in  hir  speciaJy 
No  wyckud  deth  shal  he  dye. 

35  'Therfor  be  glad,'  seid  Litul  John, 

'And  let  this  mournyng  be; 
And  I  shal  be  the  munkis  gyde, 
With  the  myght  of  mylde  Mary. 


4  foUv    ?     Some    would 

read  dulc  grief) 
s  pressed 
6  surely 


1  where 

2  unless 

3  Uobln      Hood's     men. 

who  have  heard  ol 
the  capture  of  Rob- 

*  A  leaf  is  missing,  some  twelve  stanzas 
gaps  occur  later. 


Similnr 


BALLADS 


71 


'We  •will  go  but  we  too; 
And  I  mete  hjm, '  seid  Litul  John, 


37  'Loke  that  ye  kepe  wel  owre  tristil-treT, 

Under  the  levys  smale, 
And  spare  non  of  this  venyson, 
That  gose  in  thys  vale.' 

38  Fforthe  then  went  these  yemen  too, 

Litul   John   and   Moche  on   feres, 
And  lokid  on  Moch  emys  hows^, 
The  hye  way  lay  full  nere. 

39  Litul  John  stode  at  a  wyndow  in  the 

mornyng, 
And  lokid  forth  at  a  stageio; 
He  was  war  wher  the  niunke  came  ridyng, 
And  with  hym  a  litul  page. 

40  'Be  my  feith,'  seid  Litul  John  to  Moch, 

'I  can  the  tel  tithyngusn  gode; 

I  se  wher  the  munke  cumys  rydyng, 

I  know  hym  be  his  wyde  hode. ' 

41  They   went   in   to   the   way,   these   yemen 

bothe. 
As  curtes  men  and  hendei2; 
Thei  spyrredia  tithyngus  at  ^*  the  munke, 
As  they  hade  bene  his  frendeis. 

42  *Ffro  whens  come  ye?'  seid  Litull  Jon, 

'Tel  us  tithyngus,  I  yow  pray, 
Oflf  a  false  owtlay,  callid  Eobyn  Hode, 
Was  takyn  yisterday. 

43  'He  robbyt  me  and  my  felowes  bothe 

Of  twenti  markers  in  serten; 
If  that  false  owtlay  be  takyn, 
Ffor  sothe  we  wolde  be  fayni^. ' 

44  'So  did  he  me,'  seid  the  munke, 

Of  a  hundred  pound  and  more; 
I  layde  furst  hande  hym  apon. 
Ye  may  thonke  me  therfore.' 

45  '  I  pray  God  thanke  you, '  seid  Litull  John, 

'And  we  will  when  we  may; 
We  will  go  with  you,  with  your  leve, 
And  bryng  yow  on  your  way. 


T  trystlng-tree 

8  In  company 

9  In   on   Much's   uncle's 

house 

10  f  r  o  m     an      (upper) 

story 
u  tidings 


12  civil 

13  asked 

14  of 

15  friends 

16  A  mark  was  13s.  4d 

17  glad 


46  'Ffor    Eobyn   Hode  base   many   a   wilde 

felow, 
I  tell  you  in  certen; 
If  thei  wist  ye  rode  this  way, 
In  feith  ye  shulde  be  slayn.' 

47  As  thei  went  talking  be  the  way, 

The  munke  and  Litull  John, 
John  toke  the  munkis  horse  be  the  hede, 
Fful  sone  and  anon. 

48  Johne  toke  the  munkis  horse  be  the  bed, 

Ffor  sothe  as  I  yow  say; 
So  did  Much  the  litull  page, 
Ffor  he  shulde  not  scape  away. 

49  Be  the  golettis  of  the  hode 

John  pulled  the  munke  down; 
John  was  nothyng  of  hym  agast. 
He  lete  hym  falle  on  his  crown. 

50  Litull  John  was  sore  agrevyd, 

And  drew  owt  his  swerde  in  hye; 
This  munke  saw  he  shulde  be  ded, 
Lowd  mercy  can  he  crye. 

51  '  He  was  my  maister, '  seid  Litull  John, 

'That  thou  hase  browght  in  baleio; 
Shalle  thou  never  cum  at  our  kyng, 
Ffor  to  telle  hym  tale.* 

52  John  smote  of  the  munkis  hed, 

No  longer  wolde  he  dwell; 
So  did  Moch  the  litull  page, 
Ffor  ferd  lest  he  wolde  tell. 

53  Ther  thei  beryed  hem  bothe. 

In  nouther  mosse  nor  lyngso, 

And  Litull  John  and  Much  infere 

Bare  the  letturs  to  oure  kyng. 


He  knelid   down  upon  his  kne: 
'God  yow  save,  my  lege  lorde, 
Jhesus  yow  save  and  sel 

55  '  God  yow  save,  my  lege  kyng ! ' 

To   speke  John  was  full  bolde; 
He  gaf  hym  the  letturs  in  his  bond, 
The  kyng  did  hit  unfold. 

56  The  kyng  red  the  letturs  anon, 

And  seid,  'So  mot  I  the2i, 
Ther  was  never  yoman  in  mery  Inglond 
I   longut   so   sore  to   se. 


18  throat-band 

19  tiarm 


20  neither    moss 

heather 
:i  may  I  thrive 


n 


FIFTEENTH  AND  EARLY  SIXTEENTH  CENTURIES 


67  'Wher  is  the  munke  that  these  shuld  have 

brought!' 
Oure  kyng  can  say: 
'Be  my  trouth,'  seid  Litull  John, 
'He  dyed  aftersz  the  way.' 

68  The  kyng  gaf  Moch  and  Litul  Jon 

Twenti  pound  in  sertan, 
And  made  theim  yemen  of  the  crown, 
And  bade  theim  go  agayn. 

69  He  gaf  John  the  seel  in  hand, 

The  sheref  for  to  bere, 
To  bryng  Kobyn  hym  to, 
And  no  man  do  hym  dere23, 

60  John  toke  his  leve  at24  oure  kyng, 

The  sothe  as  I  yow  say; 
The  next  way  to  Notyngham 
To  take,  he  yede^s  the  way. 

61  Whan  John  came  to  Notyngham 

The  gatis  were  sparred  ychon; 
John  callid  up  the  porter, 
He  answerid  sone  anon. 

62  'What  is  the  cause,'  seid  Litul  Jon, 

'Thou  sparris  the  gates  so  fast?' 
'  Because  of  Robyn  Hode, '  seid  the  porter, 
'In  depe  prison  is  cast. 

63  'John  and  Moch  and  Wyll  Scathlok, 

Ffor  sothe  as  I  yow  say, 
Thei  slew  oure  men  upon  our  wallis, 
And  sawten26  us  every  day.' 

64  Litull  John  spyrred  after  the  schereff. 

And  sone  he  hym  fonde; 
He  oppyned  the  kyngus  prive  seell. 
And  gaf  hym  in  his  honde. 

65  Whan  the  scheref  saw  the  kyngus  seell, 

He  did  of27  his  hode  anon: 
'  Wher  is  the  munke  that  bare  the  letturs  ? ' 
He  seid  to  Litull  John. 

66  'He28   ig   so    fayn    of 28    hym,'    seid    Litul 

John, 
'Ffor  sothe  as  I  yow  say, 
He  has  made  hym  abot  of  Westmynster, 
A  lorde  of  that  abbay. ' 

67  The  scheref  made  John   gode  chere. 

And  gaf  hym  wyne  of  the  best; 


ssapon 
28  barm 
24  of 
2»  went 


At  nyght  thei  went  to  her  bedde, 
And  every  man  to  his  rest. 

68  When  the  scheref  was  on   slepe, 

Dronken  of  wyne  and  ale, 
Litul  John  and  Moch  for  sothe 
Toke  the  way  unto  the  jale. 

69  Litul  John  callid  up  the  jayler. 

And  bade  hym  rise  anon; 
He  seyd  Eobyn  Hode  had  brokyn  prison, 
And  out  of  hit  was  go^n. 

70  The  porter  rose  anon  sertan. 

As  sone  as  he  herd  John  calle; 
Litul  John  was  redy  with  a  swerd, 
And  bare  hym  to  the  walle. 

71  'Now  wil  I  be  porter,'  seid  Litul  John, 

'  And  take  the  keyes  in  honde ': 
He  toke  the  way  to  Eobyn  Hode, 
And  sone  he  hym  unbonde. 

72  He  gaf  hym  a  gode  swerd  in  his  bond. 

His  hed  therwith   for  to  kepei. 
And  ther  as2  the  walle  was  lowyst 
Anon  down  can  thei  lepe. 

73  Be  that  the  cok  began  to  crow, 

The  day  began  to  spryng; 
The  scheref  fond  the  jaylier  ded. 
The  comyns  bell  made  he  ryng. 

74  He  made  a  crye  thoroout  al  the  town, 

Wheder  he  be  yoman  or  knave, 
That  cowthe  bryng  hym  Eobyn  Hode, 
His  warison*  he  shuld  have. 

75  'Ffor  I  dar  never,'  said  the  scheref, 

'Cum  before  oure  kyng; 
Ffor  if  I  do,  I  wot  serten 
Ffor  sothe  he  wil  me  heng.' 

76  The  scheref  made  to  seke  Notyngham, 

Bothe  be  strete  and  styeS, 
And  Eobyn  was  in  mery  Scherwode, 
As  light  as  lef  on  lynde*. 

77  Then  bespake  gode  Litull  John, 

To  Eobyn  Hode  can  he  say, 
'I  have  done  the  a  gode  turn  for  an  evyll, 
QuyteT  the  whan  thou  may. 

78  'I  have  done  the  a  gode  turne,'  seid  Litull 

John, 


clear    the 


2«  aaunit 

I  f^iard 

5  alley 

27  put  off 

2H  1.  c.  the  king 

2  where 

6  linden  tree 

3  public 

7  quit     (1.     C. 

2B  pleased  with 

i  reward 

debt) 

BALLADS 


73 


*Ffor  sothe  as  I  yow  say; 
I  have  brought  the  under  grene-wode  lyne« ; 
Ffare  wel,  and  have  gode  day.' 

79  '  Nay,  be  my  trouth, '  seid  Bobyn  Hode, 

'So  shall  hit  never  be; 
I  make  the  maister,'  seid  Bobyn  Hode, 
'0£E  alle  my  men  and  me.' 

80  'Nay,  be  my  trouth,'  seid  LituU  John, 

'So  shalle  hit  never  be; 
But  lat  me  be  a  felow, '  seid  Litull  John, 
'  No  noder  kepe  I  bes. ' 

81  Thus  John  gate  Robyn  Hod  out  of  prison; 

Sertan  withoutyn  layns, 
Whan  his  men  saw  hym  hoi  and  sounde, 
Ffor  sothe  they  were  full  fayne. 

82  They  filled  in  wyne,  and  made  hem  'glad, 

Under  the  levys  smale, 
And  geteio  pastes  of  venyson. 
That  gode  was  with  ale. 

83  Than  worde  came  to  oure  kyng 

How  Eobyn  Hode  was  gon. 
And  how  the  scheref  of  Notyngham 
Durst  never  loke  hym  upon. 

84  Then  bespake  oure   eumly  kyng. 

In  an  angur  hye: 
'Litull  John  hase  begyled  the  schereff. 
In  faith  so  hase  he  me. 

85  'Litul  John  has  begyled  us  bothe. 

And  that  full  wel  I  se; 
Or  ellis  the  schereff  of  Notyngham 
Hye  hongutii  shulde  he  be. 

86  *I  made  hem  yemen  of  the  crowne. 

And  gaf  hem  feei2  with  my  hond; 
I  gaf  hem  grithis^'  seid  oure  kyng, 
'Tborowout  all  mery  Inglond. 

87  'I  gaf  theym  grith, '  then  seid  oure  kyng; 

*  I   say,   so  mot   I  the, 
Ffor  sothe  soch  a  yeman  as  he  is  oni* 
In  all  Inglond  ar  not  thre. 

88  '  He  is  trew  to  his  maister, '  seid  our  kyng ; 

*I  sey,  be  swete  Seynt  John, 
He  lovys  better  Robyn  Hode 
Then  he  dose  us  ychon. 


8  no  other  care  I  to  be 

»  lying  (i,  e.,  truly)  12  money 

10  got  13  Becurlty 

11  banged  14  one 


89  'Eobyn  Hode  is  ever  bond  to  hym, 

Bothe  in  strete  and  stalleis; 
Speke  no  more  of  this  mater,'  seid  oure 

kyng, 
'But  John  has  begyled  us  alle.' 

90  Thus  endys  the  talkyng  of  the  munke 

And  Robyn  Hode  i-wyssei8; 
God,  that  is  ever  a  crowned  kyng, 
Bryng  us  all  to  his  blisse.' 

THE  HUNTING  OF  THE  CHEVIOT* 

1  The  Persei  owtz  off  Northombarlonde, 

and  avowe  to  God  mayd  he 
That  he  wold  hunte  in  the  mowntayns 

off  Chyviat  within  days  thre, 
In  the  magger  ofs  doughte  Dogles, 

and  all  that  ever  with  him  be. 

2  The  fattiste  hartes  in  all  Cheviat 

he   sayd    he    wold   kyll,   and   cary   them 

away: 
"Be  my  feth,"  sayd  the  dougheti  Doglas 

agayn, 
"I    wyll    let*    that    hontyng   yf   that    I 

may. ' ' 

3  Then  the  Perse  owt  off  Banborowe  cam, 

with  him  a  myghtee  meanys, 
With    fifteen    hondrith    archares    bold    off 
blood  and  bone; 
the8  wear  chosen  owt  of  shyars^  thre. 

4  This  begane  on  a  Monday  at  morn, 

in  Cheviat  the  hUIys  so  he; 
The  chylde  may  rue  that  ys  unborn, 
it  wos  the  more  pitte. 

5  The  dryvarss  thorowe  the  woodes  went, 

for  to  reas  the  dear; 
Bomen  byckarteo  uppone  the  bentio 
with  ther  browd  aros  cleared. 

6  Then  the  wyldiz  thorowe  the  woodes  went, 

on  every  syde  shearis; 
Greahondes  thorowe  the  grevisi*  glentis^ 
for  to  kyll  thear  dear. 

13  i.  e.,  abroad  and  at  home 
1 6  Indeed 


1  The  family  of  Percy  was  an  old  one  of  northern 
England. 


2  came  out 

3  maugre,  in  spite  of 

4  prevent 

5  band 

6  they 

7  shires 

8  stalkers 


9  skirmished 

10  field 

11  bright 

12  game 

13  sevoral,  separate 

14  groves 

15  darted 


•Probably  old  in  1550.  Sidney  mentions  "the  olde 
song  of  Percy  and  Duglas."  There  is  a  later 
version  which  is  commonly  known  as  Chevy 
Chace. 


u 


FIFTEENTH  AND  EARLY  SIXTEENTH  CENTURIES 


7  This  begane  in  Chyviat  the  hyls  abonei«, 

yerlyiT  on  a  Monnyn-day; 
Be  thatis  it  drewe  to  the  oware  off  none, 
a  hondrith  fat  hartes  ded  ther  lay. 

8  The  blewe  a  mortis  uppone  the  bent, 

the  semblyde  on  sydis  shear; 
To  the  quyrry2o  then  the  Perse  went, 
to  se  the  bryttlyngezi  off  the  deare. 

9  He  sayd,  "It  was  the  Duglas  promys, 

this  day  to  met  me  hear; 
But  I  wyste  he  wolde  f aylle,  verament22 ; ' ' 
a  great  oth  the  Perse  swear. 

10  At  the  laste  a  squyar  off  Northomberlonde 

lokyde  at  his  hand  full  ny; 
He    was    war    a    the    doughetie    Doglas 
commynge, 
with  him  a  myghtte  meany. 

11  Both  with  spear,  byllezs,  and  brande, 

yt  was  a  myghtti  sight  to  se; 
Hardyar  men,  both  off  hart  nor  hande, 
wear  not  in  Cristiante. 

12  The  wear  twenti  hondrith  spear-men  good, 

withoute  any  feale24. 
The    wear    borne    along   be    the   watter    a 
Twyde, 
yth25  bowndes  of  Tividale. 

13  "Leave  of  the  brytlyng  of  the  dear,"  he 

sayd, 
"and  to  your  boys2e  lock  ye  tayk  good 
hede ; 
For  never  sithe  ye  wear  on  your  mothars 
borne 
had  ye  never27  so  mickle  nede. " 

14  The  dougheti  Dogglas  on  a  stede, 
•  >'•  he  rode  alle  his  men  beforne; 

His  armor  glytteryde  as  dyd  a  glede28; 
a  boldar  bame2»  was  never  bom. 

15  "Tell  me  whos  men  ye  ar,"  he  says, 

"or  whos  men  that  ye  be: 
Who    gave    youe   leave   to   hunte    in    this 
Chyviat  chays, 
in  the  spyt  of  myn  and  of  me." 


16  The  first  manei  that  ever  him  an  answear 

mayd, 
yt  was  the  good  lord  Perse: 
* '  We  wyll  not  tell  the2  whoyss  men  we  ar, ' ' 
he  says, 
"nor  whos  men  that  we  be; 
But  we  wyll  hounte  hear  in  this  chays, 
in  the  spyt  of  thyne  and  of  the. 

17  "The  fattiste  hartes  in  all  Chyviat 

we  have  kyld,  and  cast^  to  carry  them 

away. 
' '  Be  my  troth, ' '  sayd  the  doughete  Dogglas 

agayn, 
"therfor   the  tons   of  us  shall  de«  this 

day." 

18  Then  sayd  the  doughte  Doglas 

unto  the  lord  Perse: 
*"To  kyll  alle  thes  giltles  men, 
alas,  it  wear  great  pittel 

19  "But,  Perse,  thowe  art  a  lord  of  lande, 

I  am  a  yerle  callyd  within  my  contre; 
Let  all  our  men  uppone  a  parti^  stande, 
and  do8  the  battell  off  the  and  of  me." 

20  "Nowe    Cristes    cors^    on    his    crowneio," 

sayd  the  lord  Perse, 
"who-so-ever  ther-to  says  nay; 
Bell  my  troth,  doughtte  Doglas,"  he  says, 
"thow  «halt  never  se  that  dayi2. 

21  "Nethar    in    Ynglonde,    Skottlonde,    nar 

France, 
nor  for  no  man  of  a  woman  bornis. 
But,   andi*   fortune  be  my   chance, 
I  dar  met  him,  onis  man  for  oni5. " 

22  Then  bespayke  a  squyar  off  Northombar- 

londe, 
Richard  Wytharyngton  was  his  nam: 
"  It  shall  never  be  told  in  Sothe- Ynglonde, " 

he  says, 
"to  Kyng  Herry  the  Fourth  for  sham. 

23  "I  wati«  youe  byni'  great  lordes  twaw, 

I   am   a   poor   squyar  of   lande: 
I  wylle  never  se  my  captayne  fyght  on  a 
fylde, 

and  stande  my  selffe  and  loocke  on, 
But  whylle  I  may  my  weppone  welde, 

I  wylle  not  f ayle  both  hart  and  hande. ' ' 


lA  above 

17  early 

18  by  the  time 
i»  d<-ath-note 

20  filauKhtered  game 

21  cutting   up 

22  truly 


28  Bword 

24  fall 

25  In    the 

20  bOW8 

27  ever 

28  glowing  coal 

29  man 


1  man  7  to  one  side 

2  thee  8  let  us  do 
s  whose  8  curse 

4  Intend  lo  head 

5  one  11  by 

6  die 


12  sc,  when  I  say  nay 

13  sc,  will  I  shrink 

14  If 

15  cue 
lA  know 
17  be 


BALLADS 


76 


24  That  day,  that  day,  that  dredfull  day! 

the  first  fit  18  here  I  fynde; 
Andi9    youe   wyll    here    any   mor    a2o    the 
hountyng  a  the  Chyviat, 
yet  ys  ther  mor  behynde. 

25  The     Yngglyshe    men    hade    ther    bowys 

yebent, 
ther  hartes  wer  good  yenoughe; 
The  first  ofif  arros  that  the2i  shote  off, 
seven  skore  spear-men  the  sloughe. 

26  Yet  byddys22  the  yerle  Doglas  uppon  the 

bent, 
a  captayne  good  yenoughe, 
And   that  was   sene  verament, 

for    he    wrought    hom23    both    woo    and 

wouche2*. 

27  The  Dogglas  partyd  his  ostzs  in  thre, 

lyk  a  cheffe  chef  ten  off  pryde; 
With  suar  spears  off  myghtte  treze, 
the2i  cum  in  on  every  syde: 

28  Thrughe  our  Yngglyshe  archery27 

gave  many  a  wounde  fulle  wyde; 
Many  a  doughetess  the2i  garde29  to  dy, 
which  ganyde  them  no  pryde. 

29  The  Ynglyshe  men  let  ther  boys  be, 

and  pulde  owt  brandes  that  wer  brighte; 
It  was  a  hevy  syght  to  se 

bryght  swordes  on  basnitesso  lyght. 

30  Thorowe  ryche  malesi  and  myneyeple32, 

many     sterness     the2i     strocke     donea* 
streght ; 
Many  a  freykess  that  was  fulle  fress, 
ther  undar  foot  dyd  lyght. 

31  At  last  the  Duglas  and  the  Perse  met, 

lyk  to  captayns  of  myght  and  of  mayne; 
The2i    swapte37    togethar    tylle    the    both 
swat38, 
with  swordes  that  wear  of  fyn  myllan39. 

32  Thes  worthe  freckys  for  to  fyght, 

ther-to*o  the  wear  fulle  fayne*i, 


18  division  of  the  song     so  helmets 

19  If  31  armor 

20  of  32  gauntlet 

21  they  33  stubborn  ones 

22  abides  34  down 

23  them  35  man 

24  harm  se  noble 

25  host  37  smote 

26  wood  38  sweat 

27  archers  39  Milan  3teel 
as  doughty  man                 40  1.  e.,  to  fight 
20  caused  4i  glad 


Tylle  the  bloode  owte  off  thear  basnetes 
8prente42 
as  ever  dyd  heal*3  or  rayn. 

33  "Yelde  the,  Perse,"  sayde  the  Doglas, 

"and  i  feth**  I  shalle  the  brynge 
Wher  thowe  shalte  have  a  yerls  wagis*' 
of  Jamy  our  Skottish  kynge. 

34  "Thou  shalte  have  thy  ransom  fre, 

I  hight48  the  hear*^  this  thinge; 
For  the  manfuUyste  man  yet  art  thowe 
that    ever    I    conqueryd    in    filde    fight- 
tynge. ' ' 

35  "Nay,"  sayd  the  lord  Perse, 

"I  tolde  it  the  befome. 
That  I  wolde  never  yeldyde  be 
to  no  man  of  a  woman  born." 

36  With  that  ther  cam  an  arrowe  hastely, 

forthe  off  a  myghtte  wane-tS; 
Hit  hathe  strekene  the  yerle  Duglas 
in  at  the  brest-bane. 

37  Thorowe  lyvar  and  longesi  bathe2 

the  sharpe  arrowe  ys  gane. 
That  never  after  in  all  his  lyffe-days 

he  spayke  mo  wordes  but  ane: 
That   was,   "Fyghte   ye,    my   myrry   men, 
whyllys  ye  may, 

for  my  lyff-days  ben  gan." 

38  The  Perse  leanyde  on  his  brande, 

and  sawe  the  Duglas  de; 
He  tooke  the  dede  mane  by  the  hande, 
.  and  sayd,  "Wo  ys  me  for  the! 

39  "To  have  savyde  thy  lyffe,  I  wolde  have 

partyde  with 
my  landes  for  years  thre, 
For  a  better  man,  of  hart  nare  of  hande, 
was  nat  in  all  the  north  contre. " 

40  Off  all  that  se3  a  Skottishe  knyght, 

was    callyd    Ser    Hewe    the    Monggom- 
byrry*; 
He    sawe    the    Duglas    to    the    deth    was 
dyghts, 
he  spendyd8  a  spear,  a  trusti  tre. 

41  He  rod  uppone  a  corsiare^ 

throughe  a  hondrith  archery: 


42  sprang 

43  hall 

44  In  faith 

45  earl's  wages 

46  promise 

47  here 

48  multitude  (  ?  Skeat) 


1  lungs 

2  both 

3  saw 

4  Montgomery 

5  doomed 

6  spanned,  seized 

7  courser 


w 


FIFTEENTH  AND  EARLY  SIXTEENTH  CENTURIES 


He  never  stynttyde*,  nar  never  bkine», 
tylle  he  earn  to  the  good  lord  Perse. 

42  He  set  uppone  the  lorde  Perse 

a  dynte  that  was  full  scare; 
"With  a  suar  spear  of  a  myghtte  tre 

clean  thorow  the  body  he  the  Perse  berio, 

43  All  the  tothar  syde  that  a  man  myght  se 

a  large  cloth-yard  and  mare: 
Towe   bettar   captayns  wear   nat   in   Cris- 
tiante 
then  that  day  slan  wear  ther. 

44  An  archar  off  Northomberlonde 

8ayi2  slean  was  the  lord  Perse; 
He  bar  a  bende  bowe  in  his  hand, 
was  made  off  trusti  tre. 

45  An  arow,  that  a  cloth-yarde  was  lang, 

to  the  harde  stele  halydeia  he; 
A  dynt  that  was  both  sad  and  soar 

he  sati*  on  Ser  Hewe  the  Monggombyrry. 

46  The  dynt  yt  was  both  sad  and  sar, 

that  he  of  Monggomberry  sete; 
The  swane-fethars  that  his  arrowe  bar 
with  his  hart-blood  the  wear  wete. 

47  Ther  was  never  a  freakei'  wone  foot  wolde 

fle, 
but  still  in  stouri*  dyd  stand, 
Heawyng  on  yche  othar,  whylle  the  myghte 

dreiT, 
with  many  a  balfull  brande. 

48  This  battell  begane  in  Chyviat 

an  owar  befor  the  none, 
And  when  even-songe  bell  was  rang, 
the  battell  was  nat  half  done. 

49  The  tockeis     ...    on  ethar  hande 

be  the  lyght  off  the  mone; 
Many  hade  no  strenght  for  to  stande, 
in  Chyviat  the  hillys  abon. 

50  Of  fifteen  hondrith  archars  of  Ynglonde 

went  away  but  seventi  and  thre; 
Of  twenti  hondrith  spear-men  of  Skotlonde, 
but  even  five  and  fifti. 

51  But  all  wear  slayne  Cheviat  within; 

the  hade  no  strengthe  to  stand  on  hy; 

•  stopped 

•  ceased  M  set 

10  pl«rced  is  man 

11  on  10  stress  of  battle 
IS  saw  that  i7  endure 

Mdrew  istbey  took  (count?) 


The  chylde  may  rue  that  ys  unborne, 
it  was  the  mor  pitte. 

52  Thear  was  slayne,  withe  the  lord  Perse, 

Sir  Johan  of  Agerstone, 
Ser  Eogar,  the  hindei»  Hartly, 
Ser  Wyllyam,  the  bolde  Hearone. 

53  Ser  Jorg,  the  worthe  Loumle, 

a  knyghte  of  great  renowen, 
Ser  Eaff20,  the  ryche  Eugbe, 
with  dyntes  wear  beaten  dowene. 

54  For  Wetharryngton  my  harte  was  wo, 

that  ever  he  slayne  shulde  be; 
For  when  both  his  leggis  wear  hewyne  in 
to, 
yet  he  knyled  and  fought  on  hys  kny. 

55  Ther  was  slayne,  with  the  dougheti  Duglas. 

Ser  Hewe  the  Monggombyrry, 
Ser  Davy  Lwdale,  that  worthe  was, 
his  sistars  son  was  he. 

56  Ser  Charls  a  Murrezi  in  that  place, 

that  never  a  foot  wolde  fle; 
Ser  Hewe  Maxwelle,  a  lorde  he  was, 
with  the  Doglas  dyd  he  dey. 

57  So    on    the    morrowe    the    mayde    them 

byears22 
off  birch  and  hasell  so  gray; 
Many  wedous,  with  wepyng  tears, 
cam  to  fache  ther  makys23  away. 


58 


59 


Tivydale  may  carpe  off**  care, 
Northombarlond  may  mayk  great  mon. 

For    towe    such    captayns    as    slayne    wear 
thear, 
on  the  March-parti26  shall  never  be  non. 

Word  ys  commen  to  Eddenburrowe, 

to  J  amy  the  Skottische  kynge, 
That   dougheti   Duglas,  lyff-tenant   of  the 
Marches, 

he  lay  slean  Chyviot  within. 


60     His  handdes  dyd  he  weal2«  and  wryng, 
he  sayd,  "Alas,  and  woe  ys  me! 
Such  an  othar  captayn  Skotland  within," 
he  sayd,  "ye-feth  shuld  never  be."* 

iBeentle  2S  mates 

20  Ralph  24  SlDK  of 

21  Murray  25  border  side 

22  biers  28  clench 

*  This  lament,  contrasted  with  King  Harry's  boast 
that  follows,  may  be  taken  as  an  amusing  in- 
dication of  English  authorship  of  the  ballad. 


BALLADS 


77 


61  Worde  ys  commyn  to  lovly  Londone, 

tiller  the  fourth  Harry  our  kynge, 
That     lord     Perse,     leyff-tenante    of     the 
Marchis, 
he  lay  slayne  Chyviat  within. 

62  "God    have    merci    on    his    soUe,"    sayde 

Kyng  Harry, 
"good  Lord,  yf  thy  will  it  be! 
I  have  a  hondrith  captayns  in  Ynglonde, " 
he  sayd, 
"as  good  as  ever  was  he: 
But,  Perse,  and  I  brookss  my  lyffe, 
thy  deth  well  quyte2»  shall  be." 

63  As  our  noble  kynge  mayd  his  avowe, 

lyke  a   noble  prince  of  renowen, 
For  the  deth  of  the  lord  Perse 
he  dyde  the  battell  of  Hombyll-down ; 

64  Wher  syx  and  thritte  Skottishe  knyghtes 

on  a  day  wear  beaten  down: 
Glendale  glytteryde  onso  ther  armor  bryght, 
over  castille,  towar,  and  town. 

65  This  was  the  hontynge  off  the  Cheviat, 

that  tears  1  begane  this  spurns  2, 
Old    men    that   knowen   the   grownde    well 
yenoughe 
call  it  the  battell  of  Otterburn. 

66  At  Otterburn  begane  this  sporne 

uppone  a  Monnynday; 
Ther  was  the  doughte  Doglas  slean, 
the  Perse  never  went  away. 

67  Ther  was   never   a   tym   on   the   Marche- 

partes 
senS3  the  Doglas  and  the  Perse  met. 
But  yt  ys  mervele   ands*   the  rede  blude 

ronne  not, 
as  the  reane  doysss  in  the  stret. 

68  Jhesue  Crist  our  balysse  beteST, 

and  to  the  blys  us  bryngel 
Thus  was  the  hountynge  of  the  Chivyat: 
God  send  us  alle  good  endyng! 


SIR  PATRICK  SPENS 

1     The  king  sits  in  Dumferling  tounei, 

Drinking  the  blude-reid  wine: 

"O  whar  will  I  get  guid  sailor, 

To  sail  this  schip  of  minet" 

27  to  32  trouble 

28  if  I  enjoy  33  since 

29  paid  for  34  if 

30  in,  with    (Humbleton  35  rain  does 

is  in  Glendale  dis-    se  evil 

trict)  37  remedy,  better 

31  that  ere,  erewhile 

1  Dunfermline,    northwest    of    Edinburgh,    once    a 
royal  residence. 


2  Up  and  spak  an  eldern^  knicht, 

Sat  at  the  kings  richt  kne: 
"Sir  Patrick  Spence  is  the  best  sailor. 
That  sails  upon  the  se." 

3  The  king  has  written  a  braids  letter, 

And  signd  it  wi  his  hand, 
And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spence, 
Was  walking  on  the  sand. 

4  The  first  line  that  Sir  Patrick  red, 

A  loud  lauch-t  lauched  he; 
The  next  line  that  Sir  Patrick  red, 
The  teir  blinded  his  ee. 

5  "O  wha  is  this  has  don  this  deid. 

This  ill  deid  don  to  me, 
To  send  me  out  this  time  0'  the  yeir. 
To  sail  upon  the  se! 

6  "Mak  hast,  mak  haste,  my  mirry  men  all, 

Our  guid  schip  sails  the  morne:  ' ' 
"O  say  na  sae,  my  master  deir. 
For   I   feir  a   deadlie  storme. 

7  "Late,  late  yestreen  I  saw  the  new  moone, 

Wi  the  auld  moone  in  hir  arme. 
And  I  feir,  I  feir,  my  deir  master. 
That  we  will  cum  to  harme. " 

8  O  our  Scots  nobles  wer  richt  laith 

To  weet  their  cork-heild  schoone; 
Bots  lang  owre^  a'  the  play  wer  playd, 
Thair  hats  they  swam  aboone^. 

9  0  lang,  lang  may  their  ladies  sit, 

Wi  thair  fans  into  their  hand. 
Or  eir  they  se  Sir  Patrick  Spence 
Cum  sailing  to  the  land. 

10  O  lang,  lang  may  the  ladies  stand, 

Wi  thair  gold  kems*  in  their  hair, 
Waiting  for  thair  ain  deir  lords, 
For  they'll  se  thame  na  mair. 

11  Haf  owre,  haf  owre  to  Aberdour, 

It's  fiftie  fadom  deip, 
And  thair  lies  guid  Sir  Patrick  Spence, 
Wi  the  Scots  lords  at  his  feit. 


JOHNIE  COCK.* 

1    Up  Johnie  raise  in  a  May  morning, 
Calld  for  water  to  wash  his  hands 


2  old  8  before 

3  broad,  open  7  swam     in     over    their 

4  laugh  hats    (so  to  speak) 

5  but  8  combs 

•  Our  text  of  this  vigorous  ballad  follows  the  ad 
mirable  combination  made  by  Professor  F.  B. 
Gummere  from  various  versions. 


78 


FIFTEENTH  AND  EARLY  SIXTEENTH  CENTURIES 


And  he  has  calld  for  his  gude  gray  hunds 
That  lay  bund  in  iron  bands,  bands, 
That  lay  bund  in  iron  bands. 

2  'Ye'U  buski,  ye '11  busk  my  noble  dogs, 

Ye '11  busk  and  mak  them  bounz, 

For  I'm  going  to  the  Braidscaur  hill 

To  dings  the  dun*  deer  doun.' 

3  Johnie's  mother  has  gotten  word  o  that, 

And  care-bed  she  has  taen^: 
'  O  Johnie,  for  my  benisons, 

I  beg  you'l  stay  at  hame; 
For  the  wine  so  red,  and  the  well-baken 
bread. 

My  Johnie  shall  want  nane. 

4  'There    are    seven    forsters    at    Pickeram 

Side, 
At  Pickeram  where  they  dwell. 
And  for  a  drop  of  thy  heart 's  bluid 
They  wad  ride  the  fords  of  hell. ' 

5  But  Johnie  has  cast  off  the  black  velvet, 

And  put  on  the  Lincoln  twine^. 
And  he  is  on  to  gude  greenwud 
As  fast  as  he  could  gang.  , 

6  Johnie  lookit  east,  and  Johnie  lookit  west, 

And  he  lookit  aneath  the  sun, 
And  there  he  spied  the  dun  deer  sleeping 
Aneath  a  buss  o  whuns. 

7  Johnie  shot,  and  the  dun  deer  lap». 

And  she  lap  wondrous  wide, 
Until  they  came  to  the  wan  water, 
And  he  stemdio  her  of  her  pride. 

8  He   'as  taen  out  the  little  pen-knife, 

'Twas  full  three  quarters"  long. 
And  he  has  taen  out  of  that  dun  deer 
The  liver  boti2  and  the  tongue. 

9  They  eat  of  the  flesh,  and  they  drank  of 

the  blood. 
And  the  blood  it  was  so  sweet, 
Which  caused  Johnie  and  his  bloody  hounds 
To  fall  in  a  deep  sleep. 

10    By  then  came  an  old  palmer. 
And  an  ill  death  may  he  die! 
For  he's  away  to  Pickram  Side 
As  fast  as  he  can  drieis. 

1  make  ready  7  cloth 

2  ready  8  bush  of  furze 
8  Rtrike                                     •  leaped 

*  dark  brown  lo  strlpt 

SI.  e..  Is  sick  wltb  anx-   ii  of  a  yard 
iety  12  as  well  as 

•  blessing  is  hold  out 


11  'What  news,  what  news?'  says  the  Seven 

ForstersJ 
'What  news  have  ye  brought  to  me! ' 
'I  have  noe  news,'  the  palmer  said, 
'But  what  I  saw  with  my  eye. 

12  'As  I  cam  in  by  Braidisbanks, 

And  down  among  the  whuns. 

The  bonniest  youngster  eer  I  saw 

Lay  sleepin  amang  his  hunds. 

13  'The  shirt  that  was  upon  his  back 

Was  o  the  hollandi*  fine; 
The  doubletis  which  was  over  that 
Was  o  the  Lincoln  twine.* 

14  Up  bespake  the  Seven  Forsters, 

Up  bespake  they  ane  and  a': 
'O   that  is  Johnie  o  Cockleys  Well, 
And  near  him  we  will  draw. ' 

15  0  the  first  stroke  that  they  gae  him, 

They  struck  him  off  by  the  knee; 
Then  up  bespake  his  sister's  son: 
'O  the  next '11  gar  is  him  die!  ' 

16  'O  some  they  count  ye  well-wighti^  men. 

But  I  do  count  ye  nane; 
For  you  might  well  ha  wakend  me, 
And  askd  gin  I  wad  be  taen. 

17  '  The  wildest  wolf  in  aw  this  wood 

Wad  not  ha  done  so  by  me; 
She'd  ha  wet  her  foot  ith  wan  water. 

And  sprinkled  it  oer  my  braeis^ 
And  if  that  wad  not  ha  wakend  me, 

She  wad  ha  gone  and  let  me  be. 

18  'O  bows  of  yew,  if  ye  be  true, 

In  London,  where  ye  were  bought, 
Fingers  five,  get  up  beliveis, 

Manhuid  shall  fail  me  nought.' 

19  He  has  killd  the  Seven  Forsters, 

He  has  killd  them  all  but  ane. 
And  that  wan2o  scarce  to  Pickeram  Side, 
To  carry  the  bode-words2i  hame. 

20  'Is  there  never  a  [bird]  in  a'  this  wood 

That  will  tell  what  I  can  say; 
That  will  go  to  Cockleys  Well, 
Tell  my  mither  to  fetch  me  awayf 

21  There  was  a  fbird]   into  that  wood. 

That  carried  the  tidings  away. 
And  many  ae22  was  the  well-wight  man 
At  the  fetching  o  Johnie  away. 


14  linen 

15  waistcoat 

16  make 

IT  very  brave 
1 8  brow 


19  quick 

20  won,  made  hla  way 

21  message 
32  a  one 


BALLADS 


79 


BONNIE  GEORGE  CAMPBELL. 

1  High  upon  Highlands, 

and  low  upon  Tay, 

Bonnie  George  Campbell 

rade  out  on  a  day. 

2  Saddled  and  bridled 

and  gallant  rade  he; 
Home  cam  his  guid  horse, 
but  never  cam  he. 

3  Out  cam  his  auld  mither 

greeting  fu'  sairi, 
And  out  cam  his  bonnie  bride 
livings  her  hair. 

4  Saddled  and  bridled 

and  booted  rade  he; 
Toom3  hame  cam  the  saddle, 
but  never  cam  he. 

B     'My  meadow  lies  green, 
and  my  corn  is  unshorn, 
My  barn  is  to  build, 
and  my  babe  is  unborn.' 

6    Saddled  and  bridled 

and  booted  rade  he; 
Toom  hame  cam  the  saddle, 
but  never  cam  he. 


THE  WIFE  OF  USHER'S  WELL. 

There  lived  a  wife  at  Usher 's  Well, 
And  a  wealthy  wife  was  she; 

She  had  three  stout  and  stalwart  sons, 
And  sent  them  oer  the  sea. 

They  hadna  been  a  week  from  her, 

A  week  but  barely  ane. 
When  word  came  to  the  carline*  wife 

That  her  three  sons  were  gane. 

They  hadna  been  a  week  from  her, 

A  week  but  barely  three, 
When  word  came  to  the  carlin  wife 

That  her  sons  she'd  never  see. 

'  I  wish  the  wind  may  never  cease. 

Nor  fashess  in  the  flood, 
Till  my  three  sons  come  hame  to  me, 

In  earthly  flesh  and  blood.' 

It  fell  about  the  Martinmasss, 
When  nights  are  lang  and  mirk^. 


1  weeping  full   sore 

2  tearing 

3  empty 
«old 


5  troubles    (storms) 

6  November  11 

7  dark 


The  carlin  wife's  three  sons  came  hame, 
And  their  hats  were  o  the  birks. 

It  neither  grew  in  syke^  nor  ditch. 

Nor  yet  in  ony  sheughio, 
But  at  the  gates  o  Paradise, 

That  birk  grew  fair  eneugh. 


'Blow  up  the  fire,  my  maidens! 

Bring  water  from  the  well! 
For  a'  my  house  shall  feast  this  night. 

Since  my  three  sons  are  well.' 

And  she  has  made  to  them  a  bed, 
She's  made  it  large  and  wide, 

And  she's  ta'en  her  mantle  her  about. 
Sat  down  at  the  bed-side. 


9     Up  then  crew  the  red,  red  cock, 
And  up  and  crew  the  gray; 
The  eldest  to  the  youngest  said, 
'  'Tis  time  we  were  away.' 

10  The  cock  he  hadna  craw  'd  but  once, 

And  clappd  his  wings  at  a'. 
When  the  youngest  to  the  eldest  said, 
'Brother,  we  must  awa. 

11  'The  cock  doth  craw,  the  day  doth  daw, 

The  channerinii  worm  doth  chide; 
Gini2  y/Q  be  mist  out  o  our  place, 
A  sair  pain  we  maun  bide. 

12  'Fare  ye  weel,  my  mother  dear! 

Fareweel  to  bami3  and  byrei*! 
And  fare  ye  weel,  the  bonny  lass 
That  kindles  my  mother's  fire!  '* 

KATHARINE  JAFFRAY.f 

1  There  livd  a  lass  in  yonder  dale, 

And  doun  in  yonder  glen,  O, 
And  Kathrine  Jaffray  was  her  name, 
Well  known  by  many  men,  O. 

2  Out  came  the  Laird  of  Lauderdale, 

Out  frae  the  South  Countrie, 
All  for  to  court  this  pretty  maid. 
Her  bridegroom  for  to  be. 


8  birch 

9  marsh  12  if 

10  furrow  18  granary 

11  fretting  1 4  stable 

*  "The  beauty  of  reticence  in  this  last  farewell  is 
as  delicate  as  anything  in  literature." — F.  B. 
Gummere. 

t  Scott's  "Lochinvar"  is  based  upon  this  ballad. 


80 


FIFTEENTH  AND  EARLY  SIXTEENTH  CENTURIES 


3  He  has  teldi  her  father  and  mither  baith, 

And  a'  the  rest  o  her  kin, 
And  has  teld  the  lass  hersell, 
And  her  consent  has  yiin. 

4  Then  came  the  Laird  of  Lochinton, 

Out  frae  the  English  border, 

All  for  to  court  this  pretty  maid, 

Well  mounted  in  good  order, 

5  He's  teld  her  father  and  mither  baith, 

As  I  hear  sindry  say, 
But  he  has  nae  teld  the  lass  her  sell. 
Till  on  her  wedding  day, 

6  When  day  was  set,  and  friends  were  met. 

And  married  to  be. 
Lord  Lauderdale  came  to  the  place. 
The  bridal  for  to  see, 

7  *  O  are  you  come  for  sport,  young  man  ? 

Or  are  you  come  for  play? 
Or  are  you  come  for  a  sight  o  our  bride, 
Just  on  her  wedding  day?' 

8  'I'm  nouther  come  for  sport,'  he  says, 

'Nor  am  I  come  for  play; 
But  if  I  had  one  sight  o  your  bride, 
I'll  mount  and  ride  away,' 

9  There  was  a  glass  of  the  red  wine 

Filld  up  them  atween. 
And  ay  she  drank  to  Lauderdale, 
Wha  her  true-love  had  been. 

10  Then  he  took  her  by  the  milk-white  hand. 

And  by  the  grass-green  sleeve. 
And  he  mounted  her  high  behind  him  there, 
At  the  bridegroom  he  askt  nae  leive, 

11  Then  the  blude  run  down  by  the  Cowden 

Banks, 
And  down  by  Cowden  Braes, 
And  ay  she^  gards  the  trumpet  sound, 
'O  this  is  foul,  foul  play! ' 

12  Now  a'  ye  that  in  England  are. 

Or  are  in  England  born. 
Come  nere  to  Scotland  to  court  a  lass. 
Or  else  ye'l  get  the  scorn. 

13  They  haik  ye  up*  and  settle  ye  by5, 

Till  on  your  we<l(ling  day, 
And  gie  ye  frogs  instead  o  fish,* 
And  play  ye  foul,  foul  play, 

1  told  8  cansed 

2  Perhaps  this  should  bo   4  haul  you  iip 

he,  referring  to  the  n  set  you  aside  (lead  vou 
Laird  of  Lochinton  on  and  deceive  you) 

•  In   the   ballad  of  Lord  Randal,  the  lord  Is  poi- 
soned with  eels. 


THE  NUTBEOWN  MAYDE.* 

Be  it  right  or  wronge,  thes  men  amonget 

On  wymen  do  complayn, 
Affermyng  this,  how  that  it  is 

A  laboure  spent  in  vayn 
To  love  them  weUe;  for  never  a  dele 

They  love  a  man  agayn. 
For  late  a  man  do  what  he  can 

Ther  favoure  to  attayn, 
Yet  yf  a  newe  do  them  pursue, 

Ther  ferste  trew  lover  than2  lo 

Laboureth  for  nought;  for  from  hers  thought 

He  is  a  banysshed  man. 


I  say  not  nay,  but  that  alle  day 

It  is  both  wreten  and  said 
That  woman's  feyth  is,  as  who  seyth, 

Alle  utturly  decayde; 
But  neverthelesse  right  good  witnes 

In  this  case  myght  be  layde, 
That  they  love  trew,  and  contenewe, — 

Eeeorde  the  Nutbrown  Mayde, 
Which,  whan  her  love  cam  her  to  prove, 

To  her  to  make  his  mone, 
Wolde  not  departe,  for  in  her  hart 

She  loved  but  hym  alone. 


20 


30 


Than  betwen  us  let  us  discusse 

What  was  alle  the  manere 
Between  them  two:   we  wille  also 

Telle  alle  the  payn  in  fere* 
That  she  was  in.     Now  I  begyn, 

So  that  ye  me  answere; 
Wherfor  alle  ye  that  present  be, 

I  pray  you,  geve  an  ere. 
I  am  the  knyght ;  I  com  by  nyght, 

As  secrete  as  I  can. 
Saying,  'Alas!  thus  stondith  the  caas, 

I  am  a  banysshed  man, ' 


1  all  the  while  3  their 

2  then  4  i-fere,  together 

•  This  poem  Is  essentially  a  little  drama,  of  which 
the  first  three  stanzas  constitute  a  kind  of 
prologue  and  the  last  stanza  an  epilogue.  In 
the    first    stanza    one    speaker    propounds    the 

feneral  theme  of  the  fickleness  of  womankind, 
n  the  second  stanza,  another  speaker  cites 
in  refutation  the  story  of  the  Nutbrown 
Mayde.  Then  the  first  speaker  proposes  that 
they  two  enact  thai  story,  and  he  begins  by 
assuming  the  part  of  the  man  wlio  protended 
to  be  outlawed  in  order  to  "prove"  the  maid's 
love.  The  second  speaker  takes  tlie  part  of 
the  maid,  and  the  dialogue  continues  regularly 
in  alternate  stanzas.  It  is  readily  seen  that 
the  poem,  though  for  convenience  grouped 
here  with  the  ballads.  Is  of  a  very  different  char- 
acter from  the  folk-ballads  proper,  and  a  prod- 
uct of  much  more  conscious  art.  Our  text 
is  that  of  the  Balliol  MS.,  with  some  very 
alight  changes  of  spelling  and  the  regular 
substitution  of  Mavue  for  the  more  frequent 
marginal  Puella  of  the  manuscript. 


BALLADS 


81 


Mayde 
And  I  your  wille  for  to  fuIfiUe 

In  this  wille  not  refuse, 
Trusty ng  to  shew  in  wordis  fewe 

That  men  have  an  ylle  uses  40 

(To  ther  own  shame)  wymen  to  blame, 

And  causelesse  them  accuse. 
Therfor  to  you  I  answere  now, 

Alle  wymen  to  excuse, — 
Myn  own  hart  dere,  with  you  what  cheref 

I  pray  you,  telle  me  anon; 
For  in  my  mynd,  of  alle  mankynd 

I  love  but  you  aJon, 

Squyre 
It  stondith  so;  a  dede  is  doo 

Wherof  gret  harme  shalle  grow:  BO 

My  destynye  ys  for  to  dye 

A  shamfulle  deth,  I  trow. 
Or  ellis  to  flee;  the  one  muste  be; 

Non  other  way  I  know 
But  to  withdraw  as  an  outlawe, 

And  take  me  to  my  bow. 
Wherfor  adewe,  myn  own  hart  trew! 

Non  other  rede  I  can^, 
For  I  muste  to  the  grenwode  go, 

Alon,  a  banysshed  man.  60 

Mayde 

0  Lorde,  what  is  this  worldis  blis 
That  changith  as  the  mone? 

Thes  somers  day  in  lusty  may 
Is  darke  beffore  the  none. 

1  here  you  say,  Farewelle.    Nay,  nay, 
We  departed  not  so  sone. 

Why  say  ye  so?    Whetherio  wille  ye  go? 

Alas,  what  have  ye  done? 
Alle  my  welfare  to  sorrow  and  care 

Shuld  chaunge  yf  ye  were  gon ;  70 

For  in  my  mynde,  of  alle  mankynd 

I  love  but  you  alon. 

Squyre 
I  can  beleve  it  shalle  you  greve, 

And  sumwhat  you  dystreyne. 
But  afterward  your  paynes  harde. 

Within  a   day   or  twayn, 
Shalle  sone  aslake,   and  ye  shalle  take 

Conforte  to  you  agayn. 
Why  should  you  ought  for  to  take  thought^? 

Your  laboure  were  in  vayn.  80 

And  thus  I  doo,  and  pray  you  to. 

As  hartely  as  I  can; 
For  I  muste  to  the  grenwode  go, 

Alon,  a  banysshed  man. 

B  evil  custom 

<i  one 

7  no     other     counsel     I         8  part 

know  10  whither 

«  Variant  reading:   my.         iiat  all  take  anxiety 


Mayde 
Now  sithiz  that  ye  have  shewed  to  me 

The  secrete  of  your  mynde, 
I  shalle  be  playn  to  you  agaynia, 

Lyke  as  ye  shalle  me  fynde. 
Sith  it  is  so  that  ye  wille  go, 

I  wille  not  bide  behynde;  90 

Shalle  it  never  be  said  the  Nut  Brown  Mayde 

Was  to  here  love  unkynde. 
Make  you  redy,  for  so  am  I, 

Alle  though  it  were  anon"; 
For  in  my  mynd,  of  alle  mankynd 

I  love  but  you  alon. 

Squyre 
Yet  I  you  rede  to  take  good  hede 

What  men  wille  thynke  and  say: 
Of  15  yong,  of  olde,  hit  shalle  be  told 

That  ye  be  gon  away,  100 

Your  wanten  wille  for  to  fulfiUe, 

In  grenwode  you  to  play. 
And  that  ye  myght  for  your  delite 

Ne  lengar  make  delay. 
Rather  than  ye  shuld  thus  for  me 

Be  called  a  mysseis  woman. 
Yet  wold  I  to  the  grenwode  go, 

Alon,  a  banysshed  man. 

Mayde 
Though  it  be  songe  of  olde  and  yonge 

That  I  shuld  be  to  blame,  110 

Thers  be  the  charge  that  speke  so  large 

In  hurtyng  of  my  name; 
For  I  wille  prove  that  feythfuUe  love 

Hit  is  devoyed  of  shame, 
In  your  dislresse  and  hevynesse, 

To  partei7  with  you  the  same, — 
To  shewe  all  tho  that  do  not  so 

Trew  lovers  are  they  non ; 
For  in  my  mynd,  of  alle  mankynd 

I  love  but  you  alon.  120 

Squyre 
I  counsaille  you,  remembre  how 

Hit  is  no  maydyns  lawe 
Nothyng  to  doute,  but  to  renne  out 

To  wode  with  an  outlawe. 
For  ye  muste  ther  in  your  bond  bere 
A  bo  we  redy  to  drawe, 
And,  as  a  theff,  thus  must  ye  leve 

Ever  in  drede  and  awe. 
Wherby  to  you  gret  harm  myght  grow; 

Yet  hade  I  lever  than  130 

That  I  had  to  the  grenwod  go, 

Alon,  a  banysshed  man. 


12  since 

IS  In  return 

1*  at  once 


16  by 

16  Variant : 

IT  share 


V'le. 


82 


FIFTEENTH  AND  EAELY  SIXTEENTH  CENTUEIES 


Mayde 
I  say  not  nay,  but  as  ye  say, 

Yt  is  no  maydyns  lore; 
But  love  may  make  me  to  forsake, 

As  I  have  sayd  beffore, 
To  cum  on  fote,  to  hunte  and  shote, 

To  get  us  mete  in  store; 
For  so  that  I  your  company 

May  have,  I  aske  no  more.  140 

From  which  to  parte  it  makyth  my  harte 

As  colde  as  any  ston; 
For  in  my  mynde,  of  alle  mankynd 

I  love  but  you  alon. 

Squyre 
For  an  outlawe  this  is  the  lawe, 

That  men  hym  take  and  bynde, 
Without  pite,  hangid  to  be, 

And  waver  with  the  wynde. 
Yf  I  had  nede,  (as  God  forbede!) 

What  soccours  could  ye  fyndef  160 

Forsoth,  I  trow,  ye  and  your  bowe 

For  fere  wold  draw  behynde. 
And  no  mervayle,  for  littille  avayle 

Were  in  your  counselle  than; 
Wherfor  I  wille  to  the  grenwod  go, 

Alon,  a  banysshed  man. 

Mayde 
Bight  welle  know  ye  that  wymen  be 

But  feeble  for  to  fight; 
No  womanhede  it  is  indede 

To  be  bolde  as  a  knyght.  160 

Yet  in  such  fere  yf  that  ye  were. 

With  ennemyes  day  or  nyght, 
I  wold  withstond,  with  bow  in  honde, 

To  helpe  you  with  my  myght. 
And  you  to  save,  as  wymen  have 

From  deth  many  [an]  one; 
For  in  my  mynd,  of  alle  mankynd 

I  love  but  you  alon. 

Squyee 
Yet  take  good  hede,  for  ever  I  drede 

That  ye  could  not  susteyn  170 

The  thorny  wayes,  the  depe  valeyes. 

The  snowe,  the  froste,  the  rayn, 
The  colde,  the  hete;  for  drye  and  wete 

We  muste  logge  on  the  playn. 
And,  us  above,  non  other  roffe 

But  a  brake,  bushe,  or  twayn; 
Which  sone  shuld  greve  you,  I  beleve, 

And  ye  wold  gladly  than 
That  I  had  to  the  grenwode  goo, 

Alon,  a  banysshed  man.  180 

Mayde 
Sith  I  have  here  ben  partynere 
With  you  [in]  yoye  and  blisse, 


I  muste  also  parte  of  your  woo 

Endure,  as  reason  is. 
Yet  am  I  sure  of  on  pleasure. 

And  shortly  it  is  this: 
That  wher  ye  be,  me  semeth,  pard6, 

I  could  not  fare  amysse. 
Without  more  speche  I  you  beseche 

That  we  were  shortly  gon;  190 

For  in  my  mynd,  of  alle  mankynd 

I  love  but  you  alon. 

Squyre 
Iff  ye  go  thyder,  ye  must  consider, 

Whan  ye  have  luste  to  dyne, 
Ther  shalle  no  mete  be  for  to  gete, 

Nether  bere,  ale,  ne  wyne; 
Ne  shetes  elen,  to  lay  betwen. 

Made  of  threde  and  twyne; 
Non  other  hous,  but  levis  and  boues, 

To  cover  your  hede  and  myne.  200 

Loo,  myn  hart  swete,  this  ille  dyett 

Shuld  make  you  pale  and  wan; 
Wherfor  I  wille  to  the  grenwod  go, 

Alon,  a  banysshed  man. 

Mayde 
Amonge  the  wilde  dere,  suche  an  archere 

As  men  say  that  ye  be 
May  not  faylle  of  good  vytaylle, 

Wher  is  so  gret  plente. 
And  water  clere  of  the  rivere 

Shalle  be  fulle  swete  to  me,  210 

With  which  in  helei*  I  shalle  right  welle 

Endure,  as  ye  shalle  see. 
And,  or  we  go,  a  bedde  or  two 

I  can  provide  anon; 
For  in  my  mynde,  of  alle  mankynd 

I  love  but  you  alon. 

Squyre 
Loo!  yet  beffore,  ye  must  do  more, 

Yf  ye  wille  goo  with  me: 
As,  cute  your  here  up  by  your  ere, 

Your  kyrtyll  by  your  knee,  220 

With  bow  in  honde,  for  to  withstonde 

Your  enymyes,  yf  nede  be; 
And  this  same  nyght,  beffore  daylight, 

To  wodewarde  wille  I  flee. 
Yff  that  ye  wille  alle  this  fulfille, 

Do  it  as  shortly  as  ye  can; 
Els  wille  I  to  the  grenwode  go, 

Alon,  a  banysshed  man. 
Mayde 
I  shalle  as  nowi»  do  more  for  you 

Than  longith  to  womanhede,  MO 

To  shorte  myn  here,  a  bowe  to  bere, 

To  shote  in  tyme  of  nede. 


18  health 


18  now  (redundant  at) 


BALLADS 


83 


0  my  swete  moder,  beffore  alle  oder 

For  you  I  have  moste  drede; 
But  now,  adewe!     I  must  ensue 

Wher  fortune  doth  me  lede. 
Alle  this  make  ye;  now  lat  us  flee, 

The  day  commeth  fast  upon; 
For  in  my  mynd,  of  alle  mankynd 

I  love  but  you  alon. 

Squyre 
Nay,  nay,  not  so;  ye  shalle  not  go. 

And  I  shalle  telle  you  whye: 
Your  appetite  is  to  be  light 

Of  love,  I  welle  espye; 
For  like  as  ye  have  said  to  me, 

In  likewyse  hardelyzo 
Ye  wolde  answere,  whosoever  it  were, 

In  way  of  companye. 
It  is  said  of  olde,  Son  whot,  sone  colde. 

And  so  is  a  woman ;  250 

For  I  muste  to  the  grenwode  goo, 

Alon,  a  banysshed  man. 

Mayde 
Yf  ye  take  hede,  it  is  no  nede 

Such  wordis  to  say  to  me, 
For  of te  ye  prayd,  and  long  assayed. 

Or  I  you  loved,  parde. 
And  though  that  I  of  auncetrye 

A  barons  doughter  be. 
Yet  have  ye  proved  how  I  ye  loved, 

A  squyre  of  lowe  degre,  260 

And  ever  shalle,  what  so  befalle. 

To  dye  therefor  anon; 
For  in  my  mynd,  of  alle  mankynd 

I  love  but  you  alon. 

Squyre 
A  baron's  child  to  be  begiled, 

It  were  a  cursed  dede. 
To  be  felowe  with  an  outlawe, 

Almy^hty  God  forbede! 
Yet  better  were,  the  pore  squyer 

Alon  to  foreste  yedesi,  270 

Than  ye  shuld  say,  another  day. 

That  by  my  cursed  rede 
Ye  were  betrayde.   Wherefor,  good  mayd, 

The  best  rede  that  I  can, 
Ys  that  I  to  the  grenwod  go, 

Alon,  a  banysshed  man. 

Mayde 
Whatever  befalle,  I  never  shalle 

Of  this  thyng  you  outbrayde; 
But  yf  ye  go  and  leve  me  so, 

Than  have  ye  me  betrayde.  280 


20  assuredly 


21  went 


Remembre  you  welle  how  that  ye  dele. 

For  yf  ye  be  as  ye  said. 
Ye  were  unkynd  to  leve  me  behynd, 

Your  love,  the  Nutbrown  Mayde. 
Truste  [me]  truly,  that  I  shalle  dye 

Sone  after  ye  be  gon; 
For  in  my  mynd,  of  all  mankynd 

I  love  but  you  alon. 

Squyre 
If  that  you  went,  ye  shuld  repent. 

For  in  the  foreste  nowe  290 

I  have  purveyde22  me  of  a  mayde 

Whom  I  love  more  than  you, — 
Another  more  fayre  than  ever  ye  were, 

I  dare  it  welle  avowe; 
And  of  you  both,  eehe  wille  be  wroth 

With  other,  as  I  trowe. 
It  were  myn  eas  to  leve23  in  peas, 

So  wille  I,  yf  I  can; 
Wherefor  I  wille  to  the  grenwod  goo, 

Alon,  a  banysshed  man.  300 

Mayde 
Though  in  the  wode  I  understode 

Ye  had  a  paramoure, 
Alle  this  may  nought  remeve  my  thought. 

But  that  I  wille  be  your; 
And  she  shalle  fynd  me  sof te  and  kynd, 

And  curteys  every  oure. 
Glad  to  fulfille  alle  that  she  wille 

Comaund  me  to  my  powere. 
For  had  ye,  loo!  an  hundredth  mo. 

Yet  wolde  I  be  that  on;  310 

For  in  my  mynd,  of  alle  mankynd 

I  love  but  you  alon. 

Squyre 
Myn  own  der  love,  I  se  thee  prove 

That  ye  be  kynde  and  trewe; 
Of  mayde  and  wyf,  in  alle  my  lyff, 

The  best  that  ever  I  knew. 
Be  mery  and  glade,  be  no  more  sade. 

The  case  is  chaunged  newe, 
For  it  were  rewth  that  for  your  trewth 

Ye  shuld  have  cause  to  rewe.  320 

Be  not  dysmayde,  whatsoever  I  said 

To  you  whan  I  began; 
I  wille  not  to  the  grenwode  go; 

I  am  no  banysshed  man. 
Mayde 
Thes  tydingis  be  more  gladder  to  me 

Than  to  be  made  a  queue, 
Yf  I  were  sure  they  shuld  endure; 

But  it  is  often  seen. 
When  men  willez*   breke  proniyse,   they  speke 

The  wordis  on  the  splene^s.  330 


22  provided 

23  live 


24  mean  to 

25  capriciously 


84 


FIFTEENTH  AND  EAELY  SIXTEENTH  CENTURIES 


Ye  shape  som  wyle  me  to  begile, 

And  stele  from  me,  I  wene; 
Than  were  the  caas  wors  than  it  was, 

And  I  more  woo-begon; 
For  in  my  mynd,  of  alle  mankynd 

I  love  but  you  alon. 

Squyke 
Ye  shalle  not  nede  further  to  drede; 

I  wille  not  disparage 
You,  God  defende,  sith  ye  descende 

Of  so  gret  a  lynage. 
Now  understond;  to  Westmorelond, 

Which  is  myn  herytage, 
I  wille  you  bryng,  and  with  a  rynge 

By  way  of  maryage 
I  wille  you  take,  and  lady  make, 

As  shortly  as  I  can; 
Than  have  ye  wonne  an  erles  Sonne, 

And  not  a  banysshed  man. 


340 


Here  may  ye  see  that  women  be, 

In  love,  meke,  kynd,  and  stable;  350 

Latt  never  man  repreve  them  than 

Or  calle  them  variable. 
But  rather  pray  God  that  we  may 

To  them  be  confortable. 
God  sumtyme  provith  such  as  he  lovith, 

Yf  they  be  charytable; 
For  sith  men  wold  that  women  shuld 

Be  meke  to  them  echone, 
Moche  more  aught  they  to  God  obey. 

And  serve  but  hym  alon.  360 


EVERYMAN 

Here  hegynneth  a  treaty se  how  the  hye  Fader 

of  Heven  sendeth   Dethe  to  somon   every 

creature  to  come  and  gyve  a  counte  of 

theyr  lyves  in  this  worlde,  and  is 

in  maner  of  a  moral  playe.* 

Messenger. 
I  pray  you  all  gyve  your  audyence. 
And  herei  this  materz  with  reverence. 
By  fygures  a  morall*  playe; 
The  somonynge  of  Everyman  called  it  is, 
That  of  our  lyves  and  endynge  shewes 

1  hear  8  in  form 

2  matter  *  A   Morality 

•  This  play  exists  also  In  Dutch,  entitled  "Elcker- 
lijk,"  printed  about  1495,  and  attributed  to 
I'etrus  Dorlandus.  The  earliest  Icnown  Eng- 
lish editions  dnte  about  1525.  From  the  dates 
and  the  almost  entire  lack  of  humor  In  the 
play,  it  is  most  probable  that  the  English 
form  is  a  free  translation  from  the  Dutch. 
We  follow  the  text  of  the  Skot  copy  in  the 
Britwell  Library,  as  reprinted  by  W.  W.  Greg, 
with  capitals  and  punctuation  added.  On 
Moralities  and  Miracle  riays,  see  Bng.  Lit.. 
64-67. 


How  transytory  we  be  all  dayes. 

This  mater  is  wonders'  precyous. 

But  the  entente  of  it  is  more  gracyous, 

And  swete  to  bere  awaye.  9 

The  story  sayth: — Man,  in  the  begynnynge 

Loke  well,  and  take  good  heed  to  the  endynge, 

Be  you  never  so  gay; 

Ye  thynke  synneia,  the  begynnynge  full  swete, 

Whiche  in  the  ende  canseth  the  soule  to  wepe. 

Whan  the  body  lyeth  in  claye. 

Here  shall  you  se  how  Felawshyp  and  Jolyte, 

Bothe  Strengthe,  Pleasure  and  Beaute, 

Wyll  fade  from  thes  as  floure  in  Maye.       18 

For  ye  shall  here,  how  our  heven  kynge 

Calleth  Everyman  to  a  generall  rekenynge. 

Gyve  audyence,  and  here  what  he  doth  saye. 

God  speketh. 
I  perceyve  here  in  my  majeste 
How  that  all  creatures  be  to  me  unkynde, 
Lyvynge  without  drede  in  worldely  prosperyte; 
Of  ghostlyo  syght  the  people  be  so  blynde, 
Drowned  in  synne  they  know  me  not  for  theyr 

God; 
In  worldely  ryches  is  all  theyr  mynde. 
They    fere    not    my    ryghtwysnes,    the    sharpe 

rood; 
My  lawe  that  I  shewed  whan  I  for  them  dyed 
They  forgete  clene,  and  shedynge  of  my  blode 

rede ;  30 

I  hanged  bytwene  two,  it  can  not  be  denyed; 
To  gete  them  lyfe  I  suffred  to  be  deed. 
I  heled  theyr  fete;  with  thornes  hurt  was  my 

heed; 
I  coude  do  no  more  than  I  dyde  truely. 
And  nowe  I  se  the  people  do  clene  for  sake  me: 
They  useio  the  seven  deedly  synnes  dampnable, 
As  pryde,  coveytyse,  wrathe  and  lechery. 
Now  in  the  worlde  be  made  commendable. 
And  thus  they  leve  of  aungelles  the  hevenly 


company. 


39 


Every  man  lyveth  so  after  his  owne  pleasure; 

And  yet  of  theyr  lyfe  they  be  nothinge  sure. 

I  se,  the  more  that  I  them  forbere, 

The  worse  they  be  fro  yere  to  yere; 

All  that  lyveth  appayreth"  faste. 

Therefore  I  wyll  in  all  the  haste 

Have  a  rekenynge  of  every  mannes  persone. 

For,  and  12  I  leve  the  people  thus  alone 

In  theyr  lyfe  and  wycked  tempestes, 

Veryly   they   wyll   become   moche   worse   than 

beestes: 
For  now  one  wolde  by  envy  another  up  ete; 
Charyte  they  do  all  clene  forgete.  51 


B  always 
6  wondrously 
T  purpose 
»tbee 


0  spiritual 

10  practise 

11  degenerates 

12  If 


EVERYMAN 


85 


I  hoped  well  that  every  man  ^ 

In  my  glory  shulde  make  his  mansyon, 

And  thereto  1  had  them  all  electe; 

But  now  I  se,  like  traytours  dejecte, 

They  thanke  me  not  for  the  pleasure  that  1  to 

them  nient, 
Nor  yet  for  theyr  beynge  that  I  them  have  lent. 
I  profered  the  people  grete  multytude  of  mercy, 
And  fewe  there  be  that  asketh  it  hertlyi3j 
They  be  so  combred  with  worldly  ryches        60 
That  nedes  on  them  I  must  do  justyce, 
On  every  man  lyvynge  without  fere. — 
Where  arte  thou,  Deth,  thou  myghty  messen- 
gere? 

Dethe.     Almyghty  God,  I  am  here  at  your 
wyll, 
Yonr  commaundement  to  fulfyll. 

God.    Go  thou  to  Everyman, 
And  shewe  hym  in  my  name 
A  pylgrymage  he  must  on  hym  take, 
Which  he  in  no  wyse  may  escape,  69 

And  that  he  brynge  with  hym  a  sure  rekenynge, 
Without  delay  or  ony  taryenge. 

Dethe.      Lorde,    I    wyll    in    the    worlde    go 
rennei*  over  all. 
And  cruelly  out  serche  bothe  grete  and  small. 
Every  man  wyll  I  beset  that  lyveth  beestly 
Out  of  Goddes  lawes  and  dredeth  not  foly. 
He  that  loveth  rychesse  1  wyll  stryke  with  my 

darte, 
His  syght  to  blynde,  and  fro  heven  to  departeis, 
Excepte  that  almes  be  his  good  frende. 
In  hell  for  to  dwell,  worlde  without  ende. 
Loo,  yonder  I  se  Everyman  walkynge,  80 

Full  lytell  he  thynketh  on  my  comynge! 
His  mynde  is  on  flesshely  lustes,  and  his  treas- 
ure; 
And  grete  payne  it  shall  cause  hym  to  endure 
Before  the  Lorde,  heven  kynge. — 

[Everyman  enters.] 
Everyman,    stande    styll.      Whyder    arte    thou 

goynge, 
Thus  gayly?   hast  thou  thy  Maker  forgete! 

Everyman.    Why  askest  thou? 
Woldest  thou  wetefis 

Dethe.    Ye,  syr,  I  wyll  shewe  you: 
In  grete  hast  I  am  sende  to  the  ,    90 

Fro  God,  out  of  his  mageste. 

Everyman.    What,  sente  to  mef 

Dethe.    Ye,  certaynly. 
Thoughe  thou  have  forgete  hym  here. 
He  thynketh  on  the  in  the  hevenly  sperc. 
As,  or  17  we  departe,  thou  shalte  knowe. 

Everyman.    What  desyreth  God  of  me  I 


13  heartily 

14  run 

15  separate 


i«  know 
1 7  before 


Dethe.    That  shall  I  shewe  thee: 
A  rekenynge  he  wyll  nedes  have, 
Without  ony  lenger  respyte. 

Everyman.    To  gyve  a  rekenynge  longer  lay- 

seris  I  crave; 
This  blynde  mater  troubleth  my  wytte. 
Dethe.      On    the    thou    must    take    a    longe 

journey, 
Therfore    thy   boke   of   eounte   with    the    thou 

brynge. 
For  turne  agayne  thou  can  not  by  no  waye; 
And  loke  thou  be  sure  of  thy  rekenynge. 
For  before  God  thou  shalte  answere  and  shewe 
Thy  many  badde  dedes  and  good  but  a  fewe, 
How   thou   hast   spentc  thy   lyfe,  and   in  what 

■wyse. 
Before  the  chefe  lorde  of  ]>arady8e.  HO 

Have  I  doi9  we  were  in  that  waye, 
For,   wete   thou   well,    thou    shalte    make   none 

attournay20. 
Everyman.     Full  unredy  I  am  suche  reken- 
ynge to  gyve. 
I  knowe  the  not.   What  messenger  arte  thout 
Dethe.     I  am  Dethe,  that  no  man  dredeth. 
For  every  man  I  rest^i,  and  no  man  spareth, 
For  it  is  Goddes  commaundement 
That  all  to  me  sholde  be  obedyent. 
Everyman.     O  Dethe,  thou  comcst  whan  I 

had  thee  leest  in  mynde! 
In  thy  power  it  lyeth  me  to  save ;  120 

Yet  of  my  good  wyl  I  gyve  the,  if  thou  wyl 

be  kynde. 
Ye,  a  thousande  pounde  shalte  thou  have. 
And  dyfferre-2  this  mater  tyll  an  other  daye. 

Dethe.   Everyman,  it  may  not  be  by  no  waye. 
I  set  not  by-'3  golde,  sylver,  nor  rychesse, 
Ne  by  pope,  emperour,  kynge,  duke  ne  prynees; 
For,  and  I  wolde  receyve  gj-ftes  grete, 
All  the  worlde  I  myght  gete; 
But  my  custome  is  clene  contrary.  129 

I  gyve  the  no  respyte,  come  hens  and  not  tary. 
Everyman.     Alas!     shall  I  have  no   lenger 

respyte  ? 
I  may  saye  Deth  geveth  no  wamynge! 
To  thynke  on  the  it  maketh  my  herte  seke; 
For  all  unredy  is  my  boke  of  rekenynge. 
But,  xii  yere  and  I  myght  have  abydynge. 
My  countynge  boke  I  wolde  make  so  elere. 
That  my  rekenynge  I  sholde  not  nede  to  fere. 
Wherfore,  Deth,  I  praye  the,  for  Goddes  mercy, 
Spare  me  tyll  I  be  provyded  of  remedy. 
Dethe.     The  avayleth  not  to  crye,  wcpe  and 


praye. 


140 


18  leisure  -o  find  no   intercessor 

19  For  "have  ado"  :  have  21  arrest 

done  with,  that  we  22  defer 

may  be  on  our  way  23  care  not  for 


86 


FIFTEENTH  AND  EARLY  SIXTEENTH  CENTURIES 


But  hasti  the  lyghtly  that  thou  were^  gone  that 

journaye. 
And  preve3  thy  frendet,  yf  thou  can. 
For,  wete  thou  well,  the  tyde  abydeth  no  man, 
And  in  the  worlde  eche  lyvynge  creature 
For  Adams  synne  must  dye  of  nature. 

Everyman,    Dethe,  yf  I  sholde  this  pylgryni- 
age  take, 
And  my  rekenynge  suerly  make, 
Shewe  me,  for  savnt  Charyte, 
Sholde  I  not  come  agayne  shortly? 

Dethe.     No,   Everyman,    and   thou   be   ones 
there. 
Thou  mayst  never  more  come  here,  151 

Trust  me  veryly. 

Everyman.    O  graeyous  God,  in  the  hye  sete 
celestyall. 
Have  mercy  on  me  in  this  nioost  nedc. — 
Shall  I  have  no  company  fro  this  vale  teres- 

tryall 
Of  myne  acqueynce*  that  way  me  to  lede? 

Dethe.    Ye,  yf  ony  be  so  hardy 
That  wolde  go  with  the  and  bere  the  company. 
Hye  the,  that  thou  were  gone  to  Goddes  mag- 

nyfycence, 
Thy  rekenynge  to  gyve  before  His  presence.  160 
What,  wenest  thou  thy  lyve  is  gyven  the 
And  thy  worldely  gooddes  also? 

Everyman.    I  had  wende  so  veryle. 

Dethe.    Nay,  nay,  it  was  but  lende  the, 
For  as  soone  as  thou  arte  go. 
Another  a  whyle  shall  have  it  and  than  go  ther 

fro. 
Even  as  thou  hast  done. 
Everyman,  thou  arte  made^!      Thou  hast   thy 

wyttes  fyve. 
And  here  on  erthe  wyll  not  amende  thy  lyve ! 
For  sodeynly  I  do  come,  170 

Everyman.     O    wretched    caytyfes,    wheder 
shall  I  flee, 
That  I  myght  scape  this  endles  sorowe? 
Now;  gentyll  Deth,  spare  me  tyll  to  morowc, 
That  I  may  amende  me 
With  good  advysement. 

Dethe,    Naye,  thereto  I  wyll  not  consent, 
Nor  no  man  wyll  I  respyte; 
But  to  the  herte  sodeynly  I  shall  smyte 
Without  ony  advysement. 

And  now  out  of  thy  syght  I  wyll  mc  hy.       180 
Se  thou  make  the  redy  shortely, 
For  thou  mayst  save  this  is  the  dayc 
That  no  man  lyvynge  may  scape  awaye. 

Everyman,     Alas!     I   may   well   wepe  with 
syghea  depe; 
Now  have  I  no  maner  of  company 


1  haste 

2  may  be 
a  prove 


4  acqiiaintanco 

r>  mad 

0  captive,  wretch 


To  helpe  me  in  my  journey,  and  me  to  kepe; 

And  also  my  wrytynge^  is  full  uuredy. 

How  shall  I  do  now  for  to  excuse  me? 

I  wolde  to  God  I  had  never  begetes!  189 

To  my  soule  a  full  grete  profyte  it  had  be, 

For  now  I  fere  paynes  huge  and  grete. 

The    tyme    passeth,    Lorde,    helpe,    that    all 

wrought ! 
For  though  I  mourne  it  avayleth  nought. 
The  day  passeth,  and  is  almoost  ago», 
I  wote  not  well  what  for  to  do. 
To  whome  were  I  best  my  complaynt  to  make  ? 
What  and  I  to  Felawshyp  therof  spake. 
And  shewed  hym  of  this  sodeyne  chauuceJ 
For  in  hym  is  all  myne  affyauncei^*.  199 

We  have  in  the  worlde  so  many  a  daye 
Be  good  frendes  in  sporte  and  playe. 
I  se  hym  yonder  ccrtaynely; 
I  trust  that  he  wyll  bere  me  company, 
Therfore  to  hym  wyll  I  speke  to  ese  my  sorowo. 
Well  mette,  good  Felawshyp,  and  good  morowe. 

FeIjAWSHyf speketh:  Everyman,  good  moro we  I 
By  this  day, 
Syr,  why  lokest  thou  so  pyteously? 
If  ony  thynge  be  a  mysse  I  praye  the  me  save. 
That  I  may  helpe  to  remedy. 

Everyman.    Ye,  good  Felawshyp,  ye,         -lO 
I  am  in  greate  jeoparde. 

Fela'wshyp.     My  true  frende.  shewe  to  nic 
your  mynde; 
I  wyll  not  forsake  the  to  my  lyves  ende, 
In  the  waye  of  good  company. 

Everyman,       That    was    well    spoken,    and 
lovyngly, 

Felawshyp,  Syr,  I  must  nedos  knowe  your 
hevynesse, 
I  have  pyteii  to  se  you  in  ony  dystresse. 
If  ony  have  you  wronged  ye  sliall  revenged  be, 
Thoughe  I  on  the  grounde  be  slayne  for  the, 
Though  that  I  knowe  before  that  I  sholde 
dye,  220 

Everyman,    Veryly,  Felawshyp,  gramercy'^. 

Felawshyp.     Tusshe!    by  thy  thankes  I  set 
not  a  strawe, 
Shewe  me  your  grefe  and  save  no  more, 

Everyman,     If   I   my  herte   sholde   to   you 
breke, 
And  than  you  to  tourne  your  mynde  fro  me. 
And  wolde  not  me  coraforte  whan  ye  here  me 

speke, 
Than  sholde  I  ten  tymes  soryer  be. 

Felawshyp,  Syr,  I  sayc  as  I  wyll  do  in  dede. 

Everyman.     Than  be  you  a  good  frende  at 
nede, 
I   have  founde  you   true  here  before,  230 


7  (his  account) 
■s  been  born 
0  gone 


10  trust 

11  pity 

12  great  thanks 


EVERYMAN 


87 


Felawshyp.    And  so  ye  shall  evermore, 
For,  in  fayth,  and  thou  go  to  hell 
I  wyll  not  forsake  the  by  the  waye. 

Everyman.    Ye  speke  lyke  a  good  frende,  I 
byleve  you  well, 
I  shall  deserve  it,  and  I  may. 

Felawshyp.     I  speke  of  no  deservynge,  by 
this  daye, 
For  he  that  wyll  saye  and  nothynge  do 
Is  not  worthy  with  good  company  to  go. 
Therfore  shewe  me  the  grefe  of  your  mynde 
As     to     your     frende     mooste     lovynge     and 
kynde.  240 

EvEKYMAN.    I  shall  shewe  you  how  it  is : 
Commaunded  I  am  to  go  a  journaye, 
A  long  waye,  harde  and  daungerous. 
And  gyve  a  strayte  counte,  without  delaye, 
Before  the  hye  Juge  Adonays. 
Wherfore,  I  pray  you,  bere  me  company, 
As  ye  have  promysed,  in  this  journaye. 

Felawshyp.   That  is  mater  in  dede !    Promyse 
is  duty. 
But  and  I  sholde  take  suche  a  vyage  on  me, 
I  knowe  it  well,  it  shulde  be  to  my  payne;  250 
Also  it  make  me  aferde,  certayne. 
But  let  us  take  counsell  here  as  well  as  we  can, 
For  your  wordes  wolde  fere*  a  stronge  man. 

Everyman.    Why,  ye  sayd,  yf  I  had  nede, 
Ye  wolde  me  never  forsake,  quycke^  ne  deed, 
Thoughe  it  were  to  hell,  truely. 

Felawshyp.    So  I  sayd  certaynely. 
But  such  pleasures  bes  set  a  syde  the  sothe^ 

to  saye. 
And  also,  yf  we  toke  suche  a  journaye, 
Whan  sholde  we  come  agayne?  260 

Everyman.      Naye,    never   agayne,    tyll    the 
daye  of  domes. 

Felawshyp.    In  fayth,  than  wyll  not  I  come 
there. 
Who  hath  you  these  tydynges  brought! 

Everyman.    In  dede,  Deth  was  with  me  here. 

Felawshyp.     Now,  by  God  that  all  hathe 
bought. 
If  Deth  were  the  messenger, 
For  no  man  that  is  lyvynge  to  daye 
I  wyll  not  go  that  lothe^  journaye. 
Not  for  the   fader  that  bygate  me.  269 

Everyman.    Ye  promysed  other  wyse,  pardeio. 

Felawshyp.     I  wote  well  I  sayn  so.  truely, 
And  yet  yf  thou  wylte  ete,  drynke  and  make 

good   chere 
Or  haunt  to  women  the  lusty  company, 
I   wolde  not   forsake   you,  whyle   the  daye  is 
clere, 


3  God 

8  judgment 

4  frighten 

9  loathsome 

5  alive 

10  One  of  the  many  forms 

8  are    (now) 

of  the  oath  pardieu 

7  truth 

11  said 

Truste   me   veryly. 

Everyman.    Ye,  therto  ye  wolde  be  redy : 
To  go  to  myrthe,  solas,  and  playe, 
Your  mynde  wyll  soner  apply. 
Than  to  bere  me  company  in  my  longe  jour- 
naye. 
Felawshyp.    Now,  in  good  fayth,  I  wyll  not 

that  waye;  280 

But,  and  thou  wyll  murder,  or  ony  man  kyll. 
In  that  I  wyll  helpe  the  with  a  good  wyll. 
Everyman.    O  that  is  a  sympleis  advyse  in 

dede! 
Gentyll  felawe,  help  me  in  my  necessyte; 
We  have  loved  longe,  and  now  I  nede! 
And  now,  gentyll  Felawshyp,  remembre  me. 

Felawshyp.    Wheder  ye  have  loved  me  or  no. 
By  saynt  John,  I  wyll  not  with  the  go. 
Everyman.    Yet  I  pray  the,  take  the  labour 

and  do  so  moche  for  me, 
To  brynge  me  forwarde,  for  saynt  Charyte,    290 
And    comforte    me    tyll    I    come    without    the 

towne. 
Felawshyp.    Nay,  and  thou  wolde  gyve  me 

a  newe  gowne, 
I  wyll  not  a  fote  with  the  go; 
But  and  thou  had  taryed,   I   wolde  not  have 

lefte  the  so: 
And  as  now,  God  spede  the  in  thy  journaye ! 
For  from  the  I  wyll  departe  as  fast  as  I  maye. 
Everyman.      Wheder    a    waye,    Felawshyp? 

wyll  thou  forsake  me? 
Felawshyp.     Ye,  by  my  fayeis!     To  God  I 

betakei*  the. 
Everyman.    Farewell,  good  Fellawshyp!    For 

the  my  herte  is  sore! 
A  dewe  for  ever,  I  shall  se  the  no  more.     300 
Felaavshyp.     In  fayth,  Everyman,  fare  well 

now  at  the  ende. 
For  you  I  wyll  remembre    that    partynge    is 

mournynge. 
Everyman.    A  lacke!  shall  we  thus  departeds 

in  dede? 
A!  Lady,  helpe!  without  ony  more  comforte, 
Lo,  Felawshyp  forsaketh  me  in  my  moost  nede. 
For  helpe  in  this  worlde  wheder   shall   I   re- 

sorte? 
Felawshyp   here   before  with   me   wolde   mery 

make. 
And  now  lytell  sorowe  for  me  dooth  he  take. 
It    is    sayd,    in    prosperyte    men    frendes    may 

fynde 
Whiche  in  adversyte  be  full  unkynde.  310 

Now  wheder  for  socoure  shall  I  flee, 
Syth  that  Felawshyp  hath  forsaken  me? 
To  my  kynnesmen   I  wyll  truely, 
Prayenge  them  to  helpe  me  in  my  necessyte. 


12  foolish 

13  faith 


14  commend 

15  separate 


88 


I'lFTEENTH  AND  EARLY  SIXTEENTH  CENTUKIES 


I  byleve  that  they  wyll  do  so, 
For  kynde2  wyll  crepe  where  it  may  not  go3. 
I  wyll  go  saye;  for  yonder  I  se  them  go:  — 
Where  be  ye  now,  my  frendes  and  kynnesmen? 

Kynrede.     Here   be   we  now   at   your   coni- 
maundement. 
Cosyn,  I  praye  you,  shewe  us  your  entent     320 
In  ony  wyse,  and  not  spare. 

Cosyn.    Ye,  Everyman,  and  to  us  declare 
If  ye  be  dysposed  to  go  ony  whyder; 
For,  wete  you  well,  wyll  lyve  and  dye  to  gyder. 

Kynrede.     In  welth   and   wo  we  wyll  with 
you  holde; 
For  over  his  kynne  a  man  may  be  bolde. 

Everyman.  Gramercy,  my  frendes  and  kynnes- 
men kynde ! 
Now  shall  I  shewe  you  the  grcfe  of  my  mynde. 
I  was  commaunded  by  a  messenger. 
That  is  a  hye  kynges  chefe  oifycer;  330 

He  bad  me  go  a  pylgrymage  to  my  payne. 
And,  I  kno\\e  well,  I  shall  never  come  agayne. 
Also  I  must  gyve  a  rekenynge  strayte; 
For  I   have  a  grete   enemy   that  hath  me   in 

wayte*, 
Whiche  entendeth  me  for  to  hynder. 

Kynrede.     What  a  counte  is  that  whiche  ye 
must  render? 
That  wolde  I  knowe. 

Everyman.    Of  all  my  workes  I  must  shewe, 
How  I  have  lyved,  and  my  dayes  spent; 
Also  of  yll  dedes  that  I  have  used  340 

In  my  tyme,  syth  lyfe  was  me  lent. 
And  of  all  vertues  that  I  have  refused. 
Therefore,  I  praye  you,  go  thyder  with  me 
To    helpe   to    make   rayn    accounte,    for    saynt 
Charyte. 

Cosyn.     What,  to  go  thyder!      Is  that  the 
mater  f 
Nay,  Everyman,  I  had  levers  fast^  brede  and 

water, 
All  this  fyve  yere  and  more. 

Everyman.    Alas,  that  ever  I  was  bore^. 
For  now  shall  I  never  be  mery. 
If  that  you  forsake  me.  350 

Kynrede.  A !  syr,  what,  ye  be  a  mery  man ! 
Take  good  herte  to  you,  and  make  no  mone. 
But  one  thynge  I  warne  you,  by  saynt  Anne, 
As  for  me  ye  shall  go  alone. 

Everyman.     My  Cosyn,  wyll   you   not  with 
me  go? 

Co.syn.    No,  by  our  Lady!    I  have  the  crampe 
in  my  to: 
Trust  not  to  me;  for,  so  God  me  spede, 


2  natiir<>,  kinnhip 

8  walk  (1.  (>.,  will  do  all  a  rather 

In  ItH  power)  «  fast  on 

4  is   lying    in    wait   for  mc  7  born 


I  wyll  deceyve  you  in  your  moost  nede. 

Kynrede.     It  avayleth  not  us  to  tyse^:      359 
Ye  shall  have  my  mayde,  with  all  my  herte; 
She  loveth  to  go  to  feestes  there  to  be  nyse», 
And  to  daunce,  and  a  brode  to  stertei", 
I    wyll    gyve    her    leve    to    helpe    you    in   that 

journey. 
If  that  you  and  she  may  a  gree. 

Everyman.     Now  shewe  me  the  very  effecte 
of  your  mynde; 
Wyll  you  go  with  me,  or  abyde  be  hynde? 

Kynrede.     Abyde  behynde!    ye",  that  wyll 
I  and  I  maye; 
Therfore  farewell  tyll  another  daye. 

Everyman.    Howe  sholde  I  be  mery  or  gladde  ? 
For  fayre  promyses  men  to  me  make,  370 

But,   whan  I   have   moost   nede,  they  me  for- 
sake; 
I  am  deeeyved,  that  maketh  me  sadde. 

Cosyn.    Cosyn  Everyman,  farewell  now, 
For,  veryly,  I  wyll  not  go  with  you. 
Also  of  myne  owne  an  unredy  rekenynge 
I  have  to  accounte,  therfore  . I  make  taryenge; 
Now  God  kepe  the,  for  now  I  go. 

Everyman.     A!    Jesus,  is  all  come  here  to? 
Lo,  fayre  wordes  maketh  fooles  fayne;         379 
They  promyse,  and  nothynge  wyll  do  certayne. 
My  kynnesmen  promysed  me  faythfully 
For  to  a  byde  with  me  stedfastly; 
And  now  fast  a  waye  do  they  flee; 
Even  so  Felawshyp  promysed  me. 
What  frende  were  best  me  of  to  provyde? 
I  lose  my  tyme  here  longer  to  abyde; 
Yet  in  my  mynde  a  thynge  there  is, — 
All   my  lyfe   I   have   loved  ryches; 
Yf  that  my  Good  now  helpe  me  myght, 
He  wolde  make  my  herte  full   lyght;  390 

I  wyll  speke  to  hym  in  this  dystresse, — 
Where  arte  thou,  my  Gooddes  and  Ryches? 

Goodes.    Who  callcth  me?   Everyman?   What 
hast  thou  haste? 
I  lye  here  in  corners,  trussed  and  pyled  so  hye. 
And  in  chestes  I  am  locked  so  fast. 
Also  sacked  in  bagges,  thou  mayst  se  with  thyn 

eye, 
I  can  not  styre;  in  packes  lowe  I  lye. 
What  wolde  ye  have?     Lyghtly  me  saye. 

J]vERYMAN.    Conic  liyder.  Good,  in  al  the  hast 
thou  may, 
For  of  counseyll  I  must  desyre  the.  4(iO 

Goodes.      Syr,    and    ye    in    the   worldo    have 
sorowe  or  adversyte, 
That  can  I  helpe  yoti   to  remedy  shortly. 

Everyman.     It  is  another  dj-sease  that  greveth 


8  entire 

9  wanton 


10  abroad  to  run 

11  yea 


EVERYMAN 


89 


In  this  worlde  it  is  not,  I  tell  the  so, 

I  am  sent  for  an  other  way  to  go, 

To  gyve  a  strayte  counte  generall 

Before  the  hyest  Jupyter  of  all. 

And  all  my  lyfe  I  have  had  joye  and  pleasure 

in  the, 
Therfore  I  pray  the  go  with  me; 
For,  paraventure,   thou  mayst  before  God   al- 
myghty  41 0 

My  rekenynge  helpe  to  clene,  and  puryfye, 
For  it  is  sayd  ever  amongei 
That  money  maketh  all  ryght  that  is  wronge. 

GooDES.     Nay,  Everyman,   I  synge  an  other 
soiige ; 
I  folowe  no  man  in  suche  vyages, 
For,  and  I  wente  with  the, 
Thou  shokles  fare  moche  the  worse  for  me: 
For  bycause  on  me  thou  dyd  set  thy  mynde. 
Thy  rekenynge  I  have  made  blotted  and  blynde. 
That  thyne  aecounte  thou  can  not  make  truly; 
And  that  hast  thou  for  the  love  of  me.       421 

Everyman.  That  wolde  greve  me  full  sore, 
Whan  I  sholde  come  to  that  ferefull  answere. 
Up!  let  us  go  thyther  to  gyder. 

GooDES.     Nay,  not  so:     I  am  to  brytell2,  I 
may  not  endure: 
I  wyll  folowe  [no]  man  one  fote  be  ye  sure. 

EvEKYMAN.     Alas,  I  have  the  loved,  and  had 
grete  pleasure 
All  my  lyfe  dayes  on   good  and  treasure. 

GooDES.     That  is  to  thy  dampnacyon  without 

lesynges,  429 

For    my    love    is    contrary    to    the    love    ever- 

lastynge ; 
But  yf  thou  had  me  loved  moderately  durynge* 
As  to  the  poore  gyve  parte  of  me, 
Than  sholdest  thou  not  in  this  dolour  be, 
Nor  in  this  grete  sorowe  and  care. 

Everyman.     Lo,   now  was  I  deeeyvod  or   I 
was  ware, 
And  all  I  may  wytes  my  spendynge  of  tyme. 

GoODEs.    What,  wenest  thou  that  I  am  thyne  ? 

Everyman.     I  had  went«  so. 

GooDEs.    Naye,  Everyman,  I  saye  no: 
As  for  a  wh3'le  I  was  lente  the;  440 

A  season  thou  hast  had  me  in  prosperyte; 
My  eondycyon  is  mannes  soule  to  kyll. 
If  I  save  one  a  thousande  I  do  spyll^. 
Wenest  thou  that  I  wyll  folowe  thef 
Nay,  fro  this  worlde  not  veryle. 

Everyman.     I  had  wende  otherwyse. 

GooDES.      Therfore   to   thy   soule   Good   is   a 
thefe, 
For  whan  thou  arte  deed,  this  is  my  gyse^: 


1  everywhere 

2  brittle 

3  without     lying,     I.     e., 

truly 


4  the  while 

5  blame  to 

6  thought 

7  destroy 


Another  to  deeeyve  in  this  same  wyse 
As    I    have   done    the,    and    all    to    his   soules 
reprefe».  450 

Everyman.  O  false  Good,  cursed  thou  be. 
Thou  traytour  to  God,  that  hast  deceyved  me 
And  caught  me  in  thy  snare. 

GooDES.    Maryio,  thou  brought  thy  self  in  care, 
Wherof  I  am  gladde; 
I  must  nedes  laugh,  I  can  not  be  sadde. 

Everyman.     A!    Good,  thou  hast  had  Innge 
my  hertely  love; 
I  gave  the  that  whiche  sholde  be  the  Lordes 

above: 
But  wylte  thou  not  go  with  me  in  dede? 
I  praye  the  trouth  to  saye.  460 

GooDES.    No,  so  God  me  spede; 
Therfore  fare  well,  and  have  good  daye. 

Everyman.     O  to  whome  shall   I  make  my 
mone 
For  to  go  with  me  in  that  hevy  journaye? 
Fyrst  Felawshyp  sayd  he  wolde  with  me  gone; 
His  wordes  were  very  pleasaunte  and  gaye, 
But  afterwarde  he  lefte  me  alone. 
Than  spake  I  to  my  kynnesmen  all  in  despayre, 
And  also  they  gave  me  wordes  fayre, — 
They  lacked  no  fayre  spekynge;  470 

But  all  forsake  me  in  the  endynge. 
Than  wente  I  to  my  Goodes,  that  I  loved  best. 
In   hope   to   have   comforte,   but   there   had   I 

leest ; 
For  my  Goodes  sharpely  dyd  me  tell 
That  he  bryngeth  many  in  to  hell. 
Than  of  my  selfe  I  was  ashamed, 
And  so  I  am  worthy  to  be  blamed. 
Thus  may  I  well  my  selfe  hate. 
Of  whome  shall  I  now  eounseyll  takef 
I  thynke  that  I  shall  never  spede 
Tyll  that  I  go  to  my  Good-dede. 
But,  alas,  she  is  so  weke 
That  she  can  nother  gon  nor  speke. 
Yet  wyll  I  venter  on  her  now. — 
My  Good-dedes,  where  be  you? 

GooD-DEDES.    Here  I  lye,  eolde  in  the  grounde ; 
Thy  synnes  hath  me  sore  bounde 
That  I  can  not  sterei2, 

Everyman.    O  Good-dedes,  I  stande  in  fere; 

I  must  you  pray  of  eounseyll,  490 
For  helpe  now  sholde  come  ryght  well. 

Good-dedes.    Everyman,  Ihaveunderstandynge 
That  ye  be  somoned  a  counte  to  make 
Before  Myssyasia  of  Jherusalem  kynge, 
And  you  do  by  meK  that  journay  with  you  wyli 
i  take. 

8  custom  13  Messiah 

9  reproof  i*  if  you  will  art  by  my 

10  An  oath  by  the  ViJgin  advice  (Pollard.    Or 

Mary.  possibly      bi/  =  buy, 

II  neither  walk  ransom  :    if  yon  de- 
ls stir                                               liver  me.) 


90 


FIFTEENTH  AND  EARLY  SIXTEENTH  CENTURIES 


Everyman.      Therefore    I   come   to   you    my 
moone  to  make. 
I  pray  you  that  ye  wyll  go  with  me. 

GiOOD-DEDEs.     I  wolde  full  fayne,  but  I  can 

not  stande  veryly. 
Everyman.     Why,   is   there    ony   tliynge   on 

you  fall? 
GooD-DEDES.     Ye,  syr,  I  may  thanke  you  of 
all.  500 

If  ye  had  parfytely  cheredi  me, 
Your  boke  of  counte  full  redy  had  be. 
Loke,  the  bokes  of  your  workes  and  dedes  eke 
A!    se  how  they  lye  under  the  fete, 
To  your  soules  hevynes. 

Everyman.    Our  Lord  Jesus,  helpe  me, 
For  one  letter  here  I  can  not  se. 
Good-dedes.    There  is  a  blynde  rekenynge  in 

tyme  of  dystress. 
Everyman.     Good-dedes,  I  praye  you  helpe 
me  in  this  nede, 
Or  elles  I  am  for  ever  dampned  in  dede;       510 
Therfore  helpe  me  to  make  rekenynge 
Before  the  Redemer  of  all  thynge, 
That  kynge  is,  and  was,  and  ever  shall. 
Good-dedes.     Everyman,  I  am  sory  of  your 
fall, 
And    fayne   wolde    I    helpe   you,    and    I    were 
able. 
Everyman.      Good-dedes,    your    counseyll    I 

pray  you  gyve  me. 
Good-dedes.    That  shall  I  do  veryly, 
Thoughe  that  on  my  fete  I  may  not  go. 
I  have  a  syster  that  shall  with  you  also,       519 
Called  Knowledge,  whiche  shall  with  you  abyde. 
To  help  you  to  make  that  drcdefull  rekenynge. 
Knowledge.     Everyman,  I  wyll  go  with  the, 
and  be  thy  gyde. 
In  thy  moost  nede  to  go  by  thy  ayde. 
Everyman.    In  good  condycyon  I  am  now  in 
every  thynge. 
And  am  hole  content  with  this  good  thynge, 
Thanked  by2  God  my  creature''. 
Good-dedes.    And  whan  he  hath  brought  you 
there. 
Where  thou  shalte  hele  the  of  thy  smarte. 
Than  go  you  with  your  rekenynge  and  your 

good  dedes  togyder, 
For  to  make  you  joyful!  at  herte  530 

Before  the  blessyd  Trynyte. 

Everyman.    My  Good-dedes,  graniercy; 
I  am  well  content  certaynly 
With  your  wordes  swete. 

Knowledge.    Now  go  we  togyder  lovyngly 
To  Confessyon,  that  clensynge  ryvere, 
Everyman.     For  joy   I  wepe:     I  wolde  we 
were  there; 


1  entertained 
•-■  be 


8  creator 


But,  I  pray  you,  gyve  me  cognycyon* 
Where  dwelleth  that  holy  man  Confessyon? 

Knowledge.    In  the  hous  of  salvacyon ;      540 
We  shall  fynde  hym  in  that  place, 
That  shall  us  comforte  by  Goddes  grace. — 
Lo,  this  is  Confessyon;   knele  downe,  &  aske 

mercy. 
For  he  is  in  good  conceytes  with  God  alniyghty. 
Everyman.     O   gloryous   fountayne   that   all 

unclennes  doth  claryfy, 
Wasshe  fro  me  the  spottes  of  vyee  unclene. 
That  on  me  no  synne  may  be  sene; 
1  come  with  Knowlege  for  my  redempcyon, 
Redempte  with  herte  and  full  contrycyon,       549 
For  I  am  commaunded  a  pylgrymage  to  take, 
And  grete  accountes  before  God  to  make. 
Now    I    praye    you,    Shryfteo,    moder    of    sal- 
vacyon, 
Helpe    my    good    dedes    for    my    pyteous    ex- 

clamacyon. 
Confessyon.      I    knowe    your    sorowe    well, 

Everyman: 
Bycause  with  Knowlege  ye  come  to  me, 
I  wyll  you  comforte  as  well  as  I  can; 
And  a  preeyous  jowell  I  wyll  gyve  the, 
Called  penaunce,  [voyce]  voyder^  of  adversyte; 
Therwith  shall  your  body  chastysed  be 
With  abstynence  and  perseveraunce  in  Goddes 

sprvyc-o:  560 

Here  shall  you  receyve  that  scourge  of  me 
Whiche  is  penaunce  stron'ge  that  ye  must  en- 
dure, 
To  remembre  thy  Savyour  was  scourged  for  the 
With  sharpe  scourges,  and  suffred  it  pacyently; 
So    must    thou,    or    thou    scape    that    paynful 

pylgrymage. — 
Knowledge,  kepe  hym  in  this  vyage. 
And   by   that   tyme   Good-dedes  wyll   be   with 

the; 
But  in  ony  wyse  be  seker  of  mercy, 
For  your  tyme  draweth  fast;  and  ye  wyll  saved 

be, 
Aske  God  mercy,  and  he  wyll  graunte  truely: 
Whan  with  the  scourge  of  penaunce  man  doth 

hym   bynde,  571 

The  oyle  of  forgyvenes  than  shall  he  fynde. 
Everyman.   Thanked  be  God  for  his  gracyous 

werke. 
For  now  I  wyll  my  penaunce  begyn; 
This  hath  rejoysed  and  lyghted  my  herte, 
Though    the    knottes    be    paynfull    and    harde 

within. 
Knowledge.     Everyman,  loke  your  penaunce 

that  ye  fulfyll. 
What  payne  that  ever  it  to  you  be; 


4  Informnlion 

.'•  favor 

0  absolution 


r  expeller  ( vopcr  is  prob- 
ably an  error) 


EVERYMAN 


91 


And   Knowledge  shall   gyre  you  counseyll   at 

wyU, 
How  your  accounte  ye  shall  make  clerely.    580 
Everyman.     O  eternall  God,  O  hevenly  fygure, 
O  way  of  ryghtwysnes,  O  goodly  vysyon, 
Whiehe  descended  downe  in  a  vyrgyn  pure 
Because  he  wolde  Everyman  redeme, 
Whiehe  Adam  forfayted  by  his  dysobedyence, 
O  blessyd  Godheed,  electe  and  hye  devyne, 
Forgyve   my   grevous  offence; 
Here  1  erye  the  mercy  in  this  presence; 
O  ghostly  treasure,  O  raunsomer  and  redemer! 
Of  all  the  worlde,  hope  and  conduyteri,        590 
Myrrour  of  joye,  foundatours  of  mercy, 
Whiehe  enlumyneth  heven  and  erth  therby, 
Here  my  clamorous  complaynt,  though  it  late 

be! 
Receyve    my   prayers;    unworthy  in   this  hevy 

lyfe 
Though  I  be,  a  synner  moost  abhomynable. 
Yet  let  my  name  be  wryten  in  Moyses  table.s 

0  Mary,  praye  to  the  maker  of  all  thynge 
Me  for  to  helpe  at  my  endynge, 

And  save  me  fro  the  power  of  my  enemy; 
For  Deth  assayleth  me  strongly:  600 

And,  Lady,  that  I  may  by  meane  of  thy  prayer 
Of  your  sones  glory  to  be  partynere, 
By  the  meanes  of  his  passyon*,  I  it  crave; 

1  beseehe  you,  helpe  mj'  soule  to  save! — 
Knowledge,  gyve  me  the  scourge  of  penaunce, 
My  flesshe  therwith  shall  gyve  acqueyntaunce; 
I  wyll  now  begyn,  yf  God  gyve  me  grace. 

Knowledge.     Everyman,  God  gyve  you  tyme 
and  space; 
Thus    I    bequeth    you    in    the    handes    of    our 

Savyour ; 
Now  may  you  make  your  rekenynge  sure.     610 

EVEBYMAN.  In  the  name  of  the  holy  Trynyte 
My  body  sore  punysshyd  shall  be. 
Take  this,  body,  for  the  synne  of  the  flesshe ; 
Also  thou  delytest  to  go  gay  and  fresshe; 
And  in  the  way  of  dampnacyon  thou  dyd  me 

brynge ; 
Therfore  suffre  now  strokes  of  punysshynge; 
Now  of  penaunce  I  wyll  wade  the  water  clere, 
To  save  me  from  purgatory,  that  sharpe  fyre. 
GooD-DEDES.     I  thanke  God,  now  I  can  walke 
and  go,  619 

And  am  delyvered  of  my  sykenesse  and  wo; 
Therfore  with   Everyman  I  wyll   go,  and   not 

spare. 
His  good  workes  T  wyll  helpe  hym  to  declare. 
Knowledge.     Now,  Everyman,  be  mery  and 
glad; 


1  leader 

2  founder 


3  Apparently    m  e  a  nlng 

tte  Book  of  Life 

4  death  on  the  cross 


Your  Good-dedes  cometh  now,  ye  may  not  be 

sad; 
Now  is  your  Good-dedes  hole  and  sounde, 
Goynge  upryght  upon  the  grounde. 

Everyman.     My  herte  is  lyght,  and  shalbe 
evermore ; 
Now  wyll  I  smyte  faster  than  I  dyde  before. 

Good-dedes.     Everyman,   pylgryme,  my  spe- 
cyall  frende, 
Blessyd  be  thou  without  ende;  630 

For  the  is  preparate  the  eternall  glory. 
Ye  have  me  made  hole  and  sounde, 
Therfore  I  will  byde  by  the  in  every  stoundes. 

Everyman.    Welcome,  my  Good-dedes!     Now 
I  here  thy  voyce 
I  wepe  for  very  sweteness  of  love. 

Knowledge.   Be  no  more  sad,  but  ever  rejoyce. 
God  seeth  thy  lyvynge  in  his  trone  above; 
Put  on  this  garment  to  thy  behove^, 
Whiehe  is  wette  with  your  teres, 
Or  elles  before  God  you  may  it  mysse,        640 
Whan  ye  to  your  journeys  ende  come  shall. 

Everyman.     Gentyll  Knowledge,  what  do  ye 
it  call? 

Knowledge.    It  is  a  garmente  of  sorowe, 
Fro  payne  it  wyll  you  borowe'^; 
Contrycyon  it  is. 
That  getteth  forgyvenes. 
He  pleasyth  God  passynge  well. 

Good-dedes.    Everyman,  wyll  you  were  it  for 
your  helesf 

Everyman.     Now  blessyd   be   Jesu,   Maryes 
sone, 
For  now  have  I  oh  true  contrycyon,  650 

And  lette  us  go  now  without  taryenge. — 
Good-dedes,  have  we  clere  our  rekenynge! 

Good-dedes.    Ye,  in  dede,  I  have  here. 

Everyman.     Than  I  trust  we  nede  not  fere. 
Now,  frendes,  let  us  not  parte  in  twa/ne. 

Kynrede.9     Nay,  Everyman,  that  wyll  we  not 
certayne. 

Good-dedes.    Yet  must  thou  ledio  with  t 
Thre  persones  of  grete  myght. 

Everyman.    Who  sholde  they  be? 

Good-dedes.     Dyscrecyon  and  Strength  they 
hyghtii,  660 

And   thy  Beaute  may  not  abyde  behynde. 

Knowledge.    Also  ye  must  call  to  mynde 
Your  Fyve-wyttesi2,  as  for   your  counseylours. 

Good-dedes.     You  must   have   them  redy  at 
all  houres. 

Everyman.    Howe  shall  I  gette  them  hyderf 


5  hour  9  Probably   error  for 

6  profit  Knowledge 

7  redeem  lo  lead 

s  wear  It  for  your  heal-  n  are  called 

ing  I-  The  five  senses 


82 


FIFTEENTH  AND  EARLY  SIXTEENTH  CENTURIES 


Kynbeoe.     You  must  call  them  all  togyder, 
And  they  wyll  here  you  in  contynenti. 

Everyman.    My  frendes,  eome  hyder,  and  be 
present, 
Dyscrecyou,    Strengthe,    my    Fyve-wyttes    and 
Beaute. 
Beaute.    Here  at  your  wyll  we  be  all  redy. 
What  wyll  ye  that  we  sholde  do?  671 

GooD-DEDEs.    That  ye  wolde  with  Everyman  go, 
And  helpe  hym  in  his  pylgrymage. 
Advyse  you,  wyll  ye  with  him  or  not  in  that 
vyage? 
Strengthe.    We  wyll  brynge  hym  all  thydor 
To  his  helpe  and  oomforte,  ye  may  beleve  me. 
Dyscrecyon.     So  wyll  we  go  with  hym  all 

togyder. 
Everyman.      Almyghty    God,    loved    myght 
thou  be; 
I  gyve  the  laude2  that  I  have  hyder  brought 
Strength,  Dyscrecyon,  Beaute,  &  Fyve-wyttes, 
lacke  I  nought:  680 

And  my  Good-dedes,  with  Knowledge  clere, 
All  be  in  my  company  at  my  wyll  here; 
I  desyre  no  more  to  my  besynes. 
Strengths.     And   I,  Strength,  wyll  by  you 
stande  in  dystres, 
Though   thou   wolde    in    batayle   fyght   on  the 
ground. 
Fyve-wyttss.     And  though  it  were   thrugh 
the   worlde   rounde, 
We  wyll  not  departe  for  swete  ne  soure, 

Beaute.     No  more  wyll  I  unto  dethes  houre. 
What  so  ever  therof  befall. 
Dyscrecyon.    Everyman,  advyse  you  fvrst  of 
all,  '  "       690 

Go  with  a  good  advysement  and  delyberacyon. 
We  all  gyve  you  vertuous  monycyons 
That  all  shall  be  well. 
Everyman.     My  frondes,  harken  what  I  wyll 
tell; 
I  praye  Go<l  rewarde  you  in  his  heven  spere. 
Now  herken  all  that  be  here. 
For  I  wyll  make  my  testament 
Here  before  you  all  present; 
In  almes.  halfe  my  good  I  wyll  gyve  with  my 

handes  twayne 
In  the  way  of  charyte  with  good  entent,       700 
And  the  other  halfe  styll  shall   remayne 
In    queth*    to    be    retourned    there-i     it    ought 

to  be. 
This  T  do  in  deepyte  of  the  fende  of  hell, 
To  go  qnyte  out  of  his  perell" 
Ever  after  and  this  daye. 

Knowledge.    Everyman,  herken  what  T  saye; 
Go  to  presthode  I  you  advyse, 


1  without  dpiny 

•-'  prniw 

3  admonitloti 


4  undor  prnmlRO 

!>  where 

•I  out  of  IiIh  power 


And  receyve  of  him  in  ony  wyse 
The  holy  sacrament  and  oyntement  togyder, 
Than  shortly  se  ye  tourne  agayue  hyder,       7]0 
We  wyll  all  abyde  you  here. 
Fyve-wyttes.     Ye,  Everyman,  hye  you  that 

ye  redy  were^. 
There  is  no  Emperour,  King,  Duke,  ne  Baron 
That  of  God  hath  commycyon 
As  hath  the  leest  preest  in  the  worlde  beyngC*; 
For    of    the    blessyd    sacramentes    pure    and 

benynge 
He  bereth  the  keyes,  and  thereof  hath  the  cure». 
For  mannes  retlempcyon  it  is  ever  sure 
Whiche  God  for  our  soules  medycyne  719 

Gave  us  out  of  his  herte  with  grete  payne. 
Here  in  this  transytory  lyfe,  for  the  and  me 
The  blessyd  sacramentes  vii.  there  be : 
Baptym,  confyrmacyon,  with  preesthode  good, 
And  the  sacrament  of  Goddes  preeyous  flesshe 

and  blod, 
Maryage,  the  holy  extreme  unccyonio  and  pen- 

aunce: 
These  seven  be  good  to  have  in  remembraunce, 
Gracyous  sacramentes  of  hye  devynyte. 

Evkryman.     Fayne  wolde  I  receyve  that  holy 

body 
And  mekely  to  my  ghostly  fader  I  wyll  go. 
Fyve-wyttes.    Everyman,  that  is  the  best  that 

ye  can  do;  730 

God   wyll  you   to   salvacyon  brynge, 
For  preesthode  excedeth  all  other  tiiyng 
To  us  holy  scrypture  they  do  teche, 
And  converteth  man  fro  synne,  heven  to  reehe; 
God  hath  to  them  more  power  gyven 
Than  to  ony  aungell  that  is  in  heven. 
With  V.  wordes  he  may  consecrate 
Goddes  body  in  flesshe  and  blode  to  make, 
And  handeleth  his  Maker  bytwene  his  handes. 
The  preest  byndeth  and  unbyndeth  all  bandes 
Both  in  erthe  and  in  heven.  741 

Thou  mynystres'i  all  the  sacramentes  seven. 
Though  we  kysse  thy  fete  thou  were  worthy. 
Thou  arte  surgyon  that  cureth  synne  deedly. 
No  remedy  we  fynde  under  God 
Bute  all  onely  preesthode. 
Every  man,  God  gave  preest  that  dygnyte 
And  setteth  them  in  his  stede  amonge  us  to 

be. 
Thus  be  they  above  aungelles  in  degree. 
Knowledge.     If  preest es  be  good,   it  is  so 

suerly,  "^^0 

But  whan  .Te.su  hanged  on  the  crosse  with  grete 

smarte, 
There  he  gave  out  of  his  blessyd  herte 
The  same  sacrament  in  grete  tourment; 

7  hasto  that   vo  may  be  8  care 

ready  m  inst  nnointing 

s  IIvIhr  II  nilinlnisterpst 


EVERYMAN 


93 


He  solde  them  not  to  us,  that  Lorde  omnyp- 

otent ; 
Therfore  saynt  Peter  the  apostell  dothe  save 
That  Jesus  curse  hath  all  they 
Whiche  God  theyr  Savyour  do  byi  or  sell, 
Or  they  fors  ony  money  do  take  or  tell^. 
Synfull   preestes   gyveth    the   synners   example 

bad;     .     .     . 
These  be  with  synne  made  blynde.  763 

Fyve-wyttes.     I  trust  to  God,  no  suche  may 

we   fyude ; 
Therfore  let  us  preesthode  honour, 
And    folowe    theyr    doctryne    for    our    soules 

sccoure. 
We  be  theyr  shepe,  and  they  shepeherdes  be. 
By  whome  we  all  be  kepte  in  suerte. — 
Peas!    for  yonder  I  se  Everyman  come. 
Which  hath  made  true  satysfaccyon.  770 

GooD-DEDES.    Me  thynke,  it  is  he  in  dede. 
Everyman.     Now  Jesu  be  your  alder  spede-*! 
1    have    receyved    the    sacrament    for    my    re- 

dempcyon, 
And  than  myne  extreme  unccyon. 
Blessyd  be  all  thev  that  counseyled  me  to  take 

it! 
And    now    frendes,   let    us   go    without   longer 

respyte. 
I   thanke  God,   that   ye  have   taryed  so   longe. 
Now    set    eche    of    you    on    this    rodde^    your 

honde. 
And  shortely  fclowe  me. 
I  go  before  there  I  wolde  be.     God  be  your 

gyde.  "  780 

Strength.    Everyman,  we  wyll  not  fro  you  go 
Tyll  we  have  done  this  vyage  longe. 
DvscRECYON.     I,  Dyscrecyon,  wyll  byde  by 

you  also. 
Knowledge.    And  though  this  pylgrymage  be 

never  so  stronge« 
I  wyll  never  parte  you  fro. 
Everyman,   I  wyll  be  as  sure  by  the 
As  ever  I  dyde  by  Judas  Machabee^. 

Everyman.    Alas!    I  am  so  faynt  I  may  not 

stande, 
My  lymmes  under  me  doth  folde. 
Prendes,  let  us  not  tourne  agayne  to  this  lande. 
Not  for  all  the  worldes  golde,  791 

For  in  to   this  cave  must   I   crepe. 
And  tourne  to  erth  and  there  to  slepe. 
Beaute.    What,  in  to  this  grave,  alas! 
Everyman.    Ye,  there  shall  ye  consume,  more 

and  lesse.8 

1  buy  7  Leader     of    the     Jews 

2  Tossibly  fhri)  for  should  against  the  Syrians 

be  therfor.  iu    the    recovery    of 

3  count  Jerusalem,  164  B.  C. 

4  tlie  help  of  you  all                  See    I.     Maccahees, 

5  rood,  cross  111. 


6  difficult 


8  high  and  low  alike 


Beaute.    And  what,  sholde  I  smoder  here? 
Everyman.   Ye,  by  my  fayth,  and  never  more 
appere! 
In  this  worlde  lyve  no  more  we  shall, 
But  in  heven  before  the  hyest  Lorde  of  all. 
Beaute.     I  crosse  out  all  this!    adewe,  by 
saynt  Johan!  800 

I  take  my  tappe»  in  my  lappe,  and  am  gone. 
Everyman.     What,  Beaute,  whyder  wyll  yo? 
Beaute.     Peas!    I  am  defe,  I  loke  not  be- 
hynde  me, 
Not  and  thou  woldest  gyve  me  all  the  golde 
in  thy  chest. 
Everyman.    Alas!   whereto  may  I  truste? 
Beaute  gothe  fast   awaye  fro   me. 
She  promysed  with  me  to  lyve  and  dye. 
Strengthe.     Everyman,  I  wyll  the  also  for- 
sake and  denye, 
Thy  game  lykethio  me  not  at  all. 
Everyman.     Why  than  ye  wyll  forsake  me 
all!  '  810 

Swete  Strength,  tary  a  lytell  space. 

Strengthe.    Nay,  syr,  by  the  rode  of  grace, 
I  wyll  hye  me  from  the  fast. 
Though  thou  wepe  to"  thy  herte  to  brasti^. 
Everyman.     Ye  wolde  ever  byde  by  me,  ye 

sayd. 
Strengthe.     Ye,  I  have  you  ferreis  ynoughe 
conveyde. 
Ye  be  olde  ynoughe,  I  understande. 
Your  pylgrymage  to  take  on  hande. 
I  repent  me,  that  I  hyder  came. 

Everyman.    Strength,  you  to  dysplease  I  am 
to  blame ;  820 

Wyll  ye  breke  promyse  that  is  dettei*? 

Strengths.    In  fayth,  I  care  not! 
Thou  arte  but  a  foole  to  eomplayne; 
\ou  spende  your  speche,  and  wast  your  brayne; 
Go,  thrystis  the  into  the  grounde! 

Everyman.     I  had  wendeis  surer   I  shulde 
you  have  founder 
He  that  trusteth  in  his  Strength, 
She  hym  deceyveth  at  the  length; 
Bothe  Strength  and  Beaute  forsaketh  me, 
Yet  they  promysed  me  f  ayre  and  lovyngly.        830 
Dyscrecion.    Everyman,  I  wyll  after  Strength 
be  gone; 
As  for  me  I  wyll  leve  you  alone. 

Everyman.     Why,  Dyscrecyon,  wyll  ye  for- 
sake me?  = 
Dyscrecion.    Ye.  in  fayth,  I  wyll  go  fro  the ; 
For  whan  Strength  goth  before, 
I  folowe  after  ever  more. 


!•  bunch     of     tow  (for  12  break  to  pieces 

spinning :      an  old   i3  far 
wives'    saying)  i*  See  1.  248. 

10  pleases  is  thrust 

11  until  i«  weened,  thought 


94 


FIFTEENTH  AND  EARLY  SIXTEENTH  CENTURIES 


Everyman.    Yet,  I  pray  the,  for  the  love  of 
the  Trynyte, 
Loke  in  my  grave  ones  pyteously. 

Dyscrecion.     Nay,  so  nye  wyll  I  not  come! 
Fare  well,  everychone.i  840 

Everyman.     O  all  thynge  fayleth,  save  God 
alone, 
Beaute,  Strength,  and  Dyscrecyon; 
For,  whan  Detli  bloweth  his  blast. 
They  all  renne  fro  me  full  fast. 
Fyve-wyttes.     Everyman,   my   leve  now  of 
the  I  take; 
I  wyll   folowe  the  other,   for  here  I  the  for- 
sake. 
Everyman.      Alas,    than    may    I   wayle   and 
wepe, 
For  I  toke  you  for  my  best  frende. 

Fyve-wyttes.     I  wyll  no  lenger  the  kepe; 
Now  farewell,  and  there  an  ende.  850 

Everyman.    0  Jesu,  helpe!  all  hath  forsaken 

me. 
GooD-DEDES.      Nay,   Everyman,    I   wyll   byde 
with  the, 
I  wyll  not  forsake  the  in  dede; 
Thou  shalte  fynde  me  a  good  frende  at  nede. 
Everyman.    Gramercy,  Good-dedes,  now  may 
I  true  frendes  se; 
They  have  forsaken  me  everyehone, 
I  loved  them  better  than  my  Good-dedes  alone. 
Kuowlege,  wyll  ye  forsake  me  also? 
Knowledge.    Ye,  Everyman,  whan  ye  to  deth 
shall  go ; 
But  not  yet  for  no  maner  of  daunger.  860 

Everyman.     Grameroy,  Knowledge,  with  all 

my  herte. 
Knowledge.     Nay,  yet  I  wyll  not  from  hens2 
departe, 
Tyll  I  se  where  ye  shall  be  fonie. 

Everyman.     Me   thynko,  alas,   that    I   must 
be  gone 
To  make  my  rekenynge  and  my  dettes  paye ; 
For  I  se  my  tyme  is  nye  spent  awaye. — 
Take  example,  all  ye  that  this  do  here  or  se. 
How  they  that  I  love  best  do  forsake  me, 
Excepte  my  Good-dedes,  that  bydeth  truely. 
Good-dedes.       All     erthly    thynges     is     but 
vanyte,  870 

Beaute,  Strength,  and  Dyscrecyon,  do  man  for- 
sake, 
Folysshe   frendes,    and    kynnesmen    that    fayro 

spake, 
All  fleeth  save  Good-dedes  and  that  am  T. 
Everyman.     Have  mercy  on  me,  God  moost 
myghty,— 
And  stande  by  me,  thou  moder  &  mayde,  holy 
Mary. 


1  pvory  one 


honoe 


Good-dedes.    Fere  not,  I  wyll  speke  for  the. 

Everyman.    Here  I  crye,  God  mercy. 

Good-dedes.     Shorted    our    ende    and    myn- 
ysshe*  our  payne; 
Let  us  go  and  never  come  agayne. 

Everyman.     Into  thy  handes,  Lorde,  my  soule 
I  commende,  880 

Receyve  it,  Lorde,  that  it  be  not  lost! 
As  thou  me  boughtest,  so  me  defende. 
And  save  me  from  the  fendes  boosts. 
That  I  may  appere  with  that  blessyd  boost 
That  shall  be  saved  at  the  Jay  of  dome. 
In  manus  tuas^,  of  myghtes  moost. 
For  ever  commendo  spiritum  meum^. 

Knowledge.     Now  hath  he  suffred  that**  we 
all  shall  endure, 
The  Good-dedes  shall  make  all  sure. 
Now  hath  he  made  endynge,  890 

Me  thynketh  that  I  here  aungelles  synge, 
And  make  grete  joy  and  melody. 
Where  every  mannes  soule  receyved  shall  be. 

The  Aungell.    Come  excellente  electe  spouse 
to  Jesu! 
Here  above  thou  shalt  go, 
Bycause  of  thy  synguler  vertue. 
Now  the  soule  is  taken  the  body  fro 
Thy  rekenynge  is  crystall  clere; 
Now  shalte  thou  in  to  the  hevenly  spere. 
Unto  the  whiche  all  ye  shall  come  900 

That  lyveth  well  before  the  daye  of  dome. 

DocTOUR.*     This   morall,   men   may   have   in 
mynde; 
Ye  herers,  take  it  of  worth,  olde  and  yonge. 
And  forsake  Pryde,  for  he  deceyveth  you  in 

the  ende, 
And  remembre  Beaute,  Fyve-wyttes,  Strength, 

and  Dyscrecyon, 
They  all  at  the  last  do  Everyman  forsake, 
Save"  his  Good-dede»  there  doth  he  take. 
But  be  ware,  andio  they  be  small. 
Before  God  he  hath  no  helpe  at  all. 
None  excuse  may  be  there  for  Everyman!       910 
Alas!    how  shall  he  do  than? 
For  after  dethe  amendes  may  no  man  make. 
For  than  mercy  and  pyte  doth  hym  forsake; 
If  his   rekenynge  be  not  clere  whan  he   doth 

come, 
God  wyll  saye — Ite  maledicti,  in  ignem  aeter- 

numii. 
And  he  that  hath  his  accounte  hole  and  sounde 
Hye  in  heven  he  shall  be  crounde; 

8  shorten  8  what 

4  diminish  »  only 

5  fiend's  boast  lofor  If 

«  Into  Thy  hands  u  Ko,   ye   ncoursed.   Into 

7  I    commend    my    spirit  everlasting  flre 

•To  the  Doctour   (1.  c..  learned  man,  or  teacher) 

Is  assigned  the  epilogue,  which  emphasizes  the 

moral  of  the  play. 


WILLIAM  CAXTON 


95 


Unto  whiche  place  God  brynge  us  all  thyder, 
That  we  may  lyve  body  and  soule  togyder! 
Therto  helpe  the  Trynyte !  920 

Amen,  saye  ye,  for  saynt  Charyte! 

Finis 
Thus  endeth  this  morall  playe  of  Evevyman. 

WILLIAM  CAXTON  (1422?- 149 1) 


THE     RECUYELL     OF     THE     HISTORIES 
OF  TROY.* 

Peologue 

When  I  remember  that  every  man  is  bounden 
by  the  commandment  and  counsel  of  the  wise 
man  to  eschew  sloth  and  idleness,  which  is 
mother  and  nourisher  of  vices,  and  ought  to 
put  myself  unto  virtuous  occupation  and  busi- 
ness, then  I,  having  no  great  change  of  occu- 
pation, following  the  said  counsel  took  a  French 
book,  and  read  therein  many  strange  and  mar- 
vellous historiesi,  wherein  I  had  great  pleasure 
and  delight,  as  well  for  the  novelty  of  the 
same,  as  for  the  fair  language  of  the  French, 
which  was  in  prose  so  well  and  compendiously 
set  and  written,  which  methought  I  understood 
the  sentences  and  substance  of  every  matter. 
And  for  so  much  of  this  book  was  new  and 
late  made  and  drawn  into  French,  and  never 
had  seen  it  in  our  English  tongue,  I  thought 
in  myself  it  should  be  a  good  business  to 
translate  it  into  our  English,  to  the  end  that 
it  might  be  had  as  well  in  the  royaumes  of 
England  as  in  other  lands,  and  also  for  to  pass 
therewith  the  time,  and  thus  concluded  in  my- 
self to  begin  this  said  work.  And  forthwith 
took  pen  and  ink,  and  began  boldly  to  run 
forth  as  blind  Bayardf  in  this  present  work, 
which  is  named  * '  The  Recuyell  of  the  Trojan 
Histories. ' '  And  afterward  when  I  remem- 
bered myself  of  my  simpleness  and  unperfect- 
ness  that  I  had  in  both  languages,  that  is  to  wit 
in  French  and  in  English,  for  in  France  was 
I  never,  and  was  born  and  learned  my  Eng- 
lish in  Kent,  in  the  Weald,  where  I  doubt  not 
is  spoken  as  broad  and  rude  English  as  in  any 
place  of  England;  and  have  continued  by  the 
space  of  thirty  years  for  the  most  part  in  the 

1  stories 

2  sense  3  realm 

•  "The  collection  of  the  stories  of  Troy."  This 
book,  printed  at  Bruges  in  Flanders  about 
1474,  was  tlie  first  book  printed  in  English. 
See  Eng.  Lit.,  p.  68.  The  spelling  is  here 
modernized. 

t  A  legendary  horse  in  the  Charlemagne  romances. 
"As  bold  as  l>lind  Bayard"  was  an  old  proverb 
for  recklessness. 


countries  of  Brabant,  Flanders,  Holland,  and 
Zealand;  and  thus  when  all  these  things  came 
before  me,  after  that*  I  had  made  and  written 
five  or  six  quires,  I  fell  in  despair  of  this  work, 
and  purposed  no  more  to  have  continued  there- 
in, and  those  laid  apart,  and  in  two  years  after 
labored  no  more  in  this  work,  and  was  fully 
in  will  to  have  left  it,  till  on  a  time  it  for- 
tuned that  the  right  high,  excellent,  and  right 
virtuous  princess,  my  right  redoubted  Lady, 
my  Lady  Margaret,  by  the  grace  of  God  sister 
unto  the  King  of  England  and  of  France,  my 
sovereign  lord.  Duchess  of  Burgundy,  of 
Lotryk,  of  Brabant,  of  Limburg,  and  of  Lux- 
embourg, Countess  of  Flanders,  of  Artois,  and 
of  Burgundy,  Palatine  of  Hainault,  of  Hol- 
land, of  Zealand,  and  of  Namur,  Marquesse  of 
the  Holy  Empire,  Lady  of  Frisia,  of  Salins, 
and  of  Mechlin,  sent  for  me  to  speak  with 
her  good  Grace  of  divers  matters,  among  the 
which  I  let  her  Highness  have  knowledge  of 
the  foresaid  beginning  of  this  work,  whichs 
anon  commanded  me  to  show  the  said  five  or 
six  quires  to  her  said  Grace ;  and  when  she  had 
seen  them,  anon  she  found  a  default  in  my 
English,  which  she  commanded  me  to  amend, 
and  moreover  cominanded  me  straitlys  to  con- 
tinue and  make  an  end  of  the  residue  then  not 
translated;  whose  dreadful^  commandment  I 
durst  in  no  wise  disobey,  because  I  am  a  serv- 
ant unto  her  said  Grace  and  receive  of  her 
yearly  fee  and  other  many  good  and  great 
benefits,  (and  also  hope  many  more  to  receive 
of  her  Highness),  but  forthwith  went  and  la- 
bored in  the  said  translation  after  my  simple 
and  poor  cunning,  alsos  nigh  as  I  can  follow 
my  author,  meekly  beseeching  the  bounteous 
Highness  of  my  said  Lady  that  of  her  benev- 
olence lists  to  accept  and  take  in  greeio  this 
simple  and  rude  work  here  following;  and  if 
there  be  anything  written  or  said  to  her  pleas- 
ure, I  shall  think  my  labor  well  employed,  and 
whereasii  there  is  default,  that  she  arettei2  it 
to  the  simpleness  of  my  cunning,  which  is  full 
small  in  this  behalf;  and  require  and  pray  all 
them  that  shall  read  this  said  work  to  correct 
it,  and  to  hold  me  excused  of  the  rude  and 
simple  translation. 

And  thus  I  end  my  prologue. 

Epilogue  to  Book  III. 

Thus  end  I  this  book,  which  I  have  trans- 
lated after  mine  Author  as  nigh  as  God  hath 


4  after 

5  who 

0  strictly 
7  revered 
»  Just  as 


9  she  please 

10  graciously 

11  whore 

12  may  she  attribute 


9o 


FIFTEENTH  AND  EARLY  SIXTEENTH  CENTURIES 


given  me  cunning,  to.  whom  be  given  the  laud 
and  praising.  And  for  as  much  as  in  the  writ- 
ing of  the  same  my  pen  is  worn,  my  hand 
weary  and  not  steadfast,  mine  eyne  dimmed 
with  overmuch  looking  on  the  white  paper,  and 
my  courage  not  so  prone  and  ready  to  labor 
as  it  hath  been,  and  that  age  creepeth  on  me 
daily  and  f eebleth  all  the  body,  and  also  be- 
cause I  have  promised  to  divers  gentlemen 
and  to  my  friends  to  addressis  to  them  as  hastily 
as  I  might  this  said  book,  therefore  I  have 
practised  and  learned  at  my  great  charge  and 
dispense  to  ordaini*  this  said  book  in  print, 
after  the  manner  and  form  as  ye  may  here 
see,  and  is  not  written  with  pen  and  ink  as 
other  books  be;  to  the  end  that  every  man 
may  have  them  at  once.  For  all  the  books  of 
this  story,  named  "The  Recule  of  the  His- 
tories of  Troy"  thus  imprinted  as  ye  here  see, 
were  begun  in  one  day  and  also  finished  in  one 
day,  which  book  I  have  presented  to  my  said 
redoubted  Lady,  as  afore  is  said.  And  she 
hath  well  accepted  it,  and  largely  rewarded 
me,  wherefore  I  beseech  Almighty  God  to  re- 
ward her  everlasting  bliss  after  this  life,  pray- 
ing her  said  Grace  and  all  them  that  shall  read 
this  book  not  to  ilisdain  the  simple  and  rude 
work,  neither  to  reply  against  the  saying  of 
the  matters  touched  in  this  book,  though  it 
accord  not  unto  the  translation  of  others  which 
have  written  it.  For  divers  men  have  made 
divers  books  which  in  all  points  accord  not,  as 
Dictes,  Dares,!  5  and  Homer.  For  Dictes  and 
Homer,  as  Greeks,  say  and  write  favorably 
for  the  Greeks,  and  give  them  more  worship 
than  to  the  Trojans;  and  Dares  writeth  other- 
wise than  they  do.  And  also  as  for  the  proper 
names,  it  is  no  wonder  that  they  accord  not, 
for  some  one  name  in  these  days  have  divers 
equivocations  after  the  countries  that  they 
dwell  in;  but  all  accord  in  conclusion  the  gen- 
eral destruction  of  that  noble  city  of  Troy,  and 
the  death  of  so  many  noble  princes,  as  kings, 
dukes,  earls,  barons,  knights,  and  common  peo- 
ple, and  the  ruin  irreparable  of  that  city  that 
never  since  was  re-edified;  which  may  be  ex- 
ample to  all  men  during  the  world  how  dread- 
ful and  jeopardous  it  is  to  begin  a  war,  and 
what  harms,  losses,  and  death  followeth. 
Therefore  the  Apostle  saith:  "All  that  is 
written  is  written  to  our  doetrine><>,"  which 
doctrine  for  the  common  weal  I  beseech  God 
may  be  taken  in  such  place  and  time  as  shall 

Mpr»pare  which,    though   pop- 

Ki  Ucpiilod     authofR     of  ular    in    tlio    MIddic 

Trojan    taieH   which  AgcH,      havo      Hiinic 

are    found    only    In  Into  oiwcurlty. 

late    Latin,    and  in  for  our  InHtructlon 


be  most  needful  in  increasing  of  peace,  love, 
and  charity;  which  grant  us  He  that  suffered 
for  the  same  to  be  crucified  on  the  rood  tree. 
And  say  we  all  Amen  for  charity! 


SIR  THOMAS  MALORY   (d.   1471) 


From  LE  MORTE  DARTHUR.* 

How  Arthur  Was   Chosen   King.     Book   I. 
Chapters  IY-VII 

And  then  King  Uther  fell  passingi  sore  sick, 
so  that  three  days  and  three  nights  he  was 
speechless:  wherefore  all  the  barons  made  great 
sorrow,  and  asked  Merlin2  what  counsel  were 
best.  There  is  none  other  remedy,  said  Merlin, 
but  God  will  have  his  will.  But  look  ye  all 
barons  be  before  King  Uther  to-morn,  and 
God  and  I  shall  make  him  to  speak.  So  on 
the  morn  all  the  barons  with  Merlin  came  be- 
fore the  king;  then  Merlin  said  aloud  unto 
King  Uther,  Sir,  shall  your  son  Arthur  be  king 
after  your  days,  of  this  realm  with  all  the  ap- 
purtenance? Then  Uther  Pendragon  turned 
him,  and  said  in  hearing  of  them  all,  I  give 
but  God  will  have  his  will.  But  look  ye  all 
barons  be  before  King  Uther  to-morn,  and 
that  he  claim  the  crown  upon  forfeiture  of  my 
blessing ;  and  therewith  he  yielded  up  the  ghost, 
and  then  was  he  interred  as  longed  to  a  king. 
Wherefore  the  queen,  fair  Igraine,  made  great 
sorrow,  and  all  the  barons. 

Then  stood  the  realm  in  great  jeopardy  long 
while,  for  every  lord  that  was  mighty  of  men 
made  him  strong,  and  many  weened  to  have 
been  king.  Then  Merlin  went  to  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury,  and  counselled  him  for 
to  send  for  all  the  lords  of  the  realm,  and  all 
the  gentlemen  of  arms,  that  they  should  to 
London  come  by  Christmas,  upon  pain  of  curs 
ing;  and  for  this  cause,  that  Jesus,  that  was 
born  on  that  night,  that  he  would  of  his  great 
mercy  show  some  miracle,  as  he  was  come  to  be 

1  exceeding   (surpassing) 

2  A  nmu'Ulan,  Arthur's  advisor. 

•  Of  the  hundred  books  printed  by  Caxton,  this 
was  In  every  way  one  of  the  most  important 
— In  size.  In  Intrinsic  literary  value,  and  in 
the  influence  It  was  destined  to  have  upon 
succeeding  literature.  Its  author  compiled  it 
out  of  the  enormous  amount  of  material 
which  had  grown  up  In  Western  Kurope 
about  the  legends  of  King  Arthur  and  of  the 
Holy  Grall.  drawing  mainly  from  French 
sources,  but  bringing  to  It  original  construc- 
tive and  Imaginative  elements  and  In  particu- 
lar an  admirable  narrative  style.  See  KHf/. 
Ijit.,  p.  (5S.  The  spelling  of  our  text,  as  in 
all  the  succeeding  prose  of  this  volume,  is 
modernized. 


SIR  THOMAS  MALORY 


97 


king  of  mankind,  for  to  show  some  miracle  who 
should  be  rightwise  king  of  this  realm.  So 
the  Archbishop,  by  the  advice  of  Merlin,  sent 
for  all  the  lords  and  gentlemen  of  arms  that 
they  should  come  by  Christmas  even  unto  Lon- 
don. And  many  of  them  made  them  clean  of 
their  life^,  that  their  prayer  might  be  the  more 
acceptable  unto  God. 

So  in  the  greatest  church  of  London,  whether 
it  were  Paul's*  or  not  the  French  book  maketh 
no  mention,  all  the  estates*  were  long  ors  day 
in  the  church  for  to  pray.  And  when  matins 
and  the  first  mass  was  done,  there  was  seen  in 
the  churchyard,  against  the  high  altar,  a  great 
stone  four  square,  like  unto  a  marble  stone,  and 
in  midst  thereof  was  like  ans  anvil  of  steel  a 
foot  on  high,  and  therein  stuck  a  fair  sword, 
naked,  by  the  point,  and  letters  there  were 
written  in  gold  about  the  sword  that  said  thus: 
— Whoso  pulleth  out  this  sword  of  this  stone 
and  anvil,  is  rightwise  king  born  of  all  Eng- 
land. Then  the  people  marvelled,  and  told  it  to 
the  Archbishop.  T  command,  said  the  Arch- 
bishop, that  ye  keep  you  within  your  church, 
and  pray  unto  God  still ;  that  no  man  touch  the 
sword  till  the  high  mass  be  all  done.  So  when 
all  masses  were  done  all  the  lords  went  to  be- 
hold the  stone  and  the  sword.  And  when  they 
saw  the  scripture,  some  assayed^ ;  such  as  would 
have  been  king.  But  none  might  stir  the  sword 
nor  move  it.  He  is  not  here,  said  the  Arch- 
bishop, that  shall  achieve^  the  sword,  but  doubt 
not  God  will  make  him  known.  But  this  is  my 
counsel,  said  the  Archbishop,  that  we  let  pur- 
vey9  ten  knights,  men  of  good  fame,  and  they 
to  keep  this  sword.  So  it  was  ordained,  and 
then  there  was  made  a  cry,  that  every  man 
should  assay  that  would,  for  to  win  the  sword. 

And  upon  New  Year 's  Day  the  barons  let 
make  a  jousts' <>  and  a  tournament,  that  all 
knights  that  would  joust  or  tourney  there  might 
play,  and  all  this  was  ordained  for  to  keep 
the  lords  together  and  the  commons,  for  the 
Archbishop  trusted  that  God  would  make  him 


3  wero   shriven   of   their   7  tried 

sins  8  attain 

4  The  tlirw  estates,  cler-   8  cause  to  be  provided 

fry.  lords,  and  com-   lo  tiltlng-matth  (usually 
nions.  single     combat,     as 

5  bcfoH'  distinct  from  a  tour- 
6a  kind  of  ney  or  tournament). 
♦  The  present  site  of  St.  raul's  has  been  occupied 

by  various  churclies  ;  there  is  even  a  tradition 
that  before  the  introduction  of  Christianity  a 
temple  of  Diana  stood  on  the  spot.  King 
Ethelbert  erected  a  cathedral  there  in  607 
and  dedicated  it  to  St.  Paul.  It  was  burned 
in  1086.  Then  was  built  the  old  St.  Paul's 
which  Malory  knew,  and  which  lasted  until 
the  great  fire  of  1666,  to  be  followed  by  the 
present  structure  designed  by  Sir  Christopher 
vVren. 


known  that  should  win  the  sword.  So  upon 
New  Year's  Uay,  when  the  service  was  done, 
the  barons  rode  unto  the  field,  some  to  joust 
and  some  to  tourney,  and  so  it  happened  that 
Sir  Ector,  that  had  great  livelihood  about 
London,  rode  unto  the  jousts,  and  with  him 
rode  Sir  Kay  his  son,  and  young  Arthur  that 
was  his  nourished' 1  brother;  and  Sir  Kay 
wasi2  made  knight  at  All  Hallowmass  afore. 

So  as  they  rode  to  the  jousts-ward,  Sir  Kay 
lost  his  sword,  for  he  had  left  it  at  his 
father 's  lodging,  and  so  he  prayed  young  Ar- 
thur for  to  ride  for  his  sword.  I  will  well,  said 
Arthur,  and  rode  fast  after  the  sword,  and 
when  he  came  home,  the  lady  and  all  were  out 
to  see  the  jousting.  Then  was  Arthur  wroth, 
and  said  to  himself,  I  will  ride  to  the  church- 
yard, and  take  the  sword  with  me  that  sticketh 
in  the  stone,  for  my  brother  Sir  Kay  shall  not 
be  without  a  sword  this  day.  So  when  he  came 
to  the  churchyard,  Sir  Arthur  alit  and  tied  his 
horse  to  the  stile,  and  so  he  went  to  the  tent, 
and  found  no  knights  there,  for  they  were  at  the 
jousting;  and  so  he  handled  the  sword  by  the 
handles,  and  lightly  and  fiercely  pulled  it  out 
of  the  stone,  and  took  his  horse  and  rode  his 
way  until  he  came  to  his  brother  Sir  Kay,  and 
delivered  him  the  sword. 

And  as  soon  as  Sir  Kay  saw  the  sword,  he 
wistis  well  it  was  the  sword  of  the  stone,  and 
so  he  rode  to  his  father  Sir  Ector,  and  said: 
Sir,  lo  here  is  the  sword  of  the  stone,  where- 
fore I  must  be  king  of  this  land.  When  Sir 
Ector  beheld  the  sword,  he  returned  again  and 
came  to  the  church,  and  there  they  alit  all 
three,  and  went  into  the  church.  And  anon  he 
made  Sir  Kay  to  swear  upon  a  book  how  he 
came  to  that  sword.  Sir,  said  Sir  Kay,  by  my 
brother  Arthur,  for  he  brought  it  to  me.  How 
gat  ye  this  sword?  said  Sir  Ector  to  Arthur. 
Sir,  I  will  tell  you.  When  I  came  home  for  my 
brother's  sword,  I  found  nobody  at  home  to 
deliver  me  his  sword,  and  so  I  thought  my 
brother  Sir  Kay  should  not  be  swordless,  and 
so  I  came  hither  eagerly  and  pulled  it  out  of 
the  stone  without  any  pain.  Found  ye  any 
knights  about  this  sword?  said  Sir  Ector.  Nay, 
said  Arthur.  Now,  said  Sir  Ector  to  Arthur, 
I  understand  ye  must  be  king  of  this  land. 
Wherefore  I,  said  Arthur,  and  for  what  cause? 
Sir,  said  Ector,  for  God  will  have  it  so,  for 
there  shoukU*  never  man  have  drawn  out  this 
sword,  but  he  that  shall  be  rightwise  king  of 
this  land.  Now  let  me  see  whether  ye  can  put 
the  sword  there  as  it  was,  and  pull  it  out  again. 


11  foster 

12  had  been 


13  knew 

14  could  (was  fated) 


98 


FIFTEENTH  AND  EAKLY  SIXTEENTH  CENTURIES 


That  is  no  masteryi',  said  Arthur,  and  so  he 
put  it  in  the  stone,  wherewithal  Sir  Ector  as- 
sayed to  pull  out  the  sword  and  failed.  Now 
assay,  said  Sir  Ector  unto  Sir  Kay.  And  anon 
he  pulled  at  the  sword  with  all  his  might,  but 
it  would  not  be. 

Now  shall  ye  assay,  said  Sir  Ector  to  Arthur. 
I  will  well,  said  Arthur,  and  pulled  it  out 
easily.  And  therewithal  Sir  Ector  knelt  down 
to  the  earth,  and  Sir  Kay.  Alas,  said  Arthur, 
my  own  dear  father  and  brother,  why  kneel  ye 
to  me?  Nay,  nay,  my  lord  Arthur,  it  is  not 
so;  I  was  never  your  father  nor  of  your  blood, 
but  I  wot  well  ye  are  of  an  higher  blood  than 
I  weened  ye  were.  And  then  Sir  Ector  told 
him  all,  how  he  was  betakenie  him  for  to  nourish 
him,  and  by  whose  commandment,  and  by  Mer- 
lin's  deliverance.  Then  Arthur  made  great 
dole  when  he  understood  that  Sir  Ector  was 
not  his  father.  Sir,  said  Ector  unto  Arthur, 
will  ye  be  my  good  and  gracious  lord  when  ye 
are  king?  Else  were  I  to  blame,  said  Arthur, 
for  ye  are  the  man  in  the  world  that  I  am  most 
beholden  to,  and  my  good  lady  and  mother  your 
wife,  that  as  well  as  her  own  hath  fostered 
me  and  kept.  And  if  ever  it  be  God 's  will  that 
1  be  king  as  ye  say,  ye  shall  desire  of  me  what 
I  may  do,  and  I  shall  not  fail  you,  God  forbid 
I  should  fail  you.  Sir,  said  Sir  Ector,  I  will 
ask  no  more  of  you,  but  that  ye  will  make  my 
son,  your  foster  brother.  Sir  Kay,  seneschal 
of  all  your  lands.  That  shall  be  done,  said 
Arthur,  and  more,  by  the  faith  of  my  body, 
that  never  man  shall  have  that  office  but  he, 
while  he  and  I  live. 

Therewithal  they  went  unto  the  Archbishop, 
and  told  him  how  the  sword  was  achieved,  and 
by  whom;  and  on  Twelfth-dayi7  all  the  barons 
came  thither,  and  to  assay  to  take  the  sword, 
who  that  would  assay.  But  there  afore  them 
all,  there  might  none  take  it  out  but  Ar- 
thur; wherefore  there  were  many  lords  wroth, 
and  said  it  was  a  great  shame  unto  them  all 
and  the  realm,  to  be  overgoverned  with  a  boy 
of  no  high  blood  born,  and  so  they  fell  outis 
at  that  time  that  it  was  put  off  till  Candle- 
masi»,  and  then  all  the  barons  should  meet 
there  again;  but  always  the  ten  knights  were 
ordained  to  watch  the  sword  day  and  night, 
and  so  they  set  a  pavilion  over  the  stone  and 
the  sword,  and  five  always  watched. 

So  at  Candlemas  many  more  great  lords  came 
thither  for  to  have  won  the  sword,  but  there 
might  none  prevail.     And  right  as  Arthur  did 

*6  '("at  «lay     after    Chrlst- 

i«  ••nlniKtcd   io  msH. 

17  The    ^'stival  <if    the     is  were  ho  diMHatisfled 

Epiphany,  twelfth    lo  Feb.  2. 


at  Christmas,  he  did  at  Candlemas,  and  pulled 
out  the  sword  easily,  whereof  the  barons  were 
core  aggrieved  and  put  it  off  in  delay  till  the 
high  feast  of  Easter.  And  as  Arthur  sped2o 
before,  so  did  he  at  Easter,  yet  there  were  some 
of  the  great  lords  had  indignation  that  Arthur 
should  be  king,  and  put  it  off  in  a  delay  till  the 
feast  of  Pentecost.  Then  the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury  by  Merlin's  providence^i  let  purvey 
then  of  the  best  knights  that  they  might  get, 
and  such  knights  as  Uther  Pendragon  loved 
best  and  most  trusted  in  his  days.  And  such 
knights  were  put  about  Arthur  as  Sir  Baudwin 
of  Britain,  Sir  Kay,  Sir  Ulfius,  Sir  Brastias. 
All  these  with  many  other  were  always  about 
Arthur,  day  and  night,  till  the  feast  of  Pente- 
cost. 

And  at  the  feast  of  Pentecost  all  manner 
of  men  assayed  to  pull  at  the  sword  that  Avould 
assay,  but  none  might  prevail  but  Arthur,  and 
pulled  it  out  afore  all  the  lords  and  com- 
mons that  were  there,  wherefore  all  the  com- 
mons cried  at  once.  We  will  have  Arthur  unto 
our  king,  we  will  put  him  no  more  in  delay,  for 
we  all  see  that  it  is  God's  Avill  that  he  shall 
be  our  king,  and  who  that22  holdeth  against  it, 
we  will  slay  him.  And  therewith  all  they 
kneeled  at  once,  both  rich  and  poor,  and  cried 
Arthur  mercy  because  they  had  delayed  him  so 
long,  and  Arthur  forgave  them,  and  took  the 
sword  between  both  his  hands,  and  offered  it 
upon  the  altar,  where  the  Archbishop  was,  and 
so  was  he  made  knight  of23  the  best  man  that 
was  there.  And  so  anon  was  the  coronation 
made.  And  there  was  he  sworn  unto  his  lords 
and  the  commons  for  to  be  a  true  king,  to 
stand  with  true  justice  from  thenceforth  the 
days  of  this  life. 

How  Arthur  by  the  Mean  of  Merlin  Gat 
ExcALiBUR  His  Sword  of  the  Lady  of  the 
Lake.    Book  I,  Chapter  XXV. 

Eight  so  the  king  and  he  departed,  and  went 
unto  an  hermit  that  was  a  good  man  and  a 
great  leech24.  So  the  hermit  searched  all  his 
wounds  and  gave  him  good  salves;  so  the  king 
was  there  three  days,  and  then  were  his 
wounds  well  amended  that  he  might  ride  and 
go-i*,  and  so  departed.  And  as  they  rode,  Ar- 
thur said,  I  have  no  sword.  No  foree'-«,  said 
Merlin,  hereby  is  a  sword  that  shall  be  yours, 
an  I  may27.  So  they  rode  till  they  came  to  a 
lake,  the  which  was  a  fair  water  and  broad, 


20  succeeded 

21  prudence 

22  whoever 
28  by    (viz., 

bishop) 


the 


24  physician 
2R  walk 
20  no  matter 
Arch-   27  if  I  have  power 


SIB  THOMAS  MALORY 


99 


and  in  the  midst  of  the  lake  Arthur  was  ware 
of  an  arm  clothed  in  white  samitezs,  that  held 
a  fair  sword  in  that  hand.  Lo!  said  Merlin, 
yonder  is  that  sword  that  I  spake  of.  With 
that  they  saw  a  damosel  going29  upon  the  lake. 
What  damosel  is  that?  said  Arthur.  That  is 
the  Lady  of  the  Lake,  said  Merlin;  and  within 
that  lake  is  a  rock,  and  therein  is  as  fair  a 
place  as  any  on  earth,  and  richly  beseenso;  and 
this  damosel  will  come  to  you  anon,  and 
then  speak  ye  fair  to  her  that  she  will  give  you 
that  sword.  Anon  withal  came  the  damosel 
unto  Arthur,  and  saluted  him,  and  he  her  again. 
Damosel,  said  Arthur,  what  sword  is  that,  that 
yonder  the  arm  holdeth  above  the  water?  I 
would  it  were  mine,  for  I  have  no  sword.  Sir 
Arthur,  king,  said  the  damosel,  that  sword  is 
mine,  and  if  ye  will  give  me  a  gift  when  I  ask 
it  you,  ye  shall  have  it.  By  my  faith,  said  Ar- 
thur, I  will  give  you  what  gift  ye  will  ask. 
Well!  said  the  damosel,  go  ye  into  yonder 
barge,  and  row  yourself  to  the  sword,  and  take 
it  and  the  scabbard  with  you,  and  I  will  ask 
my  gift  when  I  see  my  time.  So  Sir  Arthur 
and  Merlin  alit  and  tied  their  horses  to  two 
trees,  and  so  they  went  into  the  ship,  and  when 
they  came  to  the  sword  that  the  hand  held.  Sir 
Arthur  took  it  up  by  the  handles,  and  took  it 
with  him,  and  the  arm  and  the  hand  went 
under   the  water. 

And  so  they  came  unto  the  land  and  rode 
forth,  and  then  Sir  Arthur  saw  a  rich  pavilion. 
What  signifieth  yonder  pavilion?  It  is  the 
knight's  pavilion,  said  Merlin,  that  ye  fought 
with  last.  Sir  Pellinore;  but  he  is  out,  he  is 
not  there.  He  hath  ado  with  a  knight  of  yours 
that  hightai  Egglame,  and  they  have  foughten 
together,  but  at  the  last  Egglame  fled,  and  else 
he  had  been  dead,  and  he  hath  chased  him 
even  to  Carlionss,  and  we  shall  meet  with  him 
anon  in  the  highway.  That  is  well  said,  said 
Arthur,  now  have  I  a  sword,  now  will  I  wage 
battle  with  him,  and  be  avenged  on  him.  Sir, 
you  shall  not  so,  said  Merlin,  for  the  knight  is 
weary  of  fighting  and  chasing,  so  that  ye  shall 
have  no  worships^  to  have  ado  with  him;  also 
he  will  not  be  lightly  matched  of  ones*  knight 
living,  and  therefore  it  is  my  counsel,  let  him 
pass,  for  he  shall  do  you  good  service  in  short 
time,  and  his  sons  after  his  days.  Also  ye 
shall  see  that  day  in  short  space,  you  shall  be 
right  glad  to  give  him  your  sister  to  wed. 
When  I  see  him,  I  will  do  as  ye  advise,  said 
Arthur. 


2S  A  rich  silk  fabric. 

29  wallving 

30  appointed 

31  is  called 


32  Carleon-upon-Usk    in 

Wales,    one    of    Ar- 
thur's courts. 

33  honor 

34  by  any 


Then  Sir  Arthur  looked  on  the  sword,  and 
liked  it  passing  well.  Whether  liketh35  you  bet- 
ter, said  Merlin,  the  sword  or  the  scabbard? 
Me  liketh  better  the  sword,  said  Arthur.  Ye 
are  more  unwise,  said  Merlin,  for  the  scabbard 
is  worth  ten  of  the  swerds,  for  whiles  ye  have 
the  scabbard  upon  you,  ye  shall  never  lose  no 
blood  be  ye  never  so  sore  wounded,  therefore 
keep  well  the  scabbard  always  with  you.  So 
they  rode  unto  Carlion,  and  by  the  way  they 
met  with  Sir  Pellinore;  but  Merlin  had  done 
such  a  craft36,  that  Pellinore  saw  not  Arthur, 
and  he  passed  by  without  any  words.  I  marvel, 
said  Arthur,  that  the  knight  would  not  speak. 
Sir,  said  Merlin,  he  saw  you  not,  for  an37  he 
had  seen  you,  ye  had  not  lightly  departed.  So 
they  came  unto  Carlion,  whereof  his  knights 
were  passing  glad.  And  when  they  heard  of 
his  adventures,  they  marvelled  that  he  would 
jeopard  his  person  so,  alone.  But  all  men  of 
worship  said  it  was  merry  to  be  under  such  a 
chieftain,  that  would  put  his  person  in  adven- 
ture as  other  poor  knights  did. 

How  King  Arthur  Took  a  Wipe,  and  Wedded 
GuEN'EVER,  Daughter  to  Leodegraxce,  King 
OP  the  Land  op  Cameliard,  with  Whom 
He  Had  the  Round  Table.  Book  III, 
Chapter  I 

In  the  beginning  of  Arthur,  after  he  was 
chosen  king  by  adventure  and  by  grace,  for 
the  most  part  of  the  barons  knew  not  that  he 
was  Uther  Pendragon's  son,  but  as  Merlin 
made  it  openly  known,  but  yet  many  kings  and 
lords  held  great  war  against  him  for  that  cause. 
But  well  Arthur  overcame  them  all,  fori  the 
most  part  the  days  of  his  life  he  was  ruled 
much  by  the  counsel  of  Merlin.  So  it  fell  on  a 
time  King  Arthur  said  unto  Merlin,  My  barons 
will  let  me  have  no  rest,  but  needs  I  must  take 
a  wife,  and  I  will  none  take  but  by  thy  coun- 
sel and  by  thine  advice.  It  is  well  done,  said 
Merlin,  that  ye  take  a  wife,  for  a  man  of  your 
bounty2  and  noblesse  should  not  be  without  a 
wife.  Now  is  there  any  that  ye  love  more  than 
another?  Yea,  said  King  Arthur,  I  love 
Guenever  the  king's  daughter,  Leodegrance  of 
the  land  of  Cameliard,  the  which  holdeth  in  his 
house  the  Table  Round  that  ye  told  he  had  of 
my  father  Uther.  And  this  damosel  is  the  most 
valiant  and  fairest  lady  that  I  know  living,  or 
yet  that  ever  I  could  find.  Sir,  said  Merlin, 
as  of3  her  beauty  and  fairness  she  is  one  of 
the  fairest  on  live*,  but,  an  ye  loved  her  not  so 

3.";  which  pleaseth  37  if 

3(i  worked  such  magic 


1  because  3  as  for 

'  -  prowess  *  alive 


100 


FIFTEENTH  AND  EARLY  SIXTEENTH  CENTURIES 


well  as  ye  do,  I  should  find  you  a  damosel  of 
beauty  and  of  goodness  that  should  likes  you 
and  please  you,  an  your  heart  were  not  set; 
but  there  as  a  man 's  heart  is  set,  he  will  be  loth 
to  return.  That  is  truth,  said  King  Arthur. 
But  Merlin  warned  the  king  covertly  that 
Guenever  was  not  wholesome  for  him  to  take 
to  wife,  for  he  warned  him  that  Launcelot 
should  love  her,  and  she  him  againS;  and  so  he 
turned  his  tale  to  the  adventures  of  the  San- 
greal. 

Then  Merlin  desired  of  the  king  for  to  have 
men  with  him  that  should  enquire  of  Guenever, 
and  so  the  king  granted  him,  and  Merlin  went 
forth  unto  King  Leodegrance  of  Cameliard, 
and  told  him  of  the  desire  of  the  king  that  he 
would  have  unto  his  wife  Guenever  his  daugh- 
ter. That  is  to  me,  said  King  Leodegrance,  the 
best  tidings  that  ever  I  heard,  that  so  worthy 
a  king  of  prowess  and  noblesse  will  wed  my 
daughter.  And  as  for  my  lands,  I  will  give 
him,  wist  I  it  might  please  him,  but  he  hath 
lands  enow,  him  needeth  none,  but  I  shall  send 
him  a  gift  shall  please  him  much  more,  for  I 
shall  give  him  the  Table  Round,  the  which 
Uther  Pendragon  gave  me,  and  when  it  is  full 
complete,  there  is  an  hundred  knights  and  fifty. 
And  as  for  an  hundred  good  knights  I  have 
myself,  but  I  fawte^  fifty,  for  so  many  have 
been  slain  in  my  days.  And  so  Leodegrance  de- 
livered his  daughter  Guenever  unto  Merlin,  and 
the  Table  Round  with  the  hundred  knights,  and 
so  they  rode  freshlys,  with  great  royalty,  what 
by  water  and  what  by  land,  till  that  they  came 
nigh  unto  London. 

When  King  Arthur  heard  of  the  coming  of 
Guenever  and  the  hundred  knights  with  the 
Table  Round,  then  King  Arthur  made  great 
joy  for  her  coming,  and  that  rich  present,  and 
said  openly,  This  fair  lady  is  passing  welcome 
unto  me,  for  I  have  loved  her  long,  and  there- 
fore there  is  nothing  so  liefo  to  mc.  And  these 
knights  with  the  Round  Table  please  me  more 
than  right  great  riches.  And  in  all  haste  the 
king  let  ordain  lo  for  the  marriage  and  the 
coronation  in  the  most  honourable  wise  that 
could  be  devised. 

How  AN  Old  Man  Brought  Gai-ahad  to  the 
Siege    PERnx)us    and    Set    Him    Therein. 
Book  XIII,  Chapters  I-IV 
At  the  vigil  of  Pentccosti,  when  all  the  fel- 
lowship of  the  Round   Table  were  come  unto 


«  Rally 
»  dear 
10  ordered  preparation 


S  Hllit 

« In  return 
7  lack  (fault) 

1  Whitsunday  (the  Reventti  Sunday  after  Raster). 
(■omnii'moiHtinK  the  descent  of  the  Holy  Kplrlt 
upon  the  Apostlca. 


Camelot2  and  there  heard  their  service,  and  the 
tables  were  set  ready  tos  the  meat,  right  so 
entered  into  the  hall  a  full  fair  gentlewoman 
on  horseback,  that  had  ridden  full  fast,  for 
her  horse  was  all  besweated.  Then  she  there 
alit,  and  came  before  the  king  and  saluted 
him;  and  he  said:  Damosel,  God  thee  bless. 
Sir,  said  she,  for  God's  sake  say  me  where  Sir 
Launcelot  is.  Yonder  ye  may  see  him,  said 
the  king.  Then  she  went  unto  Launcelot  and 
said:  Sir  Launcelot,  I  salute  you  on  King 
Pelles'  behalf,  and  I  require  you  to  come  on 
with  me  hereby  into  a  forest.  Then  Sir 
Launcelot  asked  her  with  whom  she  dwelled. 
I  dwell,  said  she,  with  King  Pelles*.  What  will 
ye  with  me?  said  Launcelot.  Ye  shall  know, 
said  she,  when  ye  come  thither.  Well,  said  he, 
I  will  gladly .  go  with  you.  So  Sir  Launcelot 
bad  his  squire  saddle  his  horse  and  bring  his 
arms;  and  in  all  haste  he  did  his  command- 
ment. Then  came  the  queen  unto  Launcelot, 
and  said:  Will  ye  leave  us  at  this  high  feast? 
Madam,  said  the  gentlewoman,  wits  ye  well  he 
shall.be  with  you  tomorns  by  dinner  time.  If 
I  wist,  said  the  queen,  that  he  should  not  be 
with  us  here  tomorn  he  should  not  go  with  you 
by  my  good  will. 

Right  so  departed  Sir  Launcelot  with  the 
gentlewoman,  and  rode  until  that  he  came  into 
a  forest  and  into  a  great  valley,  where  they 
saw  an  abbey  of  nuns;  and  there  was  a  squire 
ready  and  opened  the  gates,  and  so  they  en- 
tered and  descended  off  their  horses;  and  there 
came  a  fair  fellowship  about  Sir  Launcelot, 
and  welcomed  him,  and  were  passing  glad  of 
his  coming.  And  then  they  led  him  unto  the 
Abbess's  chamber  and  unarmed  him;  and  right 
so  he  was  ware  upon  a  bed  lying  two  of  his 
cousins.  Sir  Bors  and  Sir  Lionel,  and  then  he 
waked  them;  and  when  they  saw  him  they 
made  great  joy.  Sir,  said  Sir  Bors  unto  Sir 
Launcelot,  what  adventure  hath  brought  you 
hither,  for  we  weened  tomorn  to  have  found 
you  at  CamelotI  As  God  me  help,  said  Sir 
Launcelot,  a  gentlewoman  brought  me  hither, 
but  I  know  not  the  cause. 

In  the  meanwhile  that  they  thus  stood  talk- 
ing together,  therein  came  twelve  nuns  that 
brought  with  them  Galahad,^  the  which  was 
passing  fair  and  well  made,  that  unnothes  in 
the  world  men  might  not  find  his  match:  and 
all  those  ladies  wept.  Sir,  said  they  all,  we 
bring  you   here  this  child  the  which  we  have 


-'  The  legendary  seat  of 
Arthur's  court. 

8  for 

4  "KlnB  of  the  foreign 
coil n try  and  cousin 


nigh    unto    Joseph       b  scarcely 


o  f        Arlmntha;a." 
(Malory.) 

6  know 

rt  to-morrow  morning 

7  The  son  of  Launcelot 


SIR  THOMAS  MALORY 


iOl 


nourislied,  and  we  pray  you  to  make  him  a 
knight,  for  of  a  more  worthier  man's  hand  may 
he  not  receive  the  order  of  knighthood.  Sir 
Launcelot  beheld  the  young  squire  and  saw  him 
seemly  and  demure  as  a  dove,  with  all  manner 
of  good  features,  that  he  weened  of  his  age 
never  to  have  seen  so  fair  a  man  of  form. 
Then  said  Sir  Launcelot:  Cometh  this  desire  of 
himself?  He  and  all  they  said  yea.  Then 
shall  he,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  receive  the  high 
order  of  knighthood  asu  tomorn  at  the  rever- 
ence© of  the  high  feast.  That  night  Sir 
Launcelot  had  passing  good  cheer;  and  on  the 
morn  at  the  hour  of  prime,io  at  Galahad's  de- 
sire, he  made  him  knight  and  said:  God  make 
him  a  good  man,  for  of  beauty  faileth  you  not 
as  any  that  liveth. 

Now  fair  sir,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  mil  ye 
come  with  me  unto  the  court  of  King  Arthur? 
Nay,  said  he,  I  will  not  go  with  you  asu  at 
this  time.  Then  he  departed  from  them  and 
took  his  two  cousins  with  him,  and  so  they 
came  unto  Camelot  by  the  hour  of  undernei-  on 
Whitsunday.  By  that  time  the  king  and  the 
queen  were  gone  to  the  minster  to  hear  their 
service.  Then  the  king  and  the  queen  were 
passing  glad  of  Sir  Bors  and  Sir  Lionel,  and 
so  was  all  the  fellowship. 

So  when  the  king  and  all  the  knights  were 
come  from  service,  the  barons  espied  in  the 
sieges'S  of  the  Round  Table  all  about,  written 
with  golden  letters:  Here  ought  to  sit  he,i* 
and  hei*  ought  to  sit  here.  And  thus  they  went 
so  long  till  that  they  came  to  the  Siege  Peril- 
ous,! ^  where  they  found  letters  newly  written 
of  gold  Avhich  said:  Four  hundred  winters  and 
four  and  fifty  accomplished  after  the  passionie 
of  our  Lord  Jesu  Christ  ought  this  siege  to  be 
fulfilled. 17  Then  all  they  said:  This  is  a  mar- 
vellous thing  and'an  adventurous.  In  the  name 
of  God,  said  Sir  Launcelot ;  and  then  accounted 
the  term  of  the  writingis  from  the  birth  of 
our  L<jrd  unto  that  day.  It  seemeth  me,  said 
Sir  Launcelot,  this  siege  ought  to  be  fulfilled 
this  same  day,  for  this  is  the  feast  of  Pentecost 
after  the  four  hundred  and  four  and  fifty 
year ;  and  if  it  would  please  all  parties,  I 
would  none  of  these  letters  were  seen  this  day, 
till  he  be  come  that  ought  to  achieve  this  ad- 
venture. Then  made  they  to  ordain  a  cloth  of 
silk,  for  to  cover  these  letters  in  the  Siege 
Perilous. 

Then  the  king  bad  haste  unto  dinner.     Sir, 

»  observance 

10  at  the  tirst  hour  i5  Seat  of  Peril 

11  The     word    is   redun-  i«  suffering,  crucitixioD 

dant.  IT  occupied 

12  late  forenoon  18  calculated     the     time 

13  seats  set     down     in     the 

14  So-and-so  writing 


saiti  Sir  Kay  the  Steward,  if  ye  go  now  unto 
your  meat  ye  shall  break  your  old  custom  of 
your  court,  for  ye  have  not  used  on  this  day  to 
sit  at  your  meat  or  that  i9  ye  have  seen  some 
adventure.  Ye  say  sooth,  said  the  king,  but 
I  had  so  great  joy  of  Sir  Launcelot  and  of  his 
cousins,  which  be  come  to  the  court  wholeso  and 
sound,  so  that  I  bethought  me  not  of  mine 
old  custom.  So,  as  they  stood  speaking,  in 
came  a  squire  and  said  unto  the  king:  Sir,  I 
bring  unto  you  marvellous  tidings.  What  be 
they?  said  the  king.  Sir,  there  is  here  beneath 
at  the  river  a  great  stone  which  I  saw  fleet2i 
above  the  water,  and  therein  I  saw  sticking  a 
sword.  The  king  said:  I  will  see  that  marvel. 
So  all  the  knights  went  with  him,  and  when 
they  came  to  the  river  they  found  there  a 
stone  fleeting,  as  it  were  of  red  marble,  and 
therein  stuck  a  fair  rich  sword,  and  in  the 
pommel  thereof  were  precious  stones  wrought 
with  subtil2i!  letters  of  gold.  Then  the  barons 
read  the  letters  which  said  in  this  wise:  Never 
shall  man  take  me  hence,  but  only  he  by  whose 
side  I  ought  to  hang,  and  he  shall  be  the  beat 
knight  of  the  world.  When  the  king  had  seen 
the  letters,  he  said  unto  Sir  Launcelot:  Fair 
sir,  this  sword  ought  to  be  yours,  for  I  am  sure 
ye  be  the  best  knight  of  the  world.  Then  Sir 
Launcelot  answered  full  soberly:  Certes,  sir.  it 
is  not  my  sword ;  also,  Sir,  wit  ye  well  I  have 
no  hardiness  to  set  my  hand  to  it,  for  it 
longed^s  not  to  hang  by  my  side.  Also,  who 
that  assayeth  to  take  the  sword  and  faileth  of 
it,  he  shall  receive  a  wound  by  that  sword  that 
he  shall  not  be  whole^o  long  after.  And  I  will 
that  ye  wit  that  this  same  day  shall  the  ad- 
ventures of  the  Sangreal,  that  is  called  the  Holy 
Vessel,  begin.* 

19  before      20  hale,  well      21  float  22  cunning 

23  Probably  for  longeth,  belongs. 

•  "Though  the  earliest  French  accounts  of  the  Holy 
Grail  differ  in  many  details,  from  them  all  we 
can  make  up  a  story  somewhat  as  follows : 
Joseph  of  Arimathsea,  after  taking  Christ's 
body  from  the  cross,  collected  his  blood  in  the 
Grail,  a  dish  or  cup  which  our  Lord  had  used 
at  the  Last  Supper.  Then,  because  Joseph 
had  buried  Christ  reverently,  he  was  thrown 
into  prison  by  the  angry  Jews,  who  tried  to 
starve  him  :  but  Joseph  was  solaced  and  fed 
by  the  Grail,  miraculously  presented  to  him 
by  Christ  in  person.  Released  after  forty 
years,  Josepli  set  out  from  Jerusalem  with  his 
wife  and  kindred,  who,  having  accepted  his 
faith,  were  ready  to  follow  him  and  his  sacred 
vessel  to  far-off  lands.  He  went  through 
various  adventures,  principally  conversions  of 
heathen,  the  most  important  being  of  the  King 
of  Sarras  and  his  -.people."  ( Howard  Mayna- 
dier  :  The  Arthur  of  the  Enfflish  Poets.)  After 
the  disappearance  of  the  holy  relic  (which 
was  reported  to  he  of  emerald »,  the  quest  of 
it  was  a  visionary  search  often  imdertaken, 
according  to  the  legends,  as  a  test  of  purity. 
It  was  a  wave  of  fanaticism  prompting  this 
[  search   that  broke  up  Arthur's  goodly  fellow- 

>  ship  of  knights. 


im 


'  •i*IFTEENTH  AND  EARLY  SIXTEENTH  CENTURIES 


Now,  fair  nephew,  said  the  king  unto  Sir  j 
Gawaine,  assay  ye,  for  my  love.  Sir,  he  said, 
save  your  good  grace-*  I  shall  not  do  that. 
Sir,  said  the  king,  assay  to  take  the  sword  and 
at  my  commandment.  Sir,  said  Gawaine,  your 
commandment  I  will  obey.  And  therewith  he 
took  up  the  sword  by  the  handles,  but  he  might 
not  stir  it.  I  thank  you,  said  the  king  to  Sir 
Gawaine.  My  lord  Sir  Gawaine,  said  Sir 
Launcelot,  now  wit  ye  well  this  sword  shall 
touch  you  so  sore  that  ye  shall  will  ye  had 
never  set  your  hand  thereto  for  the  best  castle 
of  this  realm.  Sir,  he  said,  I  might  not  with- 
say  mine  uncle's  will  and  commandment.  But 
when  the  king  heard  this  he  repented  it  much, 
and  said  unto  Sir  Percivale  that  he  should  as- 
say, for  his  love.  And  he  said:  Gladly,  for  to 
bear  Sir  Gawaine  fellowship.  And  therewith 
he  set  his  hand  on  the  sword  and  drew  it 
strongly,  but  he  might  not  move  it.  Then  were 
there  [nosc]  more  that  durst  be  so  hardy  to  set 
their  hands  thereto.  Now  may  ye  go  to  your 
dinner,  said  Sir  Kay  unto  the  king,  for  a 
marvellous  adventure  have  ye  seen. 

So  the  king  and  all  went  unto  the  court,  and 
every  knight  knew  his  own  place,  and  set  him 
therein,  and  young  men  that  were  knights 
served  them.  So  when  they  were  served,  and 
all  sieges  fulfilled  save  only  the  Siege  Perilous, 
anon  there  befell  a  marvellous  adventure,  that^c 
all  the  doors  and  windows  of  the  palace  shut 
by  themself.  Not  for  then  27  the  hall  was  not 
greatly  darked;  and  therewith  they  [were  all25j 
abashed  both  one  and  other.  Then  King  Arthur 
spake  first  and  said:  By  God,  fair  fellows  and 
lords,  we  have  seen  this  day  marvels,  but  or28 
night  I  suppose  we  shall  see  greater  marvels. 

In  the  mfanwhile  came  in  a  good  old  man, 
and  an  ancient,  clothed  all  in  white,  and  there 
was  no  knight  knew  from  whence  he  came. 
And  with  him  he  brought  a  young  knight,  both 
on  foot,  in  red  arms,  without  sword  or  shield, 
save  a  scabbard  hanging  by  his  side.  And 
these  words  he  said:  Peace  be  with  you,  fair 
lords.  Then  the  old  man  said  unto  Arthur: 
Sir,  I  bring  hero  a  young  knight,  the  which 
is  of  king's  lineage,  and  of  the  kindretl  of 
Joseph  of  Aramathie,  whereby  the  marvels  of 
this  court,  and  of  strange  realms,  shall  be 
fully  accomplished.  The  king  was  right,  glad 
of  his  words,  and  said  unto  the  good  man:  Sir, 
ye  be  right  welcome,  and  the  young  knight  with 
you. 


24  A  depreratory  phraHc. 

25  InHt'rtod    In    the    sec- 

ond edition  by  Cax- 
ton'H  H  II  (■  (■  i>  K  H  n  r. 
Wynkyn  do   Wordc. 


20  In  that 

27  nevertheless 

28  ere 


Then  the  old  man  made  the  young  man  to 
unarm  him,  and  he  was  in  a  coat  of  red  sen- 
dal,2»  and  bare  a  mantle  upon  liis  shoulder  that 
was  furred  with  ermine,  and  put  that  upon  him. 
And  the  old  knight  said  unto  the  young  knight: 
Sir,  follow  me.  And  anon  he  led  him  unto  the 
Siege  Perilous,  where  beside  sat  Sir  Launcelot; 
and  the  good  man  lift  up  the  cloth,  and  found 
there  letters  that  said  thus:  This  is  the  siege  of 
Galahad,  the  hautao  prince.  Sir,  said  the  old 
knight,  wit  ye  well  that  place  is  yours.  And 
then  he  set  him  down  surely  in  that  siege.  And 
then  he  said  to  the  old  man:  Sir,  ye  may  now 
go  your  way,  for  well  have  ye  done  that  ye 
were  commanded  to  do;  and  recommend  nie 
unto  my  grandsire.  King  Pelles,  and  unto  my 
lord  Petchere,  and  say  them  on  my  behalf,  I 
shall  come  and  see  them  as  soon  as  ever  I  may. 
So  the  good  man  departed;  and  there  met  him 
twenty  noble  squires,  and  so  took  their  horses 
and  went  their  way.  Then  all  the  knights  of 
the  Table  Round  marvelled  greatly  of  Sir  Gala- 
had, that  he  durst  sit  there  in  that  Siege  Peril- 
ous, and  was  so  tender  of  age;  and  wist  not 
from  Avhence  he  came  but  all  onlysi  by  God ; 
and  said:  This  is  he  by  whom  the  Sangreal 
shall  be  achieved,  for  there  sat  never  none  but 
he,  but  he  were  mischieved.32 

Then  Sir  Launcelot  beheld  his  son  and  had 
great  joy  of  him.  Then  Bors  told  his  fellows: 
Upon  pain  of  my  life  this  young  knight  shall 
come  unto  great  worship.33  This  noise  was 
great  in  all  the  caurt,  so  that  it  came  to  the 
queen.  Then  she  ha  ]  marvel  what  knight  it 
might  be  that  durst  adventure  him  to  sit  in 
the  Siege  Perilous.  Many  said  unto  the  queen 
he  resembled  much  unto  Sir  Launcelot.  I  may 
well  suppose,  said  the  queen,  that  Sir  Launce 
lot,  being  won  by  enchantment,  had  him  of 
King  Pelles'  daughter,  and  his  name  is  Gala- 
had. I  would  fain  see  him,  said  the  queen,  for 
he  must  needs  be  a  noble  man,  for  so  is  his 
father,  I  report  me  untosi  all  the  Table  Round. 
So  when  the  meat  was  done  that  the  king  and 
all  were  risen,  the  king  yedess  unto  the  Siege 
Perilous  and  lift  up  the  cloth,  and  found  there 
the  name  of  Galahad;  and  then  he  shewed  it 
unto  Sir  Gawaine,  and  said:  Fair  nephew,  now 
have  we  among  us  Sir  Galahad,  the  good  knight 
that  shall  worshipss  us  all;  and  upon  pain  of 
my  life  he  shall  achieve  the  Sangreal,  right  as 
Sir  Launcelot  had  doners  us  to  understand. 
Then  came  King  Arthur  unto  Galahad  and 
said:    Sir,  ye  be  welcome,   for  ye  shall  move 


2»  thin  silk 
80  high 

31  iinlesH  It  were 

32  harmed 


It  honor 

84  call  to  witness 

.tfi  went 

3«  caused 


SIR  THOMAS  MALOKY 


103 


many  good  knights  to  the  quest  of  the  San- 
grcal,  and  ye  shall  achieve  that  never  knights 
might  bring  to  an  end.  Then  the  king  took 
him  by  the  hand,  and  went  down  from  the 
palace  to  shew  Galahad  the  adventures  of  the 
stone. 


How  Sib  Launcelot  Was  Tofore  the  Door  of 
THE  Chamber  Wherein  the  Holy  Sangreal 
Was.    Book  XVII.     Chapters  Xni-XV. 

Now  saith  the  history,  that  when  Launcelot 
was  come  to  the  water  of  Mortoise,  as  it  is 
rehearsed  before,  he  was  in  great  peril,  and  so 
he  laid  him  down  and  slept,  and  took  the  ad- 
venture that  God  would  send  him.  So  when  he 
was  asleep  there  came  a  vision  unto  him  and 
said:  Launcelot,  arise  up  and  take  thine  ar- 
mour, and  enter  into  the  first  ship  that  thou 
shalt  find.  And  Avhen  he  heard  these  words  he 
start  up  and  saw  great  clearness  about  him. 
And  then  he  lift  up  his  hand  and  blessed  him,i 
and  so  took  his  arms  and  made  him  ready;  and 
so  by  adventure  he  came  by  a  strand,  and 
found  a  ship  the  which  was  without  sail  or  oar. 
And  as  soon  as  he  was  within  the  ship  there 
he  felt  the  most  sweetness  that  ever  he  felt, 
and  he  was  fulfilled  with  all  thing  that  he 
thought  on  or  desired.  Then  he  said:  Fair 
sweet  Father,  .Jesu  Christ,  I  wot  not  in  what 
joy  I  am,  for  this  joy  passeth  all  earthly  joys 
that  ever  I  was  in.  And  so  in  this  joy  he  laid 
him  down  to  the  ship 's  board,  and  slept  till 
day. 

And  when  he  awoke  he  found  there  a  fair 
bed,  and  therein  lying  a  gentlewoman  dead, 
the  which  was  Sir  Percivale's  sister.*  And  as 
Launcelot  devisedz  her,  he  espied  in  her  right 
hand  a  writ,  the  which  he  read,  the  which  told 
him  all  the  adventures  that  ye  have  heard  to- 
fore,  and  of  what  lineage  she  was  come.  So 
with  this  gentlewoman  Sir  Launcelot  was  a 
month  and  more.  If  ye  would  ask  how  he 
lived,  He  that  fed  the  people  of  Israel  with 
manna  in  the  desert,  so  was  he  fed;  for  every 
day  when  he  had  said  his  prayers  he  was  sus- 
tained with  the  grace  of  the  Holy  Ghost. 

So  on  a  night  he  went  to  play  him  by  the 
water  side,  for  he  was  somewhat  weary  of  the 

1  crossed  himself  3  where 

2  gazed  upon 

•She  had  given  her  blood  to  heal  a  lady  and  had 
made  this  dying  request  of  her  brother  :  "As 
soon  as  I  am  dead,  put  me  in  a  boat  at  the 
next  haven,  and  let  me  ro  as  adventure  will 
lead  me ;  and  as  soon  as  ye  three  come  to 
the  city  of  Sarras,  there  to  achieve  the  Holy 
Grail,  ye  shall  find  me  under  a  tower  arrived, 
and  there  bury  me  in  the  spiritual  place." 


ship.  And  then  he  listened  and  heard  an  horse 
come,  and  one  riding  upon  him.  And  when  he 
came  nigh  he  seemed  a  knight.  And  so  he  let 
him  pass,  and  went  thereas3  the  ship  was;  and 
there  he  alit,  and  took  the  saddle  and  the 
bridle  and  put  the  horse  from  him,  and  went 
into  the  ship.  And  then  Launcelot  dressed* 
unto  him,  and  said:  Ye  be  welcome.  And  he 
answered  and  saluted  him  again,^  and  asked 
him:  What  is  your  name?  for  much  my  heart 
giveth«  unto  you.  Truly,  said  he,  my  name  is 
Launcelot  du  Lake.  Sir,  said  he,  then  be  ye 
welcome,  for  ye  were  the  beginner  of  me  in 
this  world.  Ah,  said  he,  are  ye  Galahad?  Yea, 
forsooth,  said  he;  and  so  he  kneeled  down  and 
asked  him  his  blessing,  and  after  took  off  his 
helm  and  kissed  him. 

And  there  was  great  joy  between  them,  for 
there  is  no  tongue  can  tell  the  joy  that  they 
made  either  of  other,  and  many  a  friendly 
word  spoken  between,  as  kin  would,  the  which 
is  no  need  here  to  be  rehearsed.  And  there 
every  each'  told  other  of  their  adventures  and 
marvels  that  were  befallen  to  them  in  many 
journeys  siths  that  they  departed  from  the 
court.  Anon,  as  Galahad  saw  the  gentlewoman 
dead  in  the  bed,  he  knew  her  well  enough,  and 
told  great  worship  of  her,  that  she  was  the  best 
maid  living,  and  it  was  great  pity  of  her  death. 
But  when  Launcelot  heard  how  the  marvellous 
sword  was  gotten,  and  who  made  it,  and  all  the 
marvels  rehearsed  afore,  then  he  prayed  Gala- 
had, his  son,  that  he  would  show  him  the 
swordt,  and  so  he  did;  and  anon  he  kissed  the 
pommel,  and  the  hilt,  and  the  scabbard.  Truly, 
said  Launcelot,  never  erst  knew  I  of  so  high 
adventures  done,  and  so  marvellous  and 
strange. 

So  dwelt  Launcelot  and  Galahad  within  that 
ship  half  a  year,  and  served  God  daily  and 
nightly  with  all  their  power;  and  often  they 
arrived  in  isles  far  from  folk,  where  there  re- 
paired none  but  wild  beasts,  and  there  they 
found  many  strange  adventures  and  perilous, 
which  they  brought  to  an  end ;  but  f ors  those 
adventures  were  with  wild  beasts,  and  not  in 
the  quest  of  the  Sangreal,  therefore  the  tale 
maketh  here  no  mention  thereof,  for  it  would 
be  too  long  to  tell  of  all  those  adventures  that 
befell  them. 

So  after,  on  a  Monday,  it  befell  that  they  ar- 
rived in  the  edge  of  a  forest  tofore  a  cross; 

4  addressed  himself  (or     7  each  one 

simply  "went")  ■  since 

5  in  return  »  because 

6  goeth  out 

t  The  sword  of  King  David,  which  had  been  put 
by  Solomon  Into  this  miraculous  ship,  and 
which  maimed  or  slow  all  who  attempted  to 
^raw  it,  until  Galahad  came. 


104 


FIFTEENTH  AND  EAKLY  SIXTEENTH  CENTURIES 


and  then  saw  they  a  knight  armed  all  in  white, 
and  was  richly  horsed,  and  led  in  his  right 
hand  a  white  horse;  and  so  he  came  to  the  ship, 
and  saluted  the  two  knights  on  the  High 
Lord's  behalf,  and  said:  Galahad,  sir,  ye  have 
been  long  enough  with  your  father,  come  out 
of  the  ship,  and  start  upon  this  horse,  and  go 
where  the  adventures  shall  lead  thee  in  the 
quest  of  the  Sangreal.  Then  he  went  to  his 
father  and  kissed  him  sweetly,  and  said:  Fair 
sweet  father,  I  wot  not  when  I  shall  see  you 
more  till  I  see  the  body  of  Jesu  Christ.  I 
pray  you,  said  Launcelot,  pray  ye  to  the  High 
Father  that  He  hold  me  in  His  service.  And 
so  he  took  his  horse,  and  there  they  heard  a 
voice  that  said:  Think  for  to  do  well,  for  the 
one  shall  never  see  the  other  before  the  dread- 
ful day  of  doom.  Now,  son  Galahad,  said 
Launcelot,  syneio  we  shall  depart,  and  never 
see  other,  I  pray  to  the  High  Father  to  con- 
serve me  and  you  both.  Sir,  said  Galahad,  no 
prayer  availeth  so  much  as  yours.  And  there- 
with Galahad  entered  into  the  forest. 

And  the  wind  arose,  and  drove  Launcelot 
more  than  a  month  throughout  the  sea,  where 
he  slept  but  little,  but  prayed  to  God  that  he 
might  see  some  tidings  of  the  Sangreal.  So  it 
befell  on  a  night,  at  midnight,  he  arrived  afore 
a  castle,  on  the  back  side,  which  was  rich  and 
fair,  and  there  was  a  postern  opened  toward 
the  sea,  and  was  open  without  any  keeping, 
save  two  lions  kept  the  entry;  and  the  moon 
shone  clear.  Anon  Sir  Launcelot  heard  a  voice 
that  said:  Launcelot,  go  out  of  this  ship  and 
enter  into  the  castle,  where  thou  shalt  see  a 
great  part  of  thy  desire. 

Then  he  ran  to  his  arms,  and  so  armed  him, 
and  so  went  to  the  gate  and  saw  the  lions. 
Then  set  he  hand  to  his  sword  and  drew  it. 
Then  there  came  a  dwarf  suddenly,  and  smote 
him  on  the  arm  so  sore  that  the  sword  fell  out 
of  his  hand.  Then  heard  he  a  voice  say:  O 
man  of  evil  faith  and  poor  belief,  wherefore 
trowestii  thou  more  on  thy  harness  than  in  thy 
Maker,  for  He  might  more  avail  thee  than 
thine  armour,  in  whose  service  that  thou  art 
set.  Then  said  Launcelot:  Fair  Father  Jesu 
Christ,  I  thank  thee  of  Thy  great  mercy  that 
Thou  reprovest  me  of  my  misdeed ;  now  see  I 
well  that  ye  hold  me  for  your  servant.  Then 
took  he  again  his  sword  and  put  it  up  in  his 
sheath,  and  made  a  cross  in  his  forehead,  and 
came  to  the  lions,  and  they  made  semblantiz 
to  do  him  harm.  Notwithstanding  he  passed 
oj   them   without   hurt,   and   entered    into   the 


castle  to  the  chief  fortress,  and  there  were 
they  all  at  rest. 

Then  Launcelot  entered  in  so  armed,  for  he 
found  no  gate  nor  door  but  it  was  open.  And 
at  the  last  he  found  a  chamber  whereof  the 
door  was  shut,  and  he  set  his  hand  thereto  to 
have  opened  it,  but  he  might  not.  Then  he 
enforced  him  mickleis  to  undo  the  door.  Then 
he  listened  and  heard  a  voice  which  sang  so 
sweetly  that  it  seemed  none  earthly  thing;  and 
him  thought  the  voice  said:  Joy  and  honour  be 
to  the  Father  of  Heaven.  Then  Launcelot 
kneeled  down  tofore  the  chamber,  for  well  wist 
he  that  there  was  the  Sangreal  within  that 
chamber.  Then  said  he:  Fair  sweet  Father, 
Jesu  Christ,  if  ever  I  did  thing  that  pleased 
Thee,  Lord  for  Thy  pity  never  have  me  not  in 
despite  for  my  sins  done  aforetime,  and  that 
thou  show  me  something  of  that  I  seek.  And 
with  that  he  saw  the  chamber  door  open,  and 
there  came  out  a  great  clearness,  that  the  house 
was  as  bright  asi*  all  the  torches  of  the  world 
had  been  there.  So  came  he  to  the  chamber 
door,  and  would  have  entered.  And  anon  a 
voice  said  to  him.  Flee,  Launcelot,  and  enter 
not,  for  thou  oughtest  not  to  do  it ;  and  if  thou 
enter  thou  shalt  forthinkis  it.  Then  he  with- 
drew him  aback  right  heavy.ia 

Then  looked  he  up  in  the  middes  of  the 
chamber,  and  saw  a  table  of  silver,  and  the 
holy  vessel,  covered  with  red  samite,  and  many 
angels  about  it,  whereof  one  held  a  candle 
of  wax  burning,  and  the  other  held  a  cross,  and 
the  ornaments  of  an  altar.  And  before  the 
holy  vessel  he  saw  a  good  man  clothed  as  a 
priest.  And  it  seemed  that  he  was  at  the 
sacring  of  the  mass.i7  And  it  seemed  to 
Launcelot  that  above  the  priest's  hands  were 
three  men,  whereof  the  two  put  the  youngest 
by  likeness  between  the  priest's  hands;  and  so 
he  lift  it  up  right  high,  and  it  seemed  to  show 
so  to  the  people.  And  then  Launcelot  mar- 
velled not  a  little,  for  him  thought  the  priest 
was  so  greatly  charged  of  is  the  figure  that  him 
seemed  that  he  should  fall  to  the  earth.  And 
when  he  saw  none  about  him  that  would  help 
him,  then  cfime  he  to  the  door  a  great  pace,io 
and  said:  Fair  Father  Jesu  Christ,  ne  take  it 
for  no  sin  though  I  help  the  good  man  which 
hath  great  nee<J  of  help.  Eight  so  entered  he 
into  the  chamber,  and  came  toward  the  table 
of  silver;  and  when  he  came  nigh  he  felt  a 
breath,  that  him  thought  it  was  intermcdrlledzo 


10  since 

11  tniBtfst 


12  semMance    (made    as 
if) 


IS  tried  bard 
14  as  if 
i"'  rppont 
10  t^ad 


17  the   ('oiiiiuiinioii 

Ice 

18  burdened  with 

19  qnirkly 

20  int<'riiiinBlod 


SIR  THOMAS  MALORY 


105 


with  fire,  which  smote  him  so  sore  in  the  visage 
that  him  thought  it  brent^i  his  visage;  and 
therewith  he  fell  to  the  earth,  and  had  no 
power  to  arise,  as  he  that  was  so  araged,22  that 
had  lost  the  power  of  his  body,  and  his  hear- 
ing, and  his  seeing.  Then  felt  he  many  hands 
iibout  him,  which  took  him  up  and  bare  him  out 
of  the  chamber  door,  without  any  amending  of 
his  swoon,  asd  left  him  there,  seeming  dead 
to  all  people. 

So  upon  the  morrow  when  it  was  fair  day 
they  within  were  arisen,  and  found  Launcelot 
lying  afore  the  chamber  door.  All  they  mar- 
velled how  that  he  came  in,  and  so  they  looked 
upon  him,  and  felt  his  pulse  to  wit  whether 
there  were  any  life  in  him ;  and.  so  they  found 
life  in  him,  but  he  might  not  stand  nor  stir 
no  member  that  he  had.  And  so  they  took  him 
by  every  part  of  the  body,  and  bare  him  into 
a  chamber,  and  laid  him  in  a  rich  bed,  far  from 
all  folk;  and  so  he  lay  four  days.  Then  the 
one  said  he  was  on  live,  and  the  other  said. 
Nay.  In  the  name  of  God,  said  an  old  man, 
for  I  do  you  verily  to  wit  he  is  not  dead,  but 
he  is  so  full  of  life  as  the  mightiest  of  you 
all ;  and  therefore  I  counsel  you  that  he  be 
well  kept  till  God  send  him  life  again. 

How  Galahad  axd  His  Fellows  Were  Fed  of 
THE  Holy  Sangreal,  and  how  Galahad 
Was  Made  Kixg.  Book  XVII.  Chapters 
XIX-XXII 

So  departed  Galahad  from  thence,  and  rode 
five  days  till  that  he  came  to  the  maimed  king.-^ 
And  ever  followed  Percivale  the  five  days,  ask- 
ing where  he  had  been;  and  so  one  told  him 
how  the  adventures  of  Logris  were  achieved. 
So  on  a  day  it  befell  that  they  came  out  of  a 
great  forest,  and  there  they  met  at  traverse^^ 
with  Sir  Bors,  the  which  rode  alone.  It  is  none 
need  to  tell  if  they  were  glad;  and  them  he 
saluted,  and  they  yielded  him  honour  and  good 
adventure,25  and  every  each  told  other.  Then 
said  Bors:  It  is  more  than  a  year  and  a  half 
that  I  ne  lay  ten  times  where  men  dwelled, 
but  in  wild  forests  and  in  mountains,  but  God 
was  ever  my  comfort.  Then  rode  they  a  great 
while  till  that  they  came  to  the  castle  of  Car- 
bonek.  And  when  they  were  entered  within  the 
castle  King  Pelles  knew  them ;  then  there  was 
great  joy,  for  they  wist  well  by  their  coming 
that  they  had  fulfilled  the  quest  of  the  San- 
greal. 


21  bnrnt 

22  like  one  so  angrv 

23  I'elles.    who    had    at- 

tempted to  draw 
t  h  (•  miraculous 
sword. 


24  crossed  paths 

■i''  A    s'alutation,    huona 

rentitra,      ''good 

luck." 


Then  EUazar,  King  Pelles'  son,  brought  to- 
fore  them  the  broken  sword  wherewith  Joseph 
was  stricken  through  the  thigh.  Then  Bors 
set  his  hand  thereto,  if  that  he  might  have  sol- 
dered it  again;  but  it  would  not  be.  Then  he 
took  it  to  Percivale,  but  he  had  no  more  power 
thereto  than  he.  Now  have  ye  it  again,  said 
Percivale  to  Galahad,  for  an  it  be  ever  achieved 
by  any  bodily  man  ye  must  do  it.  And  then  he 
took  the  pieces  and  set  them  together,  and  they 
seemed  that  they  had  never  been  broken,  and 
as  well  as  it  had  been  first  forged.  And  when 
they  within  espied  that  the  adventure  of  the 
sword  was  achieved,  then  they  gave  the  sword 
to  Bors,  for  it  might  not  be  better  setze;  for 
he  was  a  good  knight  and  a  worthy  man. 

And  a  little  afore  even,  the  sword  arose 
great  and  marvellous,  and  was  full  of  great 
heat  that  many  men  fell  for  dread.  And  anon 
alit  a  voice  among  them,  and  said:  They  that 
ought  not  to  sit  at  the  table  of  Jesu  Christ 
arise,  for  now  shall  very27  knights  be  fed.  So 
they  went  thence,  all  save  King  Pelles  and 
Eliazar,  his  son,  the  which  were  holy  men,  and 
a  maid  which  was  his  niece;  aud  so  these  three 
fellows  and  they  three  were  there,  no  more. 

Anon  they  saw  knights  all  armed  come  in 
at  the  hall  door,  and  did  off  their  helms  and 
their  arms,  and  said  unto  Galahad:  Sir,  we 
have  hied  right  much  for  to  be  with  you  at  this 
table  where  the  holy  meat  shall  be  departed.28 
Then  said  he:  Ye  be  welcome,  but  of  whence 
be  ye?  So  three  of  them  said  they  were  of 
Gaul,  and  other  three  said  they  were  of  Ireland, 
and  the  other  three  said  they  were  of  Denmark. 
So  as  they  sat  thus  there  came  out  a  bed  of 
tree,29  ofso  a  chamber,  the  which  four  gentle- 
women brought;  and  in  the  bed  lay  a  good 
man  sick,  and  a  crown  of  gold  upon  his  head; 
and  there  in  the  middes  of  the  place  they  set 
him  down,  and  went  again  their  way.  Then  he 
lift  up  his  head,  and  said:  Galahad,  Knight,  ye 
be  welcome,  for  much  have  I  desired  your  com- 
ing, for  in  3uch  pain  and  in  such  anguish  I 
have  been  long.  But  now  I  trust  to  God  the 
term  is  come  that  my  pain  shall  be  allayed,  that 
I  shall  pass  out  of  this  world  so  as  it  was 
promised  me  long  ago. 

Therewith  a  voice  said:  There  be  two  among 
you  that  be  not  in  the  quest  of  the  Sangreal, 
and  therefore  depart  ye.  Then  King  Pelles  and 
his  son  departed.  And  therewithal  beseemed 
them  that  there  came  a  man.  and  four  angels 
from  heaven,  clothed  in  likeness  of  a  bishop, 
and  had  a  cross  in  his  hand;   and  these  four 


2n  placed  29  wood 

27  true  30  from 

28  divided,  distributed 


106 


FIITEENTH  AND  EARLY  SIXTEENTH  CENTURIES 


angels  bare  him  up  in  a  chair,  and  set  him  down 
before  the  table  of  silver  whereupon  the 
Sangreal  was;  and  it  seemed  that  he  had  in 
middes  of  his  forehead  letters  the  which  said: 
See  ye  here  Joseph,  the  first  bishop  of  Chris- 
tendom, the  same  which  Our  Lord  succoured  in 
the  city  of  Sarras  in  the  spiritual  place.  Then 
the  knights  marvelled,  for  that  bishop  was  dead 
more  than  three  hundred  year  tofore.  O 
knights,  said  he,  marvel  not,  for  I  was  some- 
time3i  an  earthly  man. 

With  that  they  heard  the  chamber  door  open, 
and  there  they  saw  angels;  and  two  bare  can- 
dles of  wax,  and  the  third  a  towel,  and  the 
fourth  a  spear  which  bled  marvellously,  and 
three  drops  fell  within  a  box  which  he  held 
with  his  other  hand.  And  they  set  the  candles 
upon  the  table,  and  the  third  the  towel  upon  the 
vessel,  and  the  fourth  the  holy  spear  even  up- 
right upon  the  vessel.  And  then  the  bishop 
made  semblant  as  though  he  would  have  gone 
to  the  sacring  of  the  mass.  And  then  he  took 
an  ubbly32  which  was  made  in  likeness  of 
bread.  And  at  the  lifting  up  there  came  a 
figure  in  likeness  of  a  child,  and  the  visage  was 
as  red  and  as  bright  as  any  fire,  and  smote 
himself  into  the  bread,  so  that  they  all  saw  it 
that  the  bread  was  formed  of  a  fleshly  man; 
and  then  he  put  it  into  the  holy  vessel  again, 
and  then  he  did  that  longedss  to  a  priest  to  do 
to  a  mass.  And  then  he  went  to  Galahad  and 
kissed  him,  and  bad  him  go  and  kiss  his  fel- 
lows: and  so  he  did  anon.  Now,  said  he, 
servants  of  Jesu  Christ,  ye  shall  be  fed  afore 
this  table  with  sweetmeats  that  never  knights 
tasted.  And  when  he  had  said,  he  vanished 
away.  And  they  set  them  at  the  table  in  great 
dread,  and  made  their  prayers. 

Then  looked  they  and  saw  a  man  come  out 
of  the  holy  vessel,  that  had  all  the  signs  of  the 
passions^  of  Jesu  Christ,  bleeding  all  openly, 
and  said:  My  knights,  and  my  servants,  and 
my  true  children,  which  be  come  out  of  deadly 
life  into  spiritual  life,  I  will  now  no  longer 
hide  me  from  you,  but  ye  shall  see  now  a  part 
of  my  secrets  and  of  my  hidden  things:  now 
hold  and  receive  the  high  meat  which  ye  have 
so  much  desired.  Then  took  he  himself  the 
holy  vessel  and  came  to  Galahad;  and  he 
kneeled  down,  and  there  he  received  his 
Saviour,  and  after  him  so  received  all  his  fel- 
lows; and  they  thought  it  so  sweet  that  it  was 
marvellous  to  tell. 

Then  said  he  to  Galahad:  Son,  wotest  thou 
what  I  hold  betwixt  my  hands  f    Nay,  said  he, 


SI  once 
tz  wafer 


sa  what  bolong^d 
M  ci  uclflxion 


but  if35  ye  will  tell  me.  This  is,  said  he,  the 
holy  dish  wherein  I  ate  the  lamb  on  Sher- 
Thursdayse.  And  now  hast  thou  seen  that  thou 
most  desired  to  see,  but  yet  hast  thou  not  seen 
it  so  openly  as  thou  shalt  see  it  in  the  city  of 
Sarras  in  the  spiritual  place.  Therefore  thou 
must  go  hence  and  bear  with  thee  this  holy  ves- 
sel; for  this  night  it  shall  depart  from  the 
realm  of  Logris,  that  it  shall  never  be  seen 
more  here.  And  wotest  thou  wherefore?  For 
he  is  not  served  nor  worshipped  to  his  right  by 
them  of  this  land,  for  they  be  turned  to  evil 
living;  therefore  I  shall  disherit  them  of  the 
honour  which  I  have  done  them.  And  there- 
fore go  ye  three  to-morrow  unto  the  sea,  where 
ye  shall  find  your  ship  ready,  and  with  you  take 
the  sword  with  the  strange  girdles,  and  no 
more  with  you  but  Sir  Percivale  and  Sir  Bors. 
Also  I  will  that  ye  take  with  you  of  the  blood 
of  this  spear  for  to  anoint  the  maimed  king, 
both  his  legs  and  all  his  body,  and  he  shall  have 
his  health. 

Sir,  said  Galahad,  why  shall  not  these  other 
fellows  go  with  us?  For  this  cause:  for  right 
as  I  departeds'  my  apostles  one  here  and  an- 
other there,  so  I  will  that  ye  depart;  and  two 
of  you  shall  die  in  my  service,  but  one  of  you 
shall  come  again  and  tell  tidings.  Then  gave 
he  them  his  blessing  and  vanished  away.  And 
Galahad  went  anon  to  the  spear  which  lay  upon 
the  table,  and  touched  the  blood  with  his  fin- 
gers, and  came  after  to  the  maimed  king  and 
anointed  his  legs.  And  therewith  he  clothed 
him38  anon,  and  start  upon  his  feet  out  of  his 
bed  as  an  whole  man,  and  thanked  Our  Lord 
that  He  had  healed  him.     .     .     . 

Right  so  departed  Galahad,  Percivale  and 
Bors  with  him;  and  so  they  rode  three  days, 
and  then  they  came  to  a  rivage,39  and  found 
the  ship  whereof  the  tale  speaketh  of  tofore. 
And  when  they  came  to  the  board*o  they  found 
in  the  middes  the  table  of  silver  which  they 
had  left  with  the  maimed  king,  and  the  San- 
greal which  was  covered  with  red  samite.  Then 
were  they  glad  to  have  such  things  in  their 
fellowship;  and  so  they  entered  and  made 
great  reverence  thereto;  and  Galahad  fell  in 
his  prayer  long  time  to  Our  Lord,  that  at  what 
time  he  asked,  that  he  should  pass  out  of  this 
world.  So  much  he  prayed  till  a  voice  said  to 
him:  Galahad,  thou  shalt  have  thy  request ;  and 
when  thou  askest  the  death  of  thy  body  thou 
shalt  have  it,  and  then  shalt  thou  find  the  life 
of  the  soul. 


•5  unless  88  himself 

3fl  the   day   before  flood  3»  shore 

Ki-iday  *o  aboard 

87  parted 


SIR  THOMAS  MALORY 


107 


Percivale  heard  this,  and  prayed  him,  of^i 
fellowship  that  was  between  them,  to  tell  him 
wherefore  he  asked  such  things.  That  shall  I 
tell  you,  said  Galahad;  the  other  day  when  we 
saw  a  part  of  the  adventures  of  the  Sangreal 
I  was  in  such  a  joy  of  heart,  that  I  trow  never 
man  was  that  was  earthly.  And  therefore  1 
wot  well,  when  my  body  is  dead  my  soul  shall 
be  in  great  joy  to  see  the  blessed  Trinity  every 
day,  and  the  Majesty  of  Our  Lord,  Jesu  Christ. 
So  long  were  they  in  the  ship  that  they  said 
to  Galahad:  Sir,  in  this  bed  ought  ye  to  lie, 
for  so  saith  the  scripture.  And  so  he  laid  him 
down  and  slept  a  great  while;  and  when  he 
awaked  he  looked  afore  him  and  saw  the  city 
of  Sarras. 

And  as  they  would  have  landed  they  saw  the 
ship  wherein  Percivale  had  put  his  sister  in. 
Truly,  said  Percivale,  in  the  name  of  God,  well 
hath  my  sister  holden  us  covenant.  Then  took 
they  out  of  the  ship  the  table  of  silver,  and  he 
took  it  to  Percivale  and  to  Bors,  to  go  tofore, 
an<l.  Galahad  came  behind.  And  right  so  they 
went  to  the  city,  and  at  the  gate  of  the  city 
they  saw  an  old  man  crooked.  Then  Galahad 
called  him  and  bad  him  help  to  bear  this  heavy 
thing.  Truly,  said  the  old  man,  it  is  ten  year 
ago  that  I  might  not  go  but  with  crutches. 
Care  thou  not,  said  Galahad,  and  arise  up  and 
fehew  thy  good  will.  And  so  he  assayed,  and 
found  himself  as  whole  as  ever  he  was.  Then 
ran  he  to  the  table,  and  took  one  part  against*2 
Galahad.  And  anon  arose  there  great  noise  in 
the  city,  that  a  cripple  was  made  whole  by 
knights  marvellous  that  entered  into  the  city. 
Then  anon  after,  the  three  knights  went  to  the 
water,  and  brought  up  into  the  palace  Perci- 
vale's  sister,  and  buried  her  as  richly  as  a 
king 's  daughter  ought  to  be. 

And  when  the  king  of  the  city,  which  was 
cleped<3  Estorause,  saw  the  fellowship,  he 
asked  them  of  whence  they  were,  and  what 
thing  it  was  that  they  had  brought  upon  the 
table  of  silver.  And  they  told  him  the  truth 
of  the  Sangreal,  and  the  power  which  that  God 
had  set  there.  Then  the  king  was  a  tyrant, 
and  was  come  of  the  line  of  paynims,  and  took 
them  and  put  them  in  prison  in  a  deep  hole. 
But  as  soon  as  they  were  there  Our  Lord  sent 
them  the  Sangreal,  through  whose  grace  they 
were  alway  fulfilled  while  that  they  were  in 
prison. 

So  at  the  year's  end  it  befel  that  this  King 
Estorause  lay  sick,  and  felt  that  he  should  die. 
Then  he  sent  for  the  three  knights,  and  they 
came  afore  him;  and  he  cried  them  mercy  of 


41  by  the 

<2  tne  part   opposite 


43  who  wa><  called 


that  he  had  done  to  them,  and  they  forgave  it 
him  goodly;  and  he  died  anon.  When  the  king 
was  dead  all  the  city  was  dismayed,  and  wist 
not  who  might  be  their  king.  Eight  so  as  they 
were  in  counsel  there  came  a  voice  among  them, 
and  bad  them  choose  the  youngest  knight  of 
them  three  to  be  their  king:  For  he  shall  well 
maintain  you  and  all  yours.  So  they  made 
Galahad  king  by  all  the  assent  of  the  holy  city, 
and  else  they  would  have  slain  him.  And  when 
he  was  come  to  behold  the  land,  he  let  make 
above  the  table  of  silver  a  chest  of  gold  and 
of  precious  stones,  that  hylled**  the  holy  ves- 
sel. And  every  day  early  the  three  fellowa 
would  come  afore  it,  and  make  their  prayers. 
Now  at  the  year 's  end,  and  the  self  day  after 
Galahad  had  borne  the  crown  of  gold,  he 
arose  up  early  and  his  fellows,  and  came  to 
the  palace,  and  saw  tofore  them  the  holy  ves- 
sel, and  a  man  kneeling  on  his  knees  in  likeness 
of  a  bishop,  that  had  about  him  a  great  fel- 
lowship of  angels  as  it  had  been  Jesu  Christ 
himself;  and  then  he  arose  and  began  a  mass 
of  Our  Lady.  And  when  he  came  to  the  sacra- 
ment of  the  mass,  and  had  done,  anon  he  called 
Galahad,  and  said  to  him:  Come  forth,  the 
servant  of  Jesu  Christ,  and  thou  shalt  see  that^s 
thou  hast  much  desired  to  see.  And  then  he 
began  to  tremble  right  hard  when  the  deadly** 
flesh  began  to  behold  the  spiritual  things.  Then 
he  held  up  his  hands  toward  heaven  and  said: 
Lord,  I  thank  thee,  for  now  I  see  that  that 
hath  been  my  desire  many  a  day.  Now,  blessed 
Lord,  would  I  not  longer  live,  if  it  might 
please  thee.  Lord. 

And  therewith  the  good  man  took  Our  Lord 's 
body  betwixt  his  hands,  and  proffered  it  to 
Galahad,  and  he  received  it  right  gladly  and 
meekly.  Now  wotest  thou  what  I  am?  said  the 
good  man.  Nay,  said  Galahad.  I  am  Joseph 
of  Aramathie,  the  which  Our  Lord  hath  sent 
here  to  thee  to  bear  thee  fellowship;  and  wot- 
est thou  wherefore  that  he  hath  sent  me  more 
than  any  other?  For  thou  hast  resembled  me 
in  two  things;  in  that  thou  hast  seen  the  mar- 
vels of  the  Sangreal,  and  in  that  thou  hast  been 
a  clean  maiden,*^  as  I  have  been  and  am.  And 
when  he  had  said  these  words  Galahad  went  to 
Percivale  and  kissed  him,  and  commended  him 
to  God ;  and  so  he  went  to  Sir  Bors  and  kissed 
him,  and  commended  him  to  God,  and  said: 
Fair  lord,  salute  me  to  my  lord,  Sir  Launcelot, 
my  father,  and  as  soon  as  ye  see  him,  bid  him 
remember  of  this  unstable  world.<8.  And 
therewith  he  kneeled  down  tofore  the  table  and 

*4  covered  *«  mortal 

45  that  which  47  pure  yonth 

48  remember    the    insta- 
bility of  life 


108 


FIFTEENTH  AND  EARLi  SIXTEENTH  CENTURIES 


made  bis  prayers,  ^nd  then  suddenly  his  soul 
departed  to  Jesu  Christ,  and  a  great  multitude 
of  angels  bare  his  soul  up  to  heaven,  that  the 
two  fellows  might  well  behold  it.  Also  the 
two  fellows  saw  come  from  heaven  an  hand, 
but  they  saw  not  the  body.  And  then  it  came 
right  to  the  Vessel,  and  took  it  and  the  spear, 
and  so  bare  it  up  to  heaven.  Sithen  was 
there  never  man  so  hardy  to  say  that  he  had 
seen  the  Sangreal. 


How  MoRDRKD  Was  Slain  and  Arthur  Hurt 
TO  THE  Death,  Book  XXI.  Chapters 
IV-VII 

Then  were  they  condeseendedi  that  King 
Arthur  and  Sir  Mordred*  should  meet  betwixt 
both  their  hosts,  and  every  each  of  them  should 
bring  fourteen  persons;  and  they  came  with 
this  word  unto  Arthur.  Then  said  he:  I  am 
glad  that  this  is  done,  and  so  he  went  into  the 
field.  And  when  Arthur  should  depart,  he 
warned  all  his  host  that  an  they  see  any  sword 
drawn:  Look  ye  come  on  fiercely,  and  slay  that 
traitor,  Sir  Mordred,  for  I  in  no  wise  trust 
him.  In  likewise  Sir  Mordred  warned  his  host 
that:  An  ye  see  any  sword  drawn,  look  that  ye 
come  on  fiercely,  and  so  slay  all  that  ever  be- 
fore you  standeth;  for  in  no  wise  I  will  not 
trust  for  this  treaty,  for  I  know  well  my  father 
will  be  avenged  on  me.  And  so  they  met  as 
their  appointment  was,  and  so  they  were  agreed 
and  accorded  thoroughly;  and  wine  was 
fetched,  and  they  drank. 

Eight  soon  came  an  adder  out  of  a  little 
heath  bush,  and  it  stung  a  knight  on  the  foot. 
And  when  the  knight  felt  him  stung,  he  looked 
down  and  saw  the  adder,  and  then  he  drew  his 
sword  to  slay  the  adder,  and  thought  of  none 
other  harm.  And  when  the  host  on  both  par- 
ties saw  that  sword  drawn,  then  they  blew 
beamous,2  trumpets,  and  horns,  and  shouted 
grimly.  And  so  both  hosts  dressed  theras  to- 
gether. And  King  Arthur  took  his  horse,  and 
said:  Alas  this  unhappy  day!  and  so  rode  to 
his  party.    And  Sir  Mordred  in  likewise. 

And  never  was  there  seen  a  more  dolefuller 
battle  in  no  Christian  land;  for  there  was  but 
rushing  and  riding,  foining*  and  striking,  and 
many  a  grim  word  was  there  spoken  cither  to 
other,  and   many   a  deadly  stroke.     But  ever 


1  ajfrood  3  rushed 

L'  ItcniimoK     (a     kind    of   *  thruntlng 

trumpet) 
•  IMirlng    Arfhnr'H    absonco    IiIh    nophow    Mordred 

tor  M(in.   an  lie   Ih  sometimes  called)    usurped 

IiIh  tlirono  and  gave  battle  to  Arthur  upon  hU 

return. 


King  Arthur  rode  throughout  the  battle^  of 
Sir  Mordred  many  times,  and  did  full  nobly 
as  a  noble  king  should,  and  at  all  times  he 
fainted  never;  and  Sir  Mordred  that  day  put 
him  in  devoir,«  and  in  great  peril.  And  thus 
they  fought  all  the  long  day,  and  never  stinted 
till  the  noble  knights  were  laid  to  the  cold 
earth;  and  ever  they  fought  still  till  it  was 
near  night,  and  by  that  time  was  there  an  hun- 
dred thousand  laid  dead  upon  the  down.^ 

Then  was  Arthur  woods  wroth  out  of  meas- 
ure, when  he  saw  his  people  so  slain  from  him. 
Then  the  king  looked  about  him,  and  then  was 
he  waxe,  of  all  his  host  and  of  all  his  good 
knights,  were  left  no  more  on  live  but  two 
knights;  that  one  was  Sir  Lucan  the  Butler, 
and  his  brother  Sir  Bedivere,  and  they  were 
full  sore  wounded.  Jesu  mercy,  said  the  king, 
where  are  all  my  noble  knights  become?  Alas 
that  ever  I  should  see  this  doleful  day,  for 
now,  said  Arthur,  I  am  come  to  mine  end.  But 
would  to  God  that  I  wist  where  were  that 
traitor  Sir  Mordred,  that  hath  caused  all  this 
mischief. 

Then  was  King  Arthur  ware  where  Sir  Mor- 
dred leaned  upon  his  sword  amongst  a  great 
heap  of  dead  men.  Now  give  me  my  spear, 
said  Arthur  unto  Sir  Lucan,  for  yonder  I  have 
espied  the  traitor  that  all  this  woe  hath 
wrought.  Sir,  let  him  be,  said  Sir  Lucan,  for 
he  is  unhappy  ;0  and  if  ye  pass  this  unhappy 
day  ye  shall  be  right  well  revenged  upon  him. 
Good  lord,  remember  ye  of  your  night 's  <lream, 
and  what  the  spirit  of  Sir  Gawaine  told  you 
this  night,  yet  God  of  his  great  goodness  hath 
preserved  you  hitherto.  Therefore,  for  God 's 
sake,  my  lord,  leave  off  by  this,  for  blessed  be 
God  ye  have  won  the  field,  for  here  we  be  three 
on  live,  and  with  Sir  jMordred  is  none  on  live; 
and  if  ye  leave  off  now  this  wicked  day  of 
destiny  is  past.  Tideio  me  death,  betide  me 
life,  saith  the  king,  now  1  see  him  yonder  alone 
he  shall  never  escape  mine  hands,  for  at  a  bet- 
ter avail  shall  I  never  have  him.  God  speed 
you  well,  said  Sir  Bedivere. 

Then  the  king  gat  his  spear  in  both  his 
hands,  and  ran  toward  Sir  Mordred,  crying: 
Traitor,  now  is  thy  death  day  come.  And  when 
Sir  Mordred  heard  Sir  Arthur,  he  ran  until 
him  with  his  sword  drawn  in  his  hand.  And 
there  King  Arthur  smote  Sir  Mordred  under 
the  shield,  with  a  foin  of  his  spear,  throughout 
the  body,  more  than  a  fathom.  And  when  Sir 
Mordred  felt  that  he  had  his  death  wound  he 


B  rankfi 

•I  did  his  bo.st  (his  utmost  endeavor) 
7  high  plain  8  of  evil  omen 

h  madly  lo  befall 


SIR  THOMAS  MALORY 


100 


thrust  himself  with  tlio  might  that  he  had  up 
to  the  bur  of  King  Arthur's  spear.  And  right 
so  he  smote  his  father  Arthnr,  with  his  -word 
holden  in  both  his  hands,  on  the  side  of  the 
head,  that  tlie  sword  pierced  the  helmet  and  the 
brain  pan,  and  therewithal  Sir  Mordred  fell 
stark  dead  to  the  earth. 

And  the  noble  Arthur  fell  in  a  swoon  to  the 
earth,  and  there  he  swooned  ofttimes.  And  Sir 
Luean  the  Butler  and  Sir  Bedivere  ofttimes 
heaved  him  up.  And  so  weakly  they  le<l  him 
betwixt  them  both,  to  a  little  chapel  not  far 
from  the  seaside.  And  when  the  king  was 
there  he  thought  him  well  eased.  Then  heard 
they  people  cry  in  the  field.  Now  go  thou, 
Sir  Lucan,  said  the  king,  and  do  me  to  witu 
what  betokens  that  noise  in  the  field.  So  Sir 
Lucan  departed,  for  he  was  grievously  wounded 
in  many  places.  And  so  as  he  yede,i2  he  saw 
and  liearkeued  by  the  moonlight,  how  that 
pillersis  and  robbers  were  come  into  the  field, 
to  pill  and  to  rob  many  a  full  noble  knight  of 
hrooi'hes,  and  beads,  of  many  a  good  ring,  and 
of  many  a  rich  jewel;  and  who  that  were  not 
dead  all  out,i*  there  they  slow  them  for  their 
harness  and  their  riches.  When  Sir  Lucan  un- 
derstood this  work,  he  came  to  the  king  as  soon 
as  he  might,  and  told  him  all  what  he  had 
heard  and  seen.  Therefore  by  my  rede.is  said 
Sir  Lucan,  it  is  best  that  we  bring  you  to  some 
town.  I  would  it  were  so,  said  the  king,  but 
I  may  not  stand,  mine  head  works  so.  Ah  Sir 
Launcelot,  said  King  Arthur,  this  day  have  I 
sore  missed  thee:  alas,  that  ever  I  was  against 
thee,  for  now  have  I  my  death,  whereof  Sir 
Gawaine  nie  warned  in  my  dream. 

Then  Sir  Lucan  took  up  the  king  the  one 
part,  and  Sir  Bedivere  the  other  part,  and  in 
the  lifting  the  king  swooned;  and  Sir  Lucan 
fell  in  a  swoon  with  the  lift,  that  the  part  of 
his  bowels  fell  out  of  his  body,  and  therewith 
the  noble  knight's  heart  brast.i«  And  when 
the  king  awoke,  he  beheld  Sir  Lucan,  how  he 
lay  foaming  at  the  mouth,  and  part  of  his 
bowels  lay  at  his  feet.  Alas,  said  the  king, 
this  is  to  me  a  full  heavy  sight,  to  see  this 
noble  duke  so  die  for  my  sake,  for  he  would 
have  holpen  me,  that  had  more  need  of  help 
than  I.  Alas,  he  would  not  complain  him,  his 
heart  was  so  set  to  help  me:  now  Jesu  have 
mercy  upon  his  soul! 

Then  Sir  Bedivere  wept  for  the  death  of  his 
brother.  Leave  this  mourning  and  weeping, 
said  the  king,  for  all  this  will  not  avail  me,  for 
wit  thou  well  an  I  might  live  myself,  the  death 


11  let  me  know 

12  went 

18  pillagers 


14  outright 

15  advice 

16  burst 


of  Sir  Lut-an  would  grieve  me  evermore;  but 
my  time  hieth  fast,  said  the  king.  Therefore, 
said  Arthur  unto  Sir  Bedivere,  take  thou  Exca- 
libur,  my  good  sword,  and  go  with  it  to  yonder 
water  side,  and  when  thou  coniest  there  I 
charge  thee  throw  my  sword  in  that  water,  and 
come  again  and  tell  me  what  thou  there  seest. 
My  lord,  said  Bedivere,  your  commandment 
shall  be  done,  and  lightly  bring  you  word 
again. 

So  Sir  Bedivere  departed,  and  by  the  way  he 
beheld  that  noble  sword,  that  the  pommel  and 
the  haft  was  all  of  precious  stones;  and  then 
he  said  to  himself:  If  I  throw  this  rich  sword 
in  the  water,  thereof  shall  never  come  good, 
but  harm  and  loss.  And  then  Sir  Bedivere  hid 
Excalibur  under  a  tree.  And  so,  as  soon  as  he 
might,  he  came  again  unto  the  king,  and  said 
he  had  been  at  the  water,  and  had  thrown  the 
sword  in  the  water.  What  saw  thou  there? 
said  the  king.  Sir,  he  said,  I  saw  nothing  but 
waves  and  winds.  That  is  untruly  said  of  thee, 
said  the  kiug,  therefore  go  thou  lightly  again, 
and  do  my  commandment;  as  thou  art  to  me 
lief  and  dear,  spare  not,  but  throw  it  in. 

Then  Sir  Bevidere  returned  again,  and  took 
the  sword  in  his  hand;  and  then  him  thought 
sin  and  shame  to  throw  away  that  noble  sword, 
and  so  eft^^  he  hid  the  sword,  and  returned 
again,  and  told  to  the  king  that  he  had  been 
at  the  water,  and  done  his  commandment. 
What  saw  thou  there?  said  the  king.  Sir,  he 
said,  I  saw  nothing  but  the  waters  wappe  and 
waves  wanne.18  Ah,  traitor  untrue,  said  King 
Arthur,  now  hast  thou  betraj'ed  me  twice.  Wlio 
would  have  weened  that,  thou  that  hast  been  to 
me  so  lief  and  dear?  and  thou  art  named  a 
noble  knight,  and  would  betray  me  for  the 
richness  of  the  sword.  But  now  go  again 
lightly,  for  thy  long  tarrying  putteth  me  in 
great  jeopardy  of  my  life,  for  I  have  taken 
cold.  And  but  if'"  thou  do  now  as  I  bid  thee, 
if  ever  I  may  see  thee  I  shall  slay  thee  with 
mine  own  hands;  for  thou  wouldst  for  my  rich 
sword  see  me  dead. 

Then  Sir  Bedivere  departed,  and  went  to  the 
sword,  and  lightly  took  it  up,  and  went  to  the 
water  side;  and  there  he  bound  the  girdle 
about  the  hilts,  and  then  he  threw  the  sword 
as  far  into  the  water  as  he  might;  and  there 
came  an  arm  and  an  hand  above  the  water  and 
met  it,  and  caught  it,  and  so  shook  it  thrice 
and  brandished,  and  then  vanished  away  the 
hand  with  the  sword  in  the  water.  So  Sir 
Bedivere  came  again  to  the  king,  and  told  him 

17  again 

IS  lap  and  ebb   (ebb  and  flow) 

19  unless 


110 


FIFTEENTH  AND  EARLY  SIXTEENTH  CENTURIES 


what  he  saw.  Alas,  said  the  king,  help  me 
hence,  for  1  dread  me  I  have  tarried  over  long. 

Then  Sir  Bedivere  took  the  king  upon  his 
back,  and  so  went  with  him  to  that  water  side. 
And  when  they  were  at  the  water  side,  even 
fast  by  the  bank  hoved  a  little  barge  with 
many  fair  ladies  in  it,  and  among  them  all  was 
a  queen,  and  all  they  had  black  hoods,  and  all 
they  wept  and  shrieked  when  they  saw  King 
Arthur.  Now  put  me  into  the  barge,  said  the 
king.  And  so  he  did  softly;  and  there  received 
him  three  queens  with  great  mourning;  and  so 
they  set  them  down,  and  in  one  of  their  laps 
King  Arthur  laid  his  head.  And  then  that 
queen  said:  Ah,  dear  brother,  why  have  ye  tar- 
ried so  long  from  me?  alas,  this  wound  on 
your  head  hath  caught  over-much  cold.  And 
BO  then  they  rowed  from  the  land,  and  Sir 
Bedivere  beheld  all  those  ladies  go  from  him. 
Then  Sir  Bedivere  cried:  Ah  my  lord  Arthur, 
what  shall  become  of  me,  now  ye  go  from  me 
and  leave  me  here  alone  among  mine  enemies? 
Comfort  thyself,  said  the  king,  and  do  as  well 
as  thou  mayest,  for  in  me  is  no  trust  for  to 
trust  in ;  for  I  will  into  the  vale  of  Avilionso  to 
heal  me  of  my  grievous  wound:  and  if  thou 
hear  never  more  of  me,  pray  for  my  soul.  But 
ever  the  queens  and  ladies  wept  and*  shrieked, 
that  it  was  pity  to  hear. 

And  as  soon  as  Sir  Bedivere  had  lost  the 
sight  of  the  barge,  he  wept  and  wailed,  and  so 
took  the  forest;  and  so  he  went  all  that  night, 
and  in  the  morning  he  was  ware,  betwixt  two 
holts  hoar,2i  of  a  chapel  and  an  hermitage. 
Then  was  Sir  Bedivere  glad,  and  thither  he 
went;  and  when  he  came  into  the  chapel,  he 
saw  where  lay  an  hermit  grovelling  on  all 
four,  there  fast  by  a  tomb  was  new  graven. 
When  the  hermit  saw  Sir  Bedivere  he  knew 
him  well,  for  he  was  but  little  tofore  Bishop  of 
Canterbury,  that  Sir  Mordred  flemed.22  Sir, 
said  Bedivere,  what  man  is  there  interred  that 
ye  pray  so  fast  for?  Fair  son,  said  the  hermit, 
I  wot  not  verily,  but  by  deeming.23  But  this 
night,  at  midnight,  here  came  a  number  of 
ladies,  and  brought  hither  a  dead  corpse,  and 
prayed  me  to  bury  him;  and  here  they  offered 
an  hundred  tapers,  and  they  gave  me  an  hun- 
dred besant8.24  Alas,  said  Sir  Bedivere,  that 
was  my  lord  King  Arthur,  that  here  lieth  bur- 
ied in  this  chapel. 

Then  Sir  Bedivere  swooned;  and  when  he 
awoke  he  prayed  the  hermit  he  might  abide 
with  him  still  there,  to  live  with  fasting  and 

so  Or  Avalon.  the  Celtic  Land  of  the  Blessed,  or 
Karthly  Paradise. 

21  two  gray  woodfd  billH 

22  put  to  nlKht  24  a   gold     coin    (named 

23  1  can  only  conjecture  from  Ryzantium) 


prayers.  For  from  hence  will  I  never  go,  said 
Sir  Bedivere,  by  my  will,  but  all  the  days  of 
my  life  here  to  pray  for  my  lord  Arthur.  Ye 
are  welcome  to  me,  said  the  hermit,  for  I  know 
you  better  than  ye  ween  that  I  do.  Ye  are  the 
bold  Bedivere,  and  the  full  noble  duke,  Sir 
Lucan  the  Butler,  was  your  brother.  Then  Sir 
Bedivere  told  the  hermit  all  as  ye  have  heard 
tofore.  So  there  bode  Sir  Bedivere  with  the 
hermit  that  was  tofore  Bishop  of  Canterbury, 
and  there  Sir  Bedivere  put  upon  him  poor 
clothes,  and  served  the  hermit  full  lowly  in 
fasting  and  in  prayers. 

Yet  some  men  say  in  many  parts  of  Eng- 
land that  King  Arthur  is  not  dead,  but  had25 
by  the  will  of  our  Lord  Jesu  into  another  place ; 
and  men  say  that  he  shall  come  again,  and  he 
shall  win  the  holy  cross.  I  will  not  say  it  shall 
be  so,  but  rather  I  will  say,  here  in  this  world 
he  changed  his  life.  But  many  men  say  that 
there  is  written  upon  his  tomb  this  verse:  Hie 
jacet  Arthurus,  Bex  quondam,  Eexque  futurus.-^ 
Thus  leave  I  here  Sir  Bedivere  with  the  hermit, 
that  dwelled  that  time  in  a  chapel  beside  Glas- 
tonbury, and  there  was  his  hermitage.  And  so 
they  lived  in  their  prayers,  and  fastings,  and 
great  abstinence. 


SIR    THOMAS   MORE    (1478-1535) 


From  UTOPIA.* 
The  Epistle 

Thomas  More  to  Peter  Giles,-f  sendeth  greeting: 
I  am  almost  ashamed,  right  well-beloved 
Peter  Giles,  to  send  unto  you  this  book  of  the 
Utopian  commonwealth,  well  nigh  after  a 
year's  space,  which  I  am  sure  you  looked  for 
within  a  month  and  a  half.  And  no  marvel. 
For  you  knew  well  enough  that  I  was  already 
disburdened  of  all  the  labor  and  study  belong- 
ing to  the  invention  in  this  work,  and  that  I 
had  no  need  at  all  to  trouble  my  brains  about 
the    disposition    or    conveyance    of    the    mat- 

25  taken  ,    ^ 

26  Here  lies  Arthur,  king  that  wan  and  shall  be. 

•  This  book  was  written  and  published  in  Latin 
In  1516.  It  was  translated  by  Ralph  Robin- 
son in  l.'iSl.  The  extracts  here  given  are 
from  the  second  edition  of  Robinson's  trans- 
lation, 1556.  "Utopia"  Is  a  word  made  from 
the  Greek,  meaning  "nowhere."  As  the  Imag- 
inary commonwealth  is  pictured  In  such  at- 
tractive colors,  it  is  easy  to  regard  the  first 
syllable  of  the  name  ns  representing  the 
Greek  cm.  "well,"  instead  of  ou,  "not,"  and 
"Utopian"  has  come  to  mean  "perfect,"  as 
well   as  "visionary." 

T  A  friend  of  More  who  lived  at   Antwerp. 


SIB  THOMAS  MORE 


111 


ter,  and  therefore  had  herein  nothiug  else  to 
do  but  only  to  rehearse  those  things  which  you 
and  I  together  heard  master  Baphaelt  tell  and 
declare.  Wherefore  there  was  no  cause  why  I 
should  study  to  set  forth  the  matter  with  elo- 
quence: forasmuch  as  his  talk  could  not  be 
fine  and  eloquent,  being  first  not  studied  for, 
but  sudden  and  unpremetlitate,  and  then,  as 
you  know,  of  a  man  better  seeni  in  the  Greek 
language  than  in  the  Latin  tongue.  And  my 
writing,  the  nigher  it  should  approach  to  his 
homely,  plain,  and  simple^  speech,  so  much  the 
nigher  should  it  go  to  the  truth,  which  is  the 
only  mark  whereunto  I  do  and  ought  to  direct 
all  my  travail  and  study  herein. 

I  grant  and  confess,  friend  Peter,  myself  dis- 
charged of  so  much  labor,  having  all  these 
thinfs  ready  done  to  my  hand,  that  almost 
there  was  nothing  left  for  me  to  do.  Else 
either  the  invention  or  the  disposition  of  this 
matter  might  have  required  of  a  wit  neither 
base,  neither  at  all  unlearned,  both  some  time 
and  leisure,  and  also  some  study.  But  if  it 
were  requisite  and  necessary  that  the  matter 
should  also  have  been  written  eloquently,  and 
not  alone  truly,  of  a  surety  that  thing  could  I 
have  performed  by  no  time  nor  study.  But 
now  seeing  all  these  eares,  stays,  and  lets2  were 
taken  away,  wherein  else  so  much  labor  and 
study  should  have  been  employed,  and  that 
there  remained  no  other  thing  for  me  to  do 
but  only  to  write  plainly  the  matter  as  I  heard 
it  spoken,  that  indeed  was  a  thing  light  and 
easy  to  be  done. 

Howbeit,  to  the  dispatching  of  this  so  little 
business  my  other  cares  and  troubles  did  leave 
almost  less  than  no  leisure.  Whiles  I  do  daily 
bestow  my  time  about  law  matters,  some  to 
plead,  some  to  hear,  some  as  an  arbitrator  with 
mine  award  to  determine,  some  as  an  umpire 
or  a  judge,  with  my  sentence  finally  to  discuss; 
whiles  I  go  one  way  to  see  and  visit  my  friend, 
another  way  about  mine  own  private  affairs; 
whiles  I  spend  almost  all  the  day  abroad 
amongst  other,  and  the  residue  at  home  among 
mine  own:  I  leave  to  myself,  I  mean  to  my 
book,  no  time.  For  when  I  am  come  home,  I 
must   commens   with   my   wife,   chat   with   my 


1  versed 

2  hindrances  s  commune 

t  Raphaol  Hythloday.  the  imasinary  narrator, 
whom  More  professes  to  have  met  in  Ant- 
werp.    His  name  means  "teller  of  idle  tales." 

§  To  use  two  or  three  words  thus  for  the  same 
idea  was  a  common  practice  of  writers  of  the 
time,  and  especially  of  translators,  who  often 
took  this  means  of  giving  both  the  Latin 
derivative  and  its  Saxon  equivalent.  Mere's 
I^tin  is  much  terser  than  bis  translator's 
English. 


children,  and  talk  with  my  servants.  All  the 
which  things  I  reckon  and  account  among  busi- 
ness, forasmuch  as  they  must  of  necessity  be 
done:  and  done  must  they  needs  be,  unless  a 
man  will  be  a  stranger  in  his  own  house.  And 
in  any  wise  a  man  must  so  fashion  and  order 
his  conditions,  and  so  appoint  and  disix)se  him- 
self, that  he  be  merry,  jocund,  and  pleasant 
among  them  whom  either  nature  hath  provided, 
or  chance  hath  made,  or  he  himself  hath  chosen, 
to  be  the  fellows  and  companions  of  his  life, 
so  that  with  too  much  gentle  behavior  and 
familiarity  he  do  not  mar  them,  and  by  too 
much  sufferance  of  his  servants  make  them  bis 
masters. 

Among  these  things  now  rehearsed  stealeth 
away  the  day,  the  month,  the  year.  When  do 
I  write  then?  And  all  this  while  have  I  spoken 
no  word  of  sleep,  neither  yet  of  meat,  which 
among  a  great  number  doth  waste  no  less  time 
than  doth  sleep,  wherein  almost  half  the  life- 
time of  man  creepeth  away.  I  therefore  do 
win  and  get  only  that  time  which  I  steal  from 
sleep  and  meat.  Which  time  because  it  is  very 
little,  and  yet  somewhat  it  is,  therefore  have  I 
once  at  the  last,  though  it  be  long  first,  fin- 
ished Utopia,  and  have  sent  it  to  you,  friend 
Peter,  to  read  and  peruse,  to  the  intent  that 
if  anything  have  escaped  me,  you  might  put 
me  in  remembrance  of  it.  For  though  in  this 
behalf  I  do  not  greatly  mistrust  myself  (which 
would  God  I  were  somewhat  in  wit  and  learn- 
ing as  I  am  not  all  of  the  worst  and  dullest 
memory)  yet  have  I  not  so  great  trust  and  con- 
fidence in  it  that  I  think  nothing  could  fall 
out  of  my  mind. 

For  John  Clement,  my  boy,*  who  as  yon 
know  was  there  present  with  us,  whom  I  suffer 
to  be  away  from  no  talk  wherein  may  be  any 
profit  or  goodness  (for  out  of  this  young 
bladed  and  new  shot  up  corn,  which  hath  al- 
ready begun  to  spring  up  both  in  Latin  and 
Greek  learning,  I  look  for  plentiful  increase  at 
length  of  goodly  ripe  grain), — he,  I  say,  hath 
brought  me  into  a  great  doubt.  For  whereas 
Hythloday  (unless  my  memory  fail  me)  said 
that  the  bridge  of  Amaurote,  which  goeth  over 
the  river  of  Anyder,  is  five  hundred  paces,  that 
is  to  say,  half  a  mile  in  length,  my  John  sayeth 
that  two  hundred  of  those  paces  must  be 
plucked  away,  for  that  the  river  containeth 
there  not  above  three  hundred  paces  in  breadth. 
I  pray  you  heartily,  call  the  matter  to  your 
remembrance.  For  if  you  agree  with  him,  I 
also  will  say  as  you  say,  and  confess  myself  de- 
ceived.   But  if  you  cannot  remember  the  thing, 

•  He  was  a  tutor  In  More's  household. 


112 


FIFTEENTH  AND  EARLY  SIXTEENTH  (JENTUlUES 


theu  surely  I  will  write  as  I  have  done  ajid 
as  mine  own  remembrance  serveth  me.  For  as 
I  will  take  good  heed  that  there  be  in  my  book 
nothing  false,  so  if  there  be  anything  doubtful, 
I  will  rather  tell  a  lie  than  make  a  lie;  because 
1  had  rather  be  good,  than  wily. 

Howbeit,  this  matter  may  easily  be  remedied 
if  you  will  take  the  pains  to  ask  the  question  of 
Eaphael  himself  by  word  of  mouth,  if  he  be 
now  with  you,  or  else  by  your  letters.  Which 
you  must  needs  do  for  another  doubt  also  that 
hath  chanced, — through  whose  fault  I  cannot 
tell,  whether  through  mine,  or  yours,  or  Ra- 
phael's. For  neither  we  remembered  to  inquire 
of  him,  nor  he  to  tell  us,  in  what  part  of  the 
new  world  Utopia  is  situate.  The  which  thing, 
I  had  rather  have  spent  no  small  sum  of  money 
than  that  it  should  thus  have  escaped  us:  as 
well  for  that  I  am  ashamed  to  be  ignorant  in 
what  sea  that  island  standeth,  whereof  I  write 
so  long  a  treatise,  as  also  because  there  be  with 
us  certain  men,  and  especially  one  virtuous 
and  godly  man,  and  a  professor  of  divinity, 
who  is  exceeding  desirous  to  go  unto  Utopia; 
not  for  a  vain  and  curious  desire  to  see  news,* 
but  to  the  intent  he  may  further  and  increase 
our  religion,  which  is  there  already  luckily  be- 
gun. And  that  he  may  the  better  accomplish 
and  perform  this  his  good  intent,  he  is  minded 
to  procure  that  he  may  be  sent  thither  by  the 
high  Bishop;  yea,  and  that  he  himself  may  be 
made  Bishop  of  Utopia:  being  nothing  scrupu- 
lous herein,  that  he  must  obtain  this  Bishopric 
Mith  suit.5  For  he  counteth  that  a  godly  suit 
which  proeeedeth  not  of  the  desire  of  honor  or 
lucre,  but  only  of  a  godly  zeal. 

Wherefore  I  most  earnestly  desire  you, 
friend  Peter,  to  talk  with  Hythloday,  if  you 
can,  face  to  face,  or  else  to  write  your  letters 
to  him,  and  so  to  work  in  this  matter  that  in 
this  my  book  there  may  neither  anything  be 
found  which  is  untrue,  neither  anything  be 
lacking  which  is  true. 

And  I  think  verily  it  shall  be  well  done  that 
you  show  unto  him  the  book  itself.  For  if  I  have 
missed  or  failed  in  any  point,  or  if  any  fault 
have  escaped  me,  no  man  can  so  well  correct 
and  amend  it  as  he  can:  and  yet  that  can  he 
not  do  unless  he  peruse  and  read  over  my  book 
written.  Moreover,  by  this  means  shall  you 
perceive  whether  he  be  well  willing  and  con- 
tent that  I  should  undertake  to  put  this  work 
in  writing.  For  if  he  be  minded  to  publish 
and  put  forth  his  own  labors  and  travails  him- 
self, perchance  be  would  be  loth,  and  so  would 

4  now   thln^M 

6  not  HcrupliDK  nt  all  to  ask  for  it 


I  also,  that  in  publishing  the  Utopian  weal  pub- 
lic,'' I  should  prevent^  him,  and  take  from  him 
the  flower  and  grace  of  the  novelty  of  this  his 
history. 

Howbeit,  to  say  the  very  truth,  I  am  not 
yet  fully  determined  with  myself  whether  1 
will  put  forth  my  book  or  no.  For  the  natures 
of  men  be  so  diverse,  the  fantasies  of  some  so 
wayward,  their  minds  so  unkind,  their  judg- 
ments so  corrupt,  that  they  which  lead  a  merry 
and  a  jocund  life,  following  their  own  sensual 
pleasures  and  carnal  lusts,  may  seem  to  be  in 
a  much  better  state  or  case  than  they  that  vex 
and  unquiet  themselves  with  cares  and  study 
for  the  putting  forth  and  publishing  of  some 
thing  that  may  be  either  profit  or  pleasure  to 
others:  which  others  nevertheless  will  disdain- 
fully, scornfully,  and  unkindly  accept  the  same. 
The  most  part  of  all  be  unlearned.  And  a 
great  number  hath  learning  in  contempt.  The 
rude  and  barbarous  alloweth  nothing  but  that 
which  is  very  barbarous  indeed.  If  it  be  one 
that  hath  a  little  smack  of  learning,  he  re- 
jecteth  as  homely  gear  and  common  ware  what- 
soever is  not  stuflPed  full  of  old  moth-eaten 
terms,  and  that  be  worn  out  of  use.  Some 
there  be  that  have  pleasure  only  in  old  rustic 
antiquities;  and  some  only  in  their  own  doings. 
One  is  so  sour,  so  crabbed,  and  so  unpleasant, 
that  he  can  away  with*  no  mirth  nor  sport. 
Another  is  so  narrow  between  the  shoulders 
that  he  can  bear  no  jests  nor  taunts.  Some 
silly  poor  souls  be  so  afeard  that  at  every  snap- 
pish word  their  nose  shall  be  bitten  off,  that 
they  stand  in  no  less  dread  of  every  quick  and 
sharp  word  than  he  that  is  bitten  of  a  mad  dog 
feareth  water.  Some  be  so  mutable  and  waver- 
ing that  every  hour  they  be  in  a  new  mind,  say- 
ing one  thing  sitting  and  another  thing  stand- 
ing. Another  sort  sitteth  upon  their  ale- 
benches,  and  there  among  their  cups  they  give 
judgment  of  the  wits  of  writers,  and  with 
great  authority  they  condemn,  even  as  pleaseth 
them,  every  writer  according  to  his  writing, 
in  most  spiteful  manner  mocking,  louting,  and 
flouting  them;  being  themselves  in  the  meen 
season  safe,  and,  as  sayeth  the  proverb,  out  of 
all  danger  of  gun-shot.  For  why,»  they  be  so 
smug  and  smooth  that  they  have  not  so  much 
as  one  hair  of  an  honest  man  whereby  one  may 
take  hold  of  them.  There  be,  moreover,  some 
so  unkind  and  ungentle  that  though  they  take 
great  pleasure  and  delectation  in  the  work,  yet, 
for  all  that,  they  cannot  find  in  their  hearts  to 
love  the  author  thereof,  nor  to  afford  him  a 


6  commonwealth 

7  anticipate 


R  endure 
9  because 


SIB  THOMAS  MORE 


113 


good  word:  being  much  like  uncourteous,  un- 
thankful, and  churlish  guests,  which,  when  they 
have  with  good  aud  dainty  meats  well  filled 
their  bellies,  depart  home,  giving  no  thanks  to 
the  feast-maker.  Go  your  ways  now,  and  make 
a  costly  feast  at  your  own  charges  for  guests 
so  dainty-mouthed,  so  divers  in  taste,  and  be- 
sides that  of  so  unkind  and  unthankful  natures. 
But  nevertheless,  friend  Peter,  do,  I  pray 
you,  with  Hythloday  as  I  willed  you  before. 
And  as  for  this  matter,  I  shall  be  at  my  liberty 
afterwards  to  take  new  advisement.  Howbeit, 
seeing  1  have  taken  great  pains  and  labor  in 
writing  the  matter,  if  it  may  stand  with  his 
mind  and  pleasure,  I  will,  as  touching  the  edi- 
tion or  publishing  of  the  book,  follow  the 
counsel  and  advice  of  my  friends,  and  specially 
yours.  Thus  fare  you  well,  right  heartily  be- 
loved friend  Peter,  with  your  gentle  wife:  and 
love  me  as  you  have  ever  done,  for  I  love  you 
better  than  ever  I  did. 

Of  the  Cities,  and  Namely  op  Amaurote.io 
Book  II.     Chapter  II 

As  for  their  cities,  whoso  knoweth  one  of 
them,  knoweth  them  all:  they  be  all  so  like 
one  to  another,  as  farforth  as  the  nature  of  the 
place  permitteth.  I  will  describe  therefore  to 
you  one  or  other  of  them,  for  it  skillethn  not 
greatly  which;  but  which  rather  than  Amau- 
rote?  Of  them  all  this  is  the  worthiest  and  of 
most  dignity.  For  the  residue  'knowledge  it 
for  the  head  city,  because  there  is  the  Council- 
house.  Nor  to  me  any  of  them  all  is  better 
beloved,  as  wherein  I  lived  five  whole  years 
together. 

The  city  of  Amaurote  standeth  upon  the 
side  of  a  low  hill,  in  fashion  almost  four 
square.  For  the  breadth  of  it  beginneth  a  lit- 
tle beneath  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  still  con- 
tinueth  by  the  space  of  two  miles,  until  it 
come  to  the  river  of  Anyder.12  The  length  of 
it,  which  lieth  by  the  river's  side,  is  somewhat 
more. 

The  river  of  Anyder  riseth  four  and  twenty 
miles  above  Amaurote  out  of  a  little  spring. 
But  being  increased  by  other  small  rivers  and 
brooks  that  run  into  it,  and,  among  otlier,  two 
somewhat  big  ones,  before  the  city  it  is  half  a 
mile  broad,  and  farther,  broader.  And  forty 
miles  beyond  the  city  it  falleth  into  the  ocean 
sea.  By  all  that  space  that  lieth  between  the  sea 
and  the  city,  and  certain  miles  also  above  the 
city,  the  water  ebbeth  and  floAveth  six  hours  to- 


10  The  name  means   "dark,  unknown." 

11  matters  12  i.  c.,  waterless 


gether  with  a  swift  tide.  When  the  sea  flow- 
eth  in,  for  the  length  of  thirty  miles  it  filleth 
all  the  Anyder  with  salt  water,  and  driveth 
back  the  fresh  water  of  the  river.  And 
somewhat  further  it  changeth  the  sweetness  of 
the  fresh  water  with  saltness.  But  a  little 
beyond  that  the  river  waxeth  sweet,  and  run- 
neth forbyis  the  city  fresh  and  pleasant.  And 
when  the  sea  ebbeth  and  goeth  back  again,  the 
fresh  water  followeth  it  almost  even  to  the 
very  fall  into  the  sea.  There  goeth  a  bridge 
over  the  river  made  not  of  piles  or  of  timber, 
but  of  stonework,  with  gorgeous  and  substan- 
tial arches  at  that  part  of  the  city  that  is 
farthest  from  the  sea;  to  the  intent  that  ships 
may  pass  along  forby  all  the  side  of  the  city 
without  let. 

They  have  also  another  river,  which  indeed  is 
not  very  great.  But  it  runneth  gently  and 
pleasantly.  For  it  riseth  even  out  of  the  same 
hill  that  the  city  standeth  upon,  and  runneth 
down  a  slope  through  the  midst  of  the  city  into 
Anyder.  And  because  it  riseth  a  little  without 
the  city,  the  Amaurotians  have  enclosed  the 
head  spring  of  it  with  strong  fences  and  bul- 
warks, and  so  have  joined  it  to  the  city.  This 
is  done  to  the  intent  that  the  water  should  not 
be  stopped,  nor  turned  away,  or  poisoned,  if 
their  enemies  should  chance  to  come  upon  them. 
From  thence  the  water  is  derived  and  conveyed 
down  in  canals  of  brick  divers  ways  into  the 
lower  parts  of  the  city.  Where  that  cannot  be 
done,  by  reason  that  the  place  will  not  suffer 
it,  there  they  gather  the  rain-water  in  great 
cisterns,  which  doth  them  as  good  service. 

The  city  is  compassed  about  with  a  high  and 
thick  stone  wall  full  of  turrets  and  bulwarks. 
A  dry  ditch,  but  deep,  and  broad,  and  over- 
grown with  bushes,  briers,  and  thorns,  goeth 
about  three  sides  or  quarters  of  the  city.  To 
the  fourth  side  the  river  itself  serveth  for  a 
ditch. 

The  streets  be  appointedi*  and  set  forth 
very  commodious  and  handsome,  both  for  car- 
riage,i5  and  also  against  the  winds.  The 
houses  be  of  fair  and  gorgeous  building,  and 
on  the  street  side  they  stand  joined  together 
in  a  long  row  through  the  whole  street  without 
any  partition  or  separation.  The  streets  be 
twenty  foot  broad.*  On  the  back  side  of  the 
houses,  through  the  whole  length  of  the  street, 
lie  large  gardens,  inclosed  round  about  with 
the  back  part  of  the  streets.     Every  house  hath 

13  pa.st   (<iern)an   vorbci)   i5  transportation 

1 »  arranged 

•  To  More  this  width   seemed  generous.      Some  of 

the   busiest    streets   of   London    were,    until    a 

recent  date,  scarcely  wider. 


114 


FIFTEENTH  AND  EARLY  SIXTEENTH  CENTURIES 


two  doors,  one  into  the  street,  and  a  postern 
door  on  the  back  side  into  the  garden.  These 
doors  be  made  with  two  leaves,  never 
locked  nor  bolted,  so  easy  to  be  opened  that 
they  will  follow  the  least  drawing  of  a  finger, 
and  shut  again  alone.  Whoso  will,  may  go  in, 
for  there  is  nothing  within  the  houses  that  is 
private,  or  any  man's  cnvn.  And  every  tenth 
year  they  change  their  houses  by  lot. 

They  set  great  store  by  their  gardens.  In 
them  they  have  vineyards,  all  manner  of  fruit, 
herbs,  and  flowers,  so  pleasant,  so  well  fur- 
nished, and  so  finely  kept,  that  I  never  saw 
thing  more  fruitful,  nor  better  trimmed  in  any 
place.  Their  study  and  diligence  herein  com- 
eth  not  only  of  pleasure,  but  also  of  a  certain 
strife  and  contention  that  is  between  street  and 
street,  concerning  the  trimming,  husbanding, 
and  furnishing  of  their  gardens — every  man 
for  his  own  part.  And  verily  you  shall  not 
lightly  find  in  all  the  city  anything  that  is  more 
commodious,  either  for  the  profit  of  the  citi- 
zens, or  for  pleasure.  And  therefore  it  may 
seem  that  the  first  founder  of  the  city  minded 
nothing  so  much  as  these  gardens. 

For  they  say  that  king  Utopus  himself,  even 
at  the  first  beginning,  appointed  and  drew 
forth  the  platformis  of  the  city  into  this  fash- 
ion and  figure  that  it  hath  now,  but  the  gallant 
garnishing,  and  the  beautiful  setting  forth  of 
it,  whereunto  he  saw  that  one  man's  age  would 
not  suffice,  that  he  left  to  his  posterity.  For 
their  chronicles,  which  tliey  keep  written  with 
all  diligent  circumspection,  containing  the  his- 
tory of  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  sixty 
years,  even  from  the  first  conquest  of  the 
island,  record  and  witness  that  the  houses  in 
the  beginning  were  very  low,  and,  like  homely 
cottages  or  poor  shepherd  houses,  made  at  all 
adventures!'  of  every  rude  piece  of  timber 
that  came  first  to  hand,  with  mud  walls,  and 
ridged  roofs,  thatched  over  with  straw.  But 
now  the  houses  be  curiously  builded  after  a 
gorgeous  and  gallant  sort,  with  three  stories 
one  over  another.  The  outsides  of  the  walls 
be  made  either  of  hard  flint,  or  of  plaster,  or 
else  of  brick,  and  the  inner  sides  be  well 
strengthened  with  timber-work.  The  roofs  be 
plain  and  flat,  covered  with  a  certain  kind  of 
plaster  that  is  of  no  cost,  and  yet  so  tempered 
that  no  fire  can  hurt  or  perish  it,  and  with- 
standeth  the  violence  of  the  weather  better 
than  any  lead.  They  keep  the  wind  out  of 
their  windows  with  glass,  for  it  is  there  much 
used,  and  somewhere  also  with  fine  linen  cloth 
dippetl  in  oil  or  amber,  and  that  for  two  com- 


i*  ground-plao 


17  haphazard 


modities.     For  by  this  means  more  light  com- 
eth  in,  and  the  wind  is  better  kept  out.t 

Of  Sciences,  Crafts  and  Occupations.    Book 
II.    Chapter  IV 

Husbandry  is  a  science  common  to  them  all 
in  general,  both  men  and  women,  wherein  they 
be  all  expert  and  cunning.  In  this  they  be  all 
instructed  even  from  their  youth,  partly  in 
their  schools  with  traditions  and  precepts,  and 
partly  in  the  country  nigh  the  city,  brought 
upi8  as  it  were  in  playing,  not  only  beholding 
the  use  of  it,  but,  by  occasion  of  exercising 
their  bodies,  practicing  it  also.  Besides  hus- 
bandry, which  (as  I  said)  is  common  to  them 
all,  every  one  of  them  learneth  one  or  other 
severali»  and  particular  science  as  his  own 
proper  craft.  That  is  most  commonly  either 
cloth-working  in  wool  or  flax,  or  masonry,  or 
the  smith's  craft,  or  the  carpenter's  science. 
For  there  is  none  other  occupation  that  any 
number  to  speak  of  doth  use  there. 

For20  their  garments,  which  throughout  all 
the  island  be  of  one  fashion  (saving  that  there 
is  a  difference  between  the  man's  garment  and 
the  woman 's,  between  the  married  and  the  un- 
married), and  this  one  continueth  for  ever 
more  unchanged,  seemly  and  comely  to  the  eye, 
no  let  to  the  moving  and  wielding  of  the  body, 
also  fit  both  for  winter  and  summer, — as  for 
these  garments  (I  say),  every  family  maketh 
their  own.  But  of  the  other  aforesaid  crafts 
every  man  learneth  one.  And  not  only  the 
men,  but  also  the  women.  But  the  women,  as 
the  weaker  sort,  be  put  to  the  easier  crafts,  as 
to  work  wool  and  flax.  The  more  laborsome 
sciences  be  committed  to  the  men.  For  the 
most  part  every  man  is  brought  up  in  his 
father's  craft.  For  most  commonly  they  be 
naturally  thereto  bent  and  inclined.  But  if  a 
man's  mind  stand  to  any  other,  he  is  by  adop- 
tion put  into  a  family  of  that  occupation  which 
he  doth  most  fantasy.  Whom  not  only  his 
father,  but  also  the  magistrates  do  diligently 
look  to,  that  he  be  put  to  a  discreet  and  an 
honest  householder.  Yea,  and  if  any  person, 
when  he  hath  learned  one  craft,  be  desirous  to 
learn  also  another,  he  is  likewise  suffered  and 
permrtted.  When  he  hath  learned  both,  he 
occupieth  whether  he  will,2i  unless  the  city 
have  more  need  of  the  one  than  of  the  other. 

18  The  I^tln  reads  educti  and  should  have  been 
translated  "led  out." 

20  as'' for  **  21  practises  whichever  he  wishos 

t  Glass  windows  were  introduced  Into  tJio  wealtli- 

ler    houses    In    EnKland    probably    In    Mon'S 

time      Other  houses  continued  to  use  slat  ana 

wicker  lattices  and  panels  of  horq. 


SIK  THOMAS  MOBE 


115 


The  chief  and  almost  the  only  office  of  the 
Syphograntst  is  to  see  and  take  heed  that  no 
man  sit  idle,  but  that  every  one  apply  his  own 
craft  with  earnest  diligence;  and  yet  for  all 
that,  not  to  be  wearied  from  early  in  the  morn- 
ing to  late  in  the  evening  with  continual  work, 
like  laboring  and  toiling  beasts.  For  this  is 
worse  than  the  miserable  and  wretched  condi- 
tion of  bondmen.  Which  nevertheless  is  almost 
everywhere  Ihe  life  of  workmen  and  artificers, 
saving  in  Utopia.  For  they,  dividing  the  day 
and  the  night  into  twenty-four  just  hours,  ap- 
point and  assign  only  six  of  those  hours  to 
work,  three  before  noon,  upon  the  which  they 
go  straight  to  dinner;  and  after  dinner,  when 
they  have  rested  two  hours,  then  they  work 
three  hours,  and  upon  that  they  go  to  supper.^ 
About  eight  of  the  clock  in  the  evening  (count- 
ing one  of  the  clock  at  the  first  hour  after 
noon),  they  go  to  bed:  eight  hours  they  give 
to  sleep.  All  the  void  time  that  is  between  the 
hours  of  work,  sleep,  and  meat,  that  they  be 
suffered  to  bestow,  every  man  as  he  liketh  best 
himself.  Not  to  th'  intent  that  they  should 
misspend  this  time  in  riot  or  slothfulness,  but, 
being  then  licensed22  from  the  labor  of  their 
own  occupations,  to  bestow  the  time  well  and 
thriftily  upon  some  other  science,  as  shall  please 
them.  For  it  is  a  solemn  custom  there  to  have 
lectures  daily  early  in  the  morning,  where  to 
be  present  they  only  be  constrained  that  be 
namely  chosen  and  appointed  to  learning.  How- 
beit,  a  great  multitude  of  every  sort  of  people, 
both  men  and  women,  go  to  hear  lectures,  some 
one,  and  some  another,  as  every  man's  nature 
is  inclined.  Yet,  this  notwithstanding,  if  any 
man  had  rather  bestow  this  time  upon  his  own 
occupation  (as  it  chanceth  in  many  whose 
minds  rise  not  in  the  contemplation  of  any 
science  liberal),  he  is  not  letted  nor  prohibited, 
but  is  also23  praised  and  commended,  as  profit- 
able to  the  commonwealth. 

After  supper  they  bestow  one  hour  in  play, 
in  summer  in  their  gardens,  in  winter  in  their 
common  halls,  where  they  dine  and  sup.  There 
they  exercise  themselves  in  music,  or  else  in 
honest  and  wholesome  communication.  Dice- 
play,  and  such  other  foolish  and  pernicious 
games,  they  know  not.  But  they  use  two 
games  not  much  unlike  the  chess.  The  one  is 
the  Battle  of   Numbers,  wherein  one   number 


22  freed  23  even 

t  Officers,    two    hundred    in    number,    each    elected 

by  and  ruling  over  thirty  families.     The  word. 

like   Tranibore   and   other   supposed    words   of 

the  old  Utopian   tongue,   is  meaningless. 
S  In    England.     In     Mere's    time   summer   working 

hours  were  from  5  a.  m.  to  7  p.  m. 


stealeth  away  another.  The  other  is  wherein 
Vices  fight  with  Virtues,  as  it  were  in  battle 
array,  or  a  set  field.  In  the  which  game  is 
very  properly  showed,  both  the  strife  and  dis- 
cord that  vices  have  among  themselves,  and 
again  their  unity  and  concord  against  virtues; 
and  also  what  vices  be  repugnant  to  what  vir- 
tues— with  what  power  and  strength  they  as- 
sail them  openly,  by  what  wiles  and  subtlety 
they  assault  them  secretly;  with  what  help  and 
aid  the  virtues  resist  and  overcome  the  puis- 
sance of  the  vices;  by  what  craft  they  frus- 
trate their  purposes;  and  finally  by  what 
sleight  or  means  the  one  getteth  the  victory. 

But  here,  lest  you  be  deceived,  one  thing 
you  must  look  more  narrowly24  upon.  For  see- 
ing they  bestow  but  six  hours  in  work,  per- 
chance you  may  think  that  the  lack  of  some 
necessary  things  hereof  may  ensue.  But  this 
is  nothing  so.  For  that  small  time  is  not  only 
enough,  but  also  too  much,  for  the  store  and 
abundance  of  all  things  that  be  requisite  either 
for  the  necessity  or  commodity  of  life.  The 
which  thing  you  also  shall  perceive  if  you 
weigh  and  consider  with  yourselves  how  great 
a  part  of  the  people  in  other  countries  liveth 
idle.  First,  almost  all  women,  which  be  the 
half  of  the  whole  number:  or  else  if  the  women 
be  somewhere  occupied,  there  most  commonly 
in  their  stead  the  men  be  idle.  Besides  this, 
how  great  and  how  idle  a  company  is  there  of 
priests,  and  religious  men25^  as  they  call  them. 
Put  thereto  all  rich  men,  specially  all  landed 
men,  which  commonly  be  called  gentlemen  and 
noblemen.  Take  into  this  number  also  their 
servants;  I  mean  all  that  flock  of  stout,  brag- 
ging rush-bucklers.26  Join  to  them  also  sturdy 
and  valiant  beggars,  cloaking  their  idle  life 
under  the  color  of  some  disease  or  sickness. 
And  truly  you  shall  find  them27  much  fewer 
than  you  thought,  by  whose  labor  all  these 
things  are  wrought  that  in  men's  affairs  are 
now  daily  used  and  frequented. 

Now  consider  with  yourself,  of  these  few 
that  do  work,  how  few  be  occupied  in  neces- 
sary works.  For  where  money  beareth  all  the 
swing,  there  many  vain  and  superfluous  occupa- 
tions must  needs  be  used  to  serve  only  for 
riotous  superfluity  and  unhonest  pleasure.  For 
the  same  multitude  that  now  is  occupied  in 
work,  if  they  were  divided  into  so  few  occupa- 
tions as  the  necessary  use  of  nature  requireth, 
in  80  great  plenty  of  things  as  then  of  neces- 
sity would  ensue,  doubtless  the  prices  would  be 

24  closely  2«  swashbucklers 

25  men  attached  to  some   27  those 

religious      order; 
monks,  etc. 


116 


FIFTEENTH  AND  EARLY  SIXTEENTH  CENTURIES 


too  little  for  the  artificers  to  maintain  their 
livings.  But  if  all  these  that  be  now  busied 
about  unprofitable  occupations,  with  all  the 
whole  flock  of  them  that  live  idly  and  sloth- 
fully,  which  consume  and  waste  every  one  of 
them  more  of  these  things  that  come  by  other 
men 's  labor  than  two  of  the  workmen  them- 
selves do;  if  all  these  (I  say)  were  set  to 
profitable  occupations,  you  easily  perceive  how 
little  time  would  be  enough,  yea  and  too  much, 
to  store  us  with  all  things  that  may  be  requi- 
site either  for  necessity  or  for  commotUty,  yea 
or  for  pleasure,  so  that  the  same  pleasure  be 
true  and  natural. 

And  this  in  Utopia  the  thing  itself  maketh 
manifest  and  plain.  For  there,  in  all  the  city, 
with  the  whole  country  or  shire  adjoining  to  it, 
scarcely  five  hundred  persons  of  all  the  whole 
number  of  men  and  women,  that  be  neither  too 
old  nor  too  weak  to  work,  be  licensed  and  dis- 
charged from  labor.  Among  them  be  the 
Syphogrants,  who,  though  they  be  by  the  laws 
exempt  and  privileged  from  labor,  yet  they 
exempt  not  themselves;  to  the  intent  that  they 
may  the  rather  by  their  example  provoke  others 
to  work.  The  same  vacation  from  labor  do 
they27  also  enjoy  to  whom  the  people,  persuad- 
ed by  the  commendation  of  the  priests  and  se- 
cret election  of  the  Syphogrants,  have  given  a  ■ 
])erpetual  licence  from  labor  to  learning.  But 
if  any  one  of  them  prove  not  according  to  the 
ex{)cctation  and  hope  of  him  conceived,  he  is 
forthwith  plucked  back  to  the  company  of  arti- 
ficers. And,  contrariwise,  often  it  chancctli 
that  a  handicraftsman  doth  so  earnestly  bestow 
his  vacant  and  spare  hours  in  learning,  and 
through  diligence  so  profiteth  therein,  that  he 
is  taken  from  his  handyss  occupation  and  pro- 
moted to  the  company  of  the  learned.  Out  of 
this  order  of  the  learned  be  chosen  ambassa- 
dors, priests,  Tranibores,*  and  finally  the 
prince  himself,  whom  they  in  their  old  tongue 
call  Barzanes,  and  by  a  newer  name,  Adamus.2» 
The  residue  of  the  people  being  neither  idle, 
nor  yet  occupied  about  unprofitable  exercises, 
it  may  be  easily  judged  in  how  few  hours  how 
much  good  work  by  them  may  be  done  and  dis- 
patched towards  those  things  that  I  have 
spoken  of. 

Thin  (U'nimodity  they  have  also  above  others, 
that  in  the  most  part  of  necessary  occupations 
they  need  not  so  much  work  as  other  nations 
do.  For  first  of  all  the  building  or  repairing 
of   houses  askctb    everywhere   so    many   men's 


?*  manual  20  Or  Ademus,  "folklesB" 

♦  MatjistratPH.   twenty  in  oumber,  superior  to  th< 
SyphoKraotK, 


continual  labor,  because  that  the  unthrifty  heir 
suffereth  the  houses  that  his  father  builded  in 
continuance  of  time  to  fall  in  decay.  So,  that 
which  he  might  have  upholden  with  little  cost, 
his  successor  is  constrained  to  build  it  again 
anew,  to  his  great  charge.  Yea,  many  times 
also  the  house  that  stood  one  man  inso  much 
money,  another  is  of  so  nice  and  so  delicate  a 
mind  that  he  setteth  nothing  by  it.  And  it  be- 
ing neglected,  and  therefore  shortly  falling 
into  ruin,  he  buildeth  up  another  in  another 
place  with  no  less  cost  and  charge.  But  among 
the  Uto|)ians,  where  all  things  be  set  in  a  good 
order,  and  the  commonwealth  in  a  good  stay.si 
it  very  seldom  chanceth  that  they  choose  a  new 
plot  to  build  an  house  upon.  And  they  do  not 
only  find  speedy  and  quick  remedies  for  present 
faults,  but  also  prevent  them  that  be  like  to 
fall.  And  by  this  means  their  houses  continue 
and  last  very  long  with  little  labor  and  small 
reparations,  in  so  much  that  this  kind  of  work- 
men sometimes  have  almost  nothing  to  do,  but 
that  they  be  commanded  to  hew  timber  at 
home,  and  to  square  and  trim  up  stones,  to  the 
intent  that  if  any  work  chance,  it  may  the 
8pee<llier  rise. 

Now,  sir,  in  their  apparel,  mark  (I  pray 
you)  how  few  workmen  they  need.  First  of 
all,  whiles  they  be  at  work,  they  be  covered 
homely  with  leather  or  skins  that  will  last 
seven  years.  When  they  go  forth  abroad,  they 
cast  upon  them  a  cloak,  which  hideth  the  other 
homely  apparel.  These  cloaks  throughout  the 
whole  island  be  all  of  one  color,  and  that  is 
the  natural  color  of  the  wool.  They  therefore 
do  not  only  spend  much  less  woolen  cloth  than 
is  spent  in  other  countries,  but  also  the  same 
standeth  them  in  much  less  cost.  But  linen 
cloth  is  made  with  less  labor,  and  is  therefore 
had  more  in  use.  But  in  linen  cloth  only  white- 
ness, in  woolen  only  cleanliness,  is  regarded. 
As  for  the  smallness  or  fineness  of  tlie  thread, 
that  is  nothing  passed  for.32  And  this  is  the 
cause  wherefore  in  other  places  four  or  five 
cloth  gowns  of  divers  colors,  and  as  many  silk 
coats,  be  not  enough  for  one  man.  Yea,  and  if 
he  be  of  the  delicate  and  nice  sort,  ten  be  too 
few;  whereas  there  one  garment  will  serve  a 
man  most  commonly  two  years.  For  why  should 
he  desire  morel  Seeing  if  ho  had  them,  he 
should  not  be  the  better  haptss  or  covered  from 
<-ol«l,  neither  in  his  apparel  any  whit  the  come- 
lier. 

Wherefore,  seeing  they  be  all  exercised  in 
profitable  occupations,  and  that  few  artificers 


so  cost 
31  state 


32  not  at  all  heeded 

33  wrapt 


SIR  THOMAS  MORE 


117 


in  the  same  crafts  be  suflScient,  this  is  the 
cause  that,  plenty  of  all  things  being  among 
them,  they  do  sometimes  bring  forth  an  innu- 
merable company  of  people  to  amend  the  high- 
ways, if  any  be  broken.  Many  times  also, 
when  they  have  no  such  work  to  be  occupied 
about,  an  open  proclamation  is  made  that  they 
shall  bestow  fewer  hours  in  work.  For  the 
magistrates  do  not  exercise  their  citizens 
against  their  wills  in  unneedful  labors.  For 
why,  in  the  institution  of  that  weal  public  this 
end  is  only  and  chiefly  pretended^*  and  minded. 
that  what  time  may  possibly  be  spared  from 
the  necessary  occupations  and  affairs  of  tlic 
commonwealth,  all  that  the  citizens  should 
withdraw  from  the  bodily  service  to  the  free 
liberty  of  the  mind  and  garnishing  of  the 
same.  For  herein  they  suppose  the  felicity  of 
this  life  to  consist. 

Of  Theie  Joubneyings  or  Travelling  Abroad, 
WITH  Divers  Other  Matters.  Book  II. 
Chapter  VI 

But  if  any  be  desirous  to  visit  either  their 
friends  dwelling  in  another  city,  or  to  see  the 
j)lace  itself,  they  easily  obtain  licence  of  their 
Syphogrants  and  Tranibores,  unless  there  be 
some  profitable  let.35  No  man  goeth  out  alone ; 
but  a  company  is  sent  forth  together  with  their 
prince 's  letters,  which  do  testify  that  they  have 
licence  to  go  that  journey,  and  prescribeth  also 
the  day  of  their  return.  They  have  a  wagon 
given  them,  with  a  common  bondman,*  which 
driveth  the  oxen,  and  taketh  charge  of  them. 
But  unless  they  have  women  in  their  company, 
they  send  home  the  wagon  again,  as  an  im- 
pediment and  a  let.  And  though  they  carry 
nothing  forth  with  them,  jet  in  all  their  jour- 
ney they  lack  nothing.  For  wheresoever  they 
come,  they  be  at  home.  If  they  tarry  in  a 
place  longer  than  one  day,  then  there  every  one 
of  them  falleth  to  his  own  occupation,  and  be 
very  genteelly  entertained  of^s  the  workmen 
and  companies  of  the  same  crafts.  If  any  man 
of  his  own  head  and  without  leave  walk  out 
of  his  precinct  and  bounds,  taken  without  the 
prince's  letters,  he  is  brought  again  for  a 
fugitive  or  a  runaway  with  great  shame  and 
rebuke,  and  is  sharply  punishc<l.  If  he  be 
taken  in  that  fault  again,  he  is  punished  with 
bondage. 

If  any  be  desirous  to  walk  abroad  into  the 
fields,   or   into   the   country   that  belongeth   to 

84  aimed  at  36  by 

35  l)usiDPSs   hindranco 

*  Transsrressors   of  the   law   in   Utopia   wero   made 

slaves  and  attached   to   the  soil.     Each   farm 

had  at  least  two  bondmen. 


the  same  city  that  he  dwelleth  in,  obtaining  the 
good  will  of  his  father,  and  the  consent  of  his 
wife,  he  is  not  prohibited.  But  into  what  part 
of  the  country  soever  he  cometh  he  hath  no 
meat  given  him  until  he  have  wrought  out  his 
forenoon's  task,  or  dispatched  so  much  work  as 
there  is  wont  to  be  wrought  before  supper. 
Observing  this  law  and  condition,  he  may  go 
whither  he  will  within  the  bound  of  his  own 
city.  For  he  shall  be  no  less  profitable  to  the 
city  than  if  he  were  within  it. 

Now  you  see  how  little  liberty  they  have 
to  loiter;  how  they  can  have  no  cloak  or  pre- 
tence to  idleness.  There  be  neither  wine-tav- 
erns, nor  ale-houses,  nor  stews,3T  nor  any  occa- 
sion of  vice  or  wickedness,  no  lurking  corners, 
no  places  of  wicked  counsels  or  unlawful  assem- 
blies. But  they  be  in  the  present  sight  and 
under  the  eyes  of  every  man.  So  that  of  neces- 
sity they  must  either  apply^s  their  accustomed 
labors,  or  else  recreate  themselves  with  honest 
and  laudable  pastimes.  This  fashion  and  trade 
of  life  being  used  among  the  people,  it  cannot 
be  chosen  but  that  they  must  of  necessity  have 
store  and  plenty  of  all  things.     .     . 

They  keep  at  home  all  the  treasure  which 
they  have,  to  be  holpen  and  succored  by  it 
either  in  extreme  jeopardies,  or  in  sudden  dan- 
gers; but  especially  and  chiefly  to  hire  there- 
with, and  that  for  unreasonable  great  wages, 
strange  soldiers.  For  they  had  rather  put 
strangers  in  jeopardy  than  their  own  country- 
men; knowing  that  for  money  enough  their 
enemies  themselves  many  times  may  be  bought 
or  sold,  or  else  through  treason  be  set  together 
by  the  ears  among  themselves.  For  this  cause 
they  keep  an  inestimable  treasure;  but  yet  not 
as  a  treasure;  but  so  they  have  it,  and  use  it, 
as  in  good  faith  I  am  ashamed  to  show,  fear- 
ing that  my  words  shall  not  be  believed.  And 
this  I  have  more  cause  to  fear,  for  that  I  know 
how  difiicultly  and  hardly  I  myself  would  have 
believed  another  man  telling  the  same  if  I  had 
not  presently  seen  it  with  mine  own  eyes.  For 
it  must  needs  be  that  how  far  a  thing  is  dis- 
sonant and  disagreeing  from  the  guise  and 
trade30  of  the  hearers,  so  far  shall  it  be  out 
of  their  belief.  Howbeit,  a  wise  and  indiPFer- 
ent  esteemer*o  of  things  will  not  greatly  mar- 
vel, perchance,  seeing  all  their  other  laws  and 
customs  do  so  much  differ  from  ours,  if  the  use 
also  of  gold  and  silver  among  them  be  applied 
rather  to  their  own  fashions  than  to  ours.  T 
mean  in  that  they  occupy <i   not  money  them- 


37  low    resorts 

38  1)1  v 

39  manners  and   practice 


40  impartial   judge 

41  use 


118 


FIFTEENTH  AND  EABLY  SIXTEENTH  CENTURIES 


selves,  but  keep  it  for  that  chance;  which  as  it 
may  happen,  so  it  may  be  that  it  shall  never 
come  to  pass. 

In  the  meantime  gold  and  silver,  whereof 
money  is  made,  they  do  so  use,  as  none  of  them 
doth  more  esteem  it  than  the  very  nature  of 
the  thing  deserveth.  And  then  who  doth  not 
plainly  see  how  far  it  is  under  iron?  as  without 
the  which  men  can  no  better  live  than  without 
fire  and  water.  Whereas  to  gold  and  silver  na- 
ture hath  given  no  use  that  we  may  not  well 
lack  if  that52  the  folly  of  men  had  not  set  it 
in  higher  estimation  for  the  rareness'  sake. 
But  of*3  the  contrary  part,  nature,  as  a  most 
tender  and  loving  mother,  hath  placed  the  best 
and  most  necessary  things  open  abroad:  as  the 
air,  the  water,  and  the  earth  itself;  and  hath 
removed  and  hid  farthest  from  us  vain  and  un- 
profitable things.  Therefore  if  these  metals 
among  them  should  be  fast  locked  up  in  some 
tower,  it  might  be  suspected  that  the  prince 
and  the  Council  (as  the  people  is  ever  foolishly 
imagining)  intended  by  some  subtlety  to  de- 
ceive the  commons,  and  to  take  some  profit  of 
it  to  themselves.  Furthermore,  if  they  should 
make  thereof  plate  and  such  other  finely  and 
cunningly  wrought  stuff;  if  at  any  time  they 
should  have  occasion  to  break  it,  and  melt  it 
again,  therewith  to  pay  their  soldiers  wages, 
they  see  and  perceive  very  well  that  men  would 
be  loth  to  part  from  those  things  that  they 
once  began  to  have  pleasure  and  delight  in. 

To  remedy  all  this  they  have  found  out  a 
means,  which,  as  it  is  agreeable  to  all  their 
other  laws  and  customs,  so  it  is  from  ours 
(where  gold  is  so  much  set  by,  and  so  dili- 
gently kept)  very  far  discrepant  and  repug- 
nant; and  therefore  uncredible,  but  only  to 
them  that  be  wise.  For  whereas  they  eat  and 
drink  in  earthen  and  glass  vessels,  which  in- 
deed be  curiously  and  properly  made,  and  yet 
be  of  very  small  value;  of  gold  and  silver  they 
make  commonly  other  vessels  that  serve  for 
vile  uses,  not  only  in  their  common  halls,  but 
in  every  man's  private  house.  Furthermore, 
of  the  same  metals  they  make  great  chains, 
fetters,  and  gyves,  wherein  they  tie  their  bond- 
men. Finally,  whosoever  for  any  offense  be 
infamed,<*  by  their  ears  hang  rings  of  gold; 
upon  their  fingers  they  wear  rings  of  gold,  and 
about  their  necks  chains  of  gold;  and,  in  con- 
clusion, their  heads  be  tied  about  with  gold. 
Thus  by  all  means  possible  they  procure  to 
have  gold  and  silver  among  them  in  reproach 
and    infamy.     And    these    metals   which    other 


42  if 
48  on 


44  disgraced 


nations  do  so  grievously  and  sorrowfully  forego 
as  in  a  manner  their  own  lives,  if  they  should 
altogether  at  once  be  taken  from  the  Utopians, 
no  man  there  would  think  that  he  had  lost  the 
worth  of  one  f  j^rthing. 

They  gather  also  pearls  by  the  seaside,  and 
diamonds  and  carbuncles  upon  certain  rocks, 
and  yet  they  seek  not  for  them ;  but  by  chance 
finding  them,  they  cut  and  polish  them.  And 
therewith  they  deck  their  young  infants. 
Which,  like  as  in  the  first  years  of  their  child- 
hood they  make  much  and  be  fond  and  proud 
of  such  ornaments,  so  when  they  be  a  little 
more  grown  in  years  and  discretion,  perceiving 
that  none  but  children  do  wear  such  toys  and 
trifles,  they  lay  them  away  even  of  their  own 
shamefastness,  without  any  bidding  of  their 
parents;  even  as  our  children,  when  they  wax 
big,  do  cast  away  nuts,  brooches,  and  puppets. 
Therefore  these  laws  and  customs,  which  be 
so  far  different  from  all  other  nations,  how 
divers  fantasies  also  and  minds  they  do  cause, 
did  I  never  so  plainly  perceive,  as  in  the  am- 
bassadors of  the  Anemolians. 

These  ambassadors  came  to  Amaurote  whilst 
I  was  there.  And  because  they  came  to  entreat 
of  great  and  weighty  matters,  those  three  citi- 
zens apiece  out  of  every  city*  were  comen 
thither  before  them.  But  all  the  ambassadors 
of  the  next  countries  which  had  been  there 
before  and  knew  the  fashions  and  manners  of 
the  Utopians,  among  whom  they  perceived  no 
honor  given  to  sumptuous  apparel,  silks  to  be 
contemned,  gold  also  to  be  infamed  and  re- 
proachful, were  wont  to  come  thither  in  very 
homely  and  simple  array.  But  the  Anemolians, 
because  they  dwell  far  thence  and  had  very  lit- 
tle acquaintance  with  them,  hearing  that  they 
were  all  apparelled  alike,  and  that  very  rudely 
and  homely,  thinking  them  not  to  have  the 
things  which  they  did  not  wear,  being  therefore 
more  proud  than  wise,  determined  in  the  gor- 
geousness  of  their  apparel  to  represent  very 
gods,  and  with  the  bright  shining  and  glister- 
ing of  their  gay  clothing  to  dazzle  the  eyes  of 
the  silly^s  poor  Utopians. 

So  there  came  in  three  ambassadors  with  one 
hundred  servants  all  apparelled  in  changeable 
colors,  the  most  of  them  in  silks,  the  ambas- 
sadors themselves  (for  at  home  in  their  own 
country  they  were  noblemen)  in  cloth  of  gold, 
with  great  chains  of  gold,  with  gold  hanging 
at  their  ears,  with  gold  rings  upon  their  fin- 
gers, with  brooches  and  aiglets  of  gold  upon 


46  simple 

•  Utopian     delegates     mentioned     In     a     prevloua 
chapter. 


ROGER  ASCHAM 


119 


their  caps,  which  glistered  full  of  pearls  and 
precious  stones;  to  be  short,  trimmed  and 
adorned  with  all  those  things  which  among  the 
Utopians  were  either  the  punishment  of  bond- 
men, or  the  reproach  of  infamed  persons,  or 
else  trifles  for  young  children  to  play  withal.*6 
Therefore  it  would  have  done  a  man  good  at 
his  heart  to  have  seen  how  proudly  they  dis- 
played their  peacocks'  feathers,  how  much  they 
made  of  their  painted  sheaths,*^  and  how  loft- 
ily they  set  forth  and  advanced  themselves  when 
they  compared  their  gallant  apparel  with  the 
poor  raiment  of  the  Utopians.  For  all  the  peo- 
ple were  swarmed  forth  into  the  streets. 

And  on  the  other  side  it  was  no  less  pleasure 
to  consider  how  much  they  were  deceived,  and 
how  far  they  missed  of  their  purpose,  being 
contrariwise  taken  than  they  thought  they 
should  have  been.  For  to  the  eyes  of 
all  the  Utopians,  except  very  few  which  had 
been  in  other  countries  for  some  reasonable 
cause,  all  that  gorgeousness  of  apparel  seemed 
shameful  and  reproachful.  In  so  much  that 
they  most  reverently  saluted  the  vilest  and 
most  abject  of  them  for  lords;  passing  over 
the  ambassadors  themselves  without  any  honor, 
judging  them  by  their  wearing  of  gold  chains 
to  be  bondmen.  Yea,  you  should  have  seen 
children  also,  that  had  cast  away  their  pearls 
and  precious  stones,  when  they  saw  the  like 
sticking  on  the  ambassadors '  caps,  dig  and  push 
their  mothers  under  the  sides,  saying  thus  to 
them:  '  *  Look,  mother,  how  great  a  lubber  doth 
yet  wear  pearls  and  precious  stones,  as  though 
he  were  a  little  child  still."  But  the  mother, 
yea  and  that  also  in  good  earnest:  "Peace, 
son,"  saith  she,  "I  think  he  be  some  of  the 
ambassadors'  fools."  Some  found  fault  at 
their  golden  chains,  as  to  no  use  nor  purpose, 
being  so  small  and  weak  that  a  bondman  might 
easily  break  them,  and  again  so  wide  and  large 
that,  when  it  pleased  him,  he  might  cast  them 
off  and  run  away  at  liberty  whither  he  would. 

But  when  the  ambassadors  had  been  there  a 
day  or  two  and  saw  so  great  abundance  of 
gold  so  lightly  esteemed,  yea  in  no  less  re- 
proach than  it  was  with  them  in  honor;  and 
besides  that,  more  gold  in  the  chains  and  gyves 
of  one  fugitive  bondman  than  all  the  costly 
ornaments  of  them  three  was  worth;  they  be- 
gan to  abate  their  courage,  and  for  very  shame 
laid  away  all  that  gorgeous  array  whereof  they 
were  so  proud;  and  specially  when  they  had 
talked  familiarly  with  the  Utopians,  and  had 
learned  all  their  fashions  and  opinions.  For 
they  marvel  that  any  men  be  so  foolish  as  to 


4«  with 


47  coverings 


have  delight  and  pleasure  in  the  doubtful  glis- 
tering of  a  little  trifling  stone,  which*8  may 
behold  any  of  the  stars,  or  else  the  sun  itself; 
or  that  any  man  is  so  mad  as  to  count  him- 
self the  nobler  for  the  smaller  or  finer  thread 
of  wool,  which  self-same  wool  (be  it  now  in 
never  so  fine  a  spun  thread)  a  sheep  did  once 
wear;  and  yet  was  she  all  that  time  no  other 
thing  than  a  sheep.     .     .     . 

These  and  such  like  opinions  have  they  con- 
ceived, partly  by  education,  being  brought  up 
in  that  commonwealth  whose  laws  and  customs 
be  far  different  from  these  kinds  of  folly,  and 
partly  by  good  literature  and  learning.  For 
though  there  be  not  many  in  every  city  which 
be  exempt  and  discharged  from  all  other  labors 
and  appointed  only  to  learning,  that  is  to  say, 
such  in  whom  even  from  their  very  childhood 
they  have  perceived  a  singular  towardness,  a 
fine  wit,  and  a  mind  apt  to  good  learning;  yet 
all  in  their  childhood  be  instruct  in  learning. 
And  the  better  part  of  the  people,  both  men 
and  women,  throughout  all  their  whole  life  do 
bestow  in  learning  those  spare  hours  which  we 
said  they  have  vacant  from  bodily  labors.* 


ROGER  ASCHAM  (1515-1568) 


TOXOPHILUSt 
From  the  Foreword 

To  all  Gentlemen  and  Yeomen  of  England: 

Bias,  the  wise  man,  came  to  Croesus,  the  rich 
king,  on  a  time  when  he  was  making  new  ships, 
purposing  to  have  subdued  by  water  the  out 
isles  lying  betwixt  Greece  and  Asia  Minor. 
"What  news  now  in  Greece!"  saith  the  king 

48  who 

*  It  may  be  worth  noting  that  our  word  "school" 
is  derived  from  schola,  "leisure." 

t  "Toxophilus"  means  "a  lover  of  the  bow,"  and 
the  book  is  in  the  form  of  a  dialogue  between 
Toxophilus,  an  archer,  and  Philologus,  a 
scholar.  Two  centuries  before,  at  the  battle 
of  Crecy,  the  British  yeomen  had  shown  the 
superiority  of  the  long  bow  in  battle  to  the 
equipment  of  the  armed  knight,  and  archery 
had  been  assiduously  cultivated,  though  when 
Ascham  wrote  this  (1545)  it  was,  for  purposes 
of  war,  gradually  giving  way  to  fire-arms.  If 
Ascham  was  conservative  in  clinging  to  this 
old-time  weapon,  in  another  respect  he  was 
courageously  radical.  That  Is  in  his  employ- 
ment of  the  English  vernacular  for  a  learned 
prose  treatise.  That  he  was  conscious  of 
making  a  literary  departure  is  manifest  in 
this  Preface,  and  also  in  the  dedication  to 
King  Henry  which  preceded  It,  where  he  de- 
fended himself  for  having  "written  this  Eng- 
lish matter  In  the  English  tongue  for  English 
men."  although  to  have  written  it  "either  In 
Latin  or  Greek  had  been  more  easier."  See 
Eng.  Lit.,  p.  81. 


120 


FIFTEENTH  AND  EARLY  SIXTEENTH  CENTURIES 


to  Bias.  ' '  None  other  news  but  these, ' '  saith 
Bias,  ' '  that  the  isles  of  Greece  have  prepared 
a  wonderful  company  of  horsemen  to  overrun 
Lydia  withal. "  "  There  is  notliing  under 
heaven, ' '  saith  the  king,  *  *  that  I  would  so  soon 
wish,  as  that  they  durst  be  so  bold  toi  meet 
us  on  the  land  with  horse. "  "  And  think 
you, ' '  saith  Bias,  * '  that  there  is  anything 
which  they  would  sooner  wish  than  that  you 
should  be  so  fond2  to  meet  them  on  the  water 
with  ships!"  And  so  Croesus,  hearing  not  the 
true  news,  but  perceiving  the  wise  man's  mind 
and  counsel,  both  gave  then  over  making  of  his 
ships,  and  left  also  behind  him  a  wonderful 
example  for  all  commonwealths  to  follow:  that 
is,  evermore  to  regard  and  set  most  by  that 
thing  whereunto  nature  hath  made  them  most 
apt  and  use  hath  mad«  them  most  fit. 

By  this  matter  I  mean  the  shooting  in  the  long 
bow,  for  English  men.  Which  thing  with  all  my 
heart  I  do  wish,  and  if  I  were  of  authority  I 
would  counsel,  all  the  gentlemen  and  yeomen  of 
England  not  to  change  it  with  any  other  thing, 
how  good  soever  it  seem  to  be,  but  that  still, 
according  to  the  old  wont  of  England,  youth 
should  use  it  for  the  most  honest  pastime  in 
peace,  that  men  might  handle  it  as  a  most  sure 
weapon  in  war.  Other  strong  weapons  which 
both  experience  doth  prove  to  be  good,  and  the 
wisdom  of  the  King's  Majesty  and  his  Council 
provides  to  be  had,  are  not  ordained  to  take 
away  shooting;  but  that  both,  not  compared 
together  whethers  should  be  better  than  the 
other,  but  so  joined  together  that  the  one  should 
be  always  an  aid  and  help  for  the  other,  might 
so  strengthen  the  realm  on  all  sides  that  no  kind 
of  enemy,  in  any  kind  of  weapon,  might  pass 
and  go  beyond  us. 

For  this  purpose,  I,  partly  provoked  by  the 
counsel  of  some  gentlemen,  partly  moved  by  the 
love  which  I  have  always  borne  toward  shoot- 
ing, have  written  this  little  treatise,  wherein  if 
I  have  not  satisfied  any  man,  I  trust  he  will 
the  rather  be  content  with  my  doing,  because  I 
am,  1  suppose,  the  first  which  hath  said  any- 
thing in  this  matter;  and  few  beginnings  be 
perfect,  saith  wise  men.  And  also  because,  if 
I  have  said  amiss,  I  am  content  that  any  man 
amend  it,  or  if  I  have  said  too  little,  any  man 
that  will  to  add  what  him  pleaseth  to  it. 

My  mind  is,  in  profiting  and  pleasing  every 
man,  to  hurt  or  displease  no  man,  intending 
none  other  purpose  but  that  youth  might  be 
stirred  to  labor,  honest  pastime,  and  virtue, 
and,  as  much  as  lay  in  me,  plucked  from  idle- 
ness, unthrifty  games,  and  vice.     Which  thing 


las  to 


2  fool  i  Mb 


8  which 


I  have  labored  only  in  this  book,  showing  how 
fit  shooting  is  for  all  kinds  of  men,  how  hon 
est  a  pastime  for  the  mind,  how  wholesome  an 
exercise  for  the  body,  not  vile  for  great  men 
to  use,  not  costly  for  poor  men  to  sustain,  not 
lurking  in  holes  and  corners  for  ill  men  at 
their  pleasure  to  misuse  it,  but  abiding  in  the 
open  sight  and  face  of  the  world  for  good  men, 
if  it  fault,  bv  their  wisdom  to  correct  it.  And 
here  I  would  desire  all  gentlemen  and  yeomen 
to  use  this  pastime  in  such  a  mean  that  the 
outrageousness  of  gaming  should  not  hurt  the 
honesty*  of  shooting,  which  of  Ms  own  nature 
is  always  joined  with  honesty,  yet  for  men 's 
faults  oftentimes  blamed  unworthily,  as  all 
good  things  have  been  and  evermore  shall  be. 

If  any  man  would  blame  me,  either  for  tak- 
ing such  a  matter  in  hand,  or  else  for  writing 
it  in  the  English  tongue,  this  answer  1  may 
make  him,  that  what  the  best  of  the  realm 
think  it  honest^  for  them  to  use,  I,  one  of  the 
meanestB  sort,  ought  not  to  suppose  it  vile  for 
me  to  write.  And  though  to  have  written  it 
in  another  tongue  had  been  both  more  profit- 
able for  my  study  and  also  more  honest^  for 
my  name,  yet  1  can  think  my  labor  well  be 
stowed  if,  with  a  little  hindrance  of  my  profit 
and  name,  may  come  any  furtherance  to  the 
pleasure  or  commodity  of  the  gentlemen  and 
yeomen  of  Engiand,  for  whose  sake  1  took  this 
matter  in  hand.  And  as  for  the  Latin  or  (Jreek 
tongue,  everything  is  so  excellently  done  in 
them  that  none  can  do  bettor;  in  the  English 
tongue,  contrary,  everything  in  a  manner  so 
meanly,  both  for  the  matter  and  handling,  that 
no  man  can  do  worse.  For  therein  the  least 
learned  for  the  most  part  have  been  always 
most  ready  to  write,  and  they  which  had  least 
hope  in  Latin  have  boon  most  bold  in  English; 
when  surely  every  man  that  is  most  ready  to 
talk  is  not  most  able  to  write.  He  that  will 
write  well  in  any  tongue  must  follow  this  coun- 
sel of  Aristotle: — to  speak  as  the  common  peo- 
ple do,  to  think  as  wise  men  do;  and  so  should 
every  man  understand  him,  and  the  judgmonl 
of  wise  men  allow"  him. 

^lany  English  writers  have  not  done  so,  but 
using  strange  words,  as  T>atin,  French,  ainl 
Italian,  do  make  all  things  dark  and  hard. 
Once  I  communed  with  a  man  which  reasoned 
the  English  tongue  to  be  enriched  and  in- 
creased thereby,  saying:  Who  will  not  praise 
that  feast  where  a  man  shall  drink  at  a  dinner 
both  wine,  ale,  and  beer?  Truly,  quoth  I,  they 
ho  all  good,  every  one  taken  by  himself  alone, 
but  if  you  put  malmsey  and  sack,  red  wine  ami 


i  Rood  repute 
s  honorable 


fl  humblest 
7  approve 


SOGER  ASCHAM 


121 


white,  ale  and  beer,  and  all  in  one  pot,  you 
shall  make  a  drink  neither  easy  to  be  known 
nor  yet  wholesome  for  the  body.  Cicero,  in 
following  Isocrates,  Plato,  and  Demosthenes, 
increased  the  Latin  tongue  after  another  sort. 
This  ways  because  divers  men  that  write  do 
not  know,  they  can  neither  follow  it,  because  of 
their  ignorancy,  nor  yet  will  praise  it,  for  very 
arrogancy — two  faults,  seldom  the  one  out  of 
the  other's  company. 

English  writers,  by  diversity  of  time,  have 
taken  diverse  matters  in  hand.  In  our  fathers' 
time  nothing  was  read  but  books  of  feigned 
chivalry,  wherein  a  man  by  reading  should  be 
led  to  none  other  end  but  only  to  manslaughter 
and  bawdry.  If  any  man  suppose  they  were 
good  enough  to  pass  the  time  withal,  he  is  de- 
ceived. For  surely  vain  words  do  work  no 
small  thing  thereunto  of  their  own  nature. 
These  books,  as  I  have  heard  say,  were  made 
the  most  part  in  abbeys  and  monasteries,  a 
very  likely  and  fit  fruit  of  such  an  idle  and 
blind  kind  of  living.* 

In  our  time  now,  when  every  man  is  given  to 
know  much  rather  than  to  live  well,  very  many 
do  write,  but  after  such  a  fashion  as  very  many 
do  shoot.  Some  shooters  take  in  hand  stronger 
bows  than  they  be  able  to  maintain.  This 
thing  maketh  them  sometime  to  outshoot  the 
mark,  sometime  to  shoot  far  wide,  and  per- 
chance hurt  some  that  look  on.  Other  that 
never  learned  to  shoot,  nor  yet  knoweth  good 
shaft  nor  bow,  will  be  as  busy  as  the  best,  but 
such  one  commonly  plucketh  down"  a  side,  and 
crafty  archers  which  be  against  him  will  be 
both  glad  of  him,  and  also  ever  ready  to  layio 
and  bt^t  with  him ;  it  were  better  for  such  one 
to  sit  down  than  shoot.  Other  there  be  which 
have  very  good  bow  and  shafts  and  good  knowl- 
edge in  shotting,  but  they  have  been  brought 
up  in  such  evil-favored  shooting  that  they  can 
neither  shoot  fair  nor  yet  near.  If  any  man 
will  apply  these  thinirs  together,  he  shall  not 
see  the  one  far  differ  from  the  other. 

And  I  also,  among  all  other,  in  writing  this 
little  treatise,  have  followed  some  young  shoot- 
ers, which  both  will  begin  to  shoot  for  a  little 
money,  and  also  will  use  to  shoot  once  or  twice 
about  the  mark  for  nought  afore  they  begin  a- 
good.  And  therefore  did  I  take  this  little 
matter  in  hand  to  assay' i  myself,  and  here- 
after, by  the  grace  of  God,  if  the  judgment  of 
wise  men  that  look  on  think  that  I  can  do  any 

8>  Construe  after  "know."    lo  wager 
9  lowers    the    score    of      ii  try  ' 

•  Ascham  is  manifestly  condemning  sucli  romances 
as  Malory's  Le  Morte  Darthur.  Knglanrt  was 
at  tills  time  I'rotestuni.  and  the  dissoliiti»n  of 
the  monasteries  a  recent  event. 


good,    I    may    perhaps   cast    my   shaft    among 
other  f»r  better  game. 

The  Ways  of  the  Wind.    From  Book  II  . 

The  wind  is  sometimes  plain  up  and  down, 
which  is  commonly  most  certain,  and  requireth 
least  knowledge,  wherein  a  mean  shooter  with 
mean  gear.i  if  he  can  shoot  home,  may  make 
best  shift.  A  side  wind  tryeth  an  archer  and 
good  gear  very  much.  Sometime  it  bloweth 
aloft,  sometime  hard  by  the  ground;  sometime 
it  bloweth  by  blasts,  and  sometime  it  continu- 
eth  all  in  one;  sometime  full  side  wind,  some- 
time quarter  with  him  and  more,  and  likelvise 
against  him,  as  a  man  with  easting  up  light 
grass,  or  else  if  he  take  good  heed,  shall  sensi- 
bly learn  by  experience. 

To  see  the  wind  with  a  man  his2  eyes,  it  is 
impossible,  the  nature  of  it  is  so  fine  and  sub- 
tle; yet  this  experience  of  the  wind  had  I  once 
myself,  and  that  was  in  the  great  snow  that 
fell  four  years  ago.  I  rode  in  the  highway  be- 
twixt Topcliffe-upon-Swale  and  Boroughbridge, 
the  way  being  somewhat  trodden  before  by 
wayfaring  men.  The  fields  on  both  sides  were 
plain  and  lay  almost  yard  deep  with  snow;  the 
night  afore  had  been  a  little  frost,  so  that  the 
snow  was  hard  and  crusted  above.  That  morn- 
ing the  sun  shone  bright  and  clear,  the  wind 
was  whistling  aloft,  and  sharp,  according  to  the 
time  of  the  year.  The  snow  in  the  highway 
lay  loose  and  trodden  with  horse'  feet:  so  as 
the  wind  blew,  it  took  the  loose  snow  with  it, 
and  made  it  so  slide  upon  the  snow  in  the  field, 
which  was  hard  and  crusted  by  reason  of  the 
frost  over  night,  that  thereby  I  might  see  very 
well  the  whole  nature  of  the  wind  as  it  blew 
that  day.  And  I  had  a  great  delight  and  pleas- 
ure to  mark  it,  which  maketh  me  now  far  bet- 
ter to  remember  it. 

Sometime  the  wind  would  be  not  past  two 
yards  broad,  and  so  it  would  carry  the  snow 
as  far  as  I  could  see.  Another  time  the  snow 
would  blow  over  half  the  field  at  once.  Some- 
time the  snow  would  tumble  softly,  by  and  by 
it  would  fly  wonderful  fast.  And  this  I  per- 
ceived also,  that  the  wind  goeth  by  streams  and 
not  whole  together.  For  I  should  see  one 
stream  within  a  scores  of  me,  then  the  space  of 
two  score  no  snow  would  stir,  but  after  so 
much  quantity  of  ground  another  stream  of 
snow  at  the  same  very  time  should  be  carried 
likewise,  but  not  equally;    for  the  one  would 

1  ordinary  equipment 

2  man's    (a    pedantic   form,    due   to   the   erroneous 

idea    that   the  possessive  x  was  a  contraction 
of  hix). 

3  twenty  yards 


122 


FIFTEENTH  AND  EABLY  SIXTEENTH  CENTURIES 


stand  still  when  the  other  flew  apace,  and  so 
continue,  sometime  swiftlier,  sometime  slowlier, 
sometime  broader,  sometime  narrower,  as  far 
as  I  could  see.  Nor  it  flew  not  straight,  but 
sometime  it  crooked  this  way,  sometime  that 
way,  and  sometime  it  ran  round  about  in  a 
compass.  And  some  time  the  snow  would  be 
lifted  clean  from  the  ground  up  in  the  air ;  and 
by  and  by  it  would  be  all  clapped  to  the 
ground  as  though  there  had  been  no  wind  at 
all;  straightway  it  would  rise  and  fly  again. 

And — that  wiiich  was  the  most  marvelous  of 
all — at  one  time  two  drifts  of  snow  flew,  the 
one  out  of  the  west  into  the  east,  the  other  out 
of  the  north  into  the  east.  And  I  saw  two 
winds  by  reason  of  the  snow,  the  one  cross 
over  the  other,  as  it  had  been  two  highways. 
And  again  I  should  hear  the  wind  blow  in  the 
air  when  nothing  was  stirred  at  the  ground. 
And  when  all  was  still  where  I  rode,  not  very 
far  from  me  the  snow  should  be  lifted  wonder- 
fully. This  experience  made  me  more  marvel 
at  the  nature  of  the  wind,  than  it  made  me 
cunning  in  the  knowledge  of  the  wind ;  but  yet 
thereby  I  learned  perfectly  that  it  is  no  marvel 
at  all,  although  men  in  a  wind  lease*  their 
lengths  ia  shooting,  seeing  so  many  ways  the 
wind  is  so  variable  in  blowing. 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER* 

Feom  a  Preface  to  the  Reader 

V^hen  the  great  plague  was  at  London,  the 
year  1563,  the  Queen's  Majesty,  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, lay  at  her  castle  of  "Windsor ;  where,  upon 
the  tenth  day  of  December,  it  fortuned  that  in 
Sir  William  Cecil's  chamber  (her  Highness' 
Principal  Secretary),  there  dined  together 
these  personages:  Mr.  Secretary  himself.  Sir 
William  Peter,  Sir  J.  Mason,  D.  Wotton,  Sir 
Richard  Sackville,  Treasurer  of  the  Exchequer, 
Sir  Walter  Mildmay,  Chancellor  of  the  Exche- 
quer, Mr.  Haddon,  Master  of  Requests,  Mr. 
John  Astley,  Master  of  the  Jewel  House,  Mr. 
Bernard  Hampton,  Mr.  Nicasius,  and  I.  Of 
which  number  the  most  part  were  of  her 
Majesty's  most  honorable  Privy  Council,  and 
the  rest  serving  her  in  very  good  place.    I  was 

4  lose 

6  diHtance  between  the  archer  and  the  target 
•  While  AHcham  bplongs  to  tho  generation  procod- 
Ing  the  Elizabethans,  this  last  work  of  his 
was  written  and  published  (posthumously, 
1570)  well  within  the  Virgin  Queen's  reign, 
and  the  little  glininsp  behind  the  curtain 
which  Its  preface  affords  may  serve  both  to 
Introduce  and  to  exemplify  what  Tennyson 
has  Ko  happily  called  "the  spacious  times  of 
erreat  Elizabeth." 


glad  then,  and  do  rejoice  yet  to  remember,  that 
my  chance  was  so  happy  to  be  there  that  day, 
in  the  company  of  so  many  wise  and  good  men 
together  as  hardly  then  could  have  been  picked 
out  again  out  of  all  England  beside. 

Mr.  Secretary  hath  this  accustomed  manner: 
though  his  head  be  never  so  full  of  most 
weighty  affairs  of  the  realm,  yet  at  dinner  time 
he  doth  seem  to  lay  them  always  aside,  and 
findeth  ever  fit  occasion  to  talk  pleasantly  of 
other  matters,  but  most  gladly  of  some  matter 
of  learning;  wherein  he  will  courteously  hear 
the  mind  of  the  meanesti  at  his  table. 

Not  long  after  our  sitting  down,  "I  have 
strange  news  brought  me,"  saith  Mr.  Secre- 
tary, "this  morning,  that  divers  scholars  of 
Eton  be  run  away  from  the  school  for  fear  of 
beating."  Whereupon  Mr.  Secretary  took  oc- 
casion to  wish  that  some  more  discretion  were 
in  many  schoolmasters,  in  using  correction, 
than  commonly  there  is;  who  many  times  pun- 
ish rather  the  weakness  of  nature  than  the 
fault  of  the  scholar;  whereby  many  scholars, 
that  might  else  prove  well,  be  driven  to  hate 
learning  before  they  know  what  learning  mean- 
eth,  and  so  are  made  willing  to  forsake  their 
book  and  be  glad  to  be  put  to  any  other  kind 
of  living. 

Mr.  Peter,  as  one  somewhat  severe  of  nature, 
said  plainly  that  the  rod  onlyz  was  the  sword 
that  must  keep  the  school  in  obedience  and  the 
scholar  in  good  order.  Mr.  Wotton,  a  man 
mild  of  nature,  with  soft  voice  and  few  words, 
inclined  to  Mr.  Secretary's  judgment,  and  said: 
"In  mine  opinion,  the  schoolhouse  should  be 
indeed,  as  it  is  called  by  name,3  the  house  of 
play  and  pleasure,  and  not  of  fear  and  bondage. 
And  as  I  do  remember,  so  saith  Socrates  in  one 
place  of  Plato.*  And  therefore,  if  a  rod  carry 
the  fear  of  a  sword,  it  is  no  marvel  if  those 
that  be  fearful  of  nature  choose  rather  to  for- 
sake the  play,  than  to  stand  always  within  the 
fear  of  a  sword  in  a  fonds  man's  handling. 

Mr.  Mason,  after  his  manner,  was  very  merry 
with  both  parties,  pleasantly  playing  both  with 
the  shrewd  touches^  of  many  curst^  boys,  and 
with  the  small  discretion  of  many  lewds  school- 
masters. Mr.  Haddon  was  fully  of  Mr.  Peter 's 
opinion,  and  said  that  the  best  schoolmaster  of 
our  time  was  the  greatest  beater;  and  named 
the  person.  "Though,"  quoth  I,  "it  was  his 
good  fortune  to  send  from  his  school  unto  the 
university  one  of  the  best  scholars  indeed  of  all 
our  time,  yet  wise  men  do  think  that  that  came 

1  humblest  s  foolish 

2  alone  o  mischlovons  traits 

3  See  note  on  "school,"    i  perverse 

page  110.  8  ignorant 

*  1.  e.,  of  Plato's  works 


ROGER  ASCHAM 


123 


so  to  pass  rather  by  the  great  towardness  of 
the  scholar  than  by  the  great  beating  of  the 
master;  and  whether  this  be  true  or  no,  you 
yourself  are  best  witness."  I  said  somewhat 
farther  in  the  matter  how  and  why  young  chil- 
dren were  sooner  allured  by  love,  than  driven 
by  beating,  to  attain  good  learning;  wherein  I 
was  the  bolder  to  say  my  mind  because  Mr. 
Secretary  courteously  provoked  me  thereunto, 
or  else  in  such  a  company,  and  namely  in  his 
presence,  my  wont  is  to  be  more  willing  to  use 
mine  ears  than  to  occupy  my  tongue.  Sir  Wal- 
ter ^lildmay,  Mr.  Astley,  and  the  rest,  said 
very  little;  only  Sir  Richard  Sackville  said 
nothing  at  all. 

After  dinner  I  went  up  to  read  with  the 
Queen's  Majesty.  We  read  then  together  in 
the  Greek  tongue,  as  I  well  remember,  that 
noble  oration  of  Demosthenes  against  Aes- 
chines  for  his  false  dealing  in  his  embassage 
to  King  Pliilip  of  Macedonia.  Sir  Richard 
Sackville  came  up  soon  after,  and  finding  me 
in  her  Majesty 's  privy  chamber,  he  took  me  by 
the  hand,  and  carrying  me  to  a  window  said: 
"Mr.  Ascham,  1  would  not  for  a  good  deal  of 
money  have  been  this  day  absent  from  dinner, 
where  though  I  said  nothing,  yet  I  gave  as 
good  ear,  and  do  consider  as  well  the  talk  that 
passed,  as  any  one  did  there.  Mr.  Secretary 
said  very  wisely,  and  most  truly,  that  many 
young  wits  be  driven  to  hate  learning  before 
they  know  what  learning  is.  I  can  be  good 
witness  to  this  myself.  For  a  fond  schoolmas- 
ter, before  I  was  fully  fourteen  years  old, 
drave  me  so,  with  fear  of  beating,  from  all  love 
of  learning,  as^  now — when  I  know  what  differ- 
ence it  is  to  have  learning,  and  to  have  little 
or  none  at  all — I  feel  it  my  greatest  grief,  and 
find  it  my  greatest  hurt  that  ever  came  to  me, 
that  it  was  my  so  ill  chance  to  light  upon  so 
lewd  a  schoolmaster.  But  seeing  it  is  but  in 
vain  to  lament  things  past,  and  also  wisdom  to 
look  to  things  to  come,  surely,  God  willing,  if 
God  lend  me  life,  I  will  make  this  my  mishap 
some  occasion  of  good  hap  to  little  Robert 
Sackville,  my  son's  son.  For  whose  bringing 
up  I  would  gladly,  if  it  so  please  you,  use  spe- 
cially your  good  advice.  I  hear  say  you  have 
a  son  much  of  his  age.  We  will  deal  thus  to- 
gether. Point  you  out  a  schoolmaster  who  by 
your  order  shall  teach  my  son  and  yours,  and 
for  all  the  rest  I  will  provide;  yea,  though 
they  three  do  cost  me  a  couple  of  hundred 
pounds  by  year.  And  beside,  you  shall  find  me 
as  fast  a  friend  to  you  and  yours  as  perchance 
any  you  have."     Which   promise  the  worthy 

•  that 


gentleman  surely  kept  with  me  until  his  dying 
day. 

We  had  then  further  talk  together  of  bring- 
ing up  of  children;  of  the  nature  of  quick  and 
hard  wits;i"  of  the  right  choice  of  a  good  wit; 
of  fear  and  love  in  teaching  children.  We 
passed  from  children  and  came  to  young  men, 
namely  Gentlemen.  We  talked  of  their  too 
much  liberty  to  live  as  they  lust";  of  their  let- 
ting loose  too  soon  to  overmuch  experience  of 
ill,  contrary  to  the  good  order  of  many  good  old 
commonwealths  of  the  Persians  and  Greeks;  of 
witi2  gathered  and  good  fortune  gotten  by  some 
only  by  experience,  without  learning.  And 
lastly,  he  required  of  me  very  earnestly  to  show 
what  I  thought  of  the  common  going  of  Eng- 
lish men  into  Italy. 

"But,"  saith  he,  "because  this  place  and 
this  time  will  not  suffer  so  long  talk  as  these 
good  matters  require,  therefore  I  pray  you,  at 
my  request,  and  at  your  leisure,  put  in  some 
order  of  writing  the  chief  points  of  this  our 
talk  concerning  the  right  order  of  teaching  and 
honesty  of  living,  for  the  good  bringing  up  of 
children  and  young  men.  And  surely,  beside 
contenting  me,  you  shall  both  please  and  profit 
very  many  others."  I  made  some  excuse  by 
lack  of  ability  and  weakness  of  body.  ' '  Well, ' ' 
saith  he,  "I  am  not  now  to  learn  what  you 
can  do.  Our  dear  friend,  Mr.  Goodrick,  whose 
judgment  I  could  well  believe,  did  once  for 
all  satisfy  me  fully  therein.  Again,  I  heard 
you  say  not  long  ago  that  you  may  thank  Sir 
John  Cheke*  for  all  the  learning  you  have.  And 

I  know  very  well  myself  that  you  did  teach 
the  Queen.  And  therefore  seeing  God  did  so 
bless  you,  to  make  you  the  scholar  of  the  best 
master,  and  also  the  schoolmaster  of  the  best 
scholar,  that  ever  were  in  our  time,  surely  you 
should  please  God,  benefit  your  country,  and 
honestis  your  own  name,  if  you  would  take  the 
pains  to  impart  to  others  what  you  learned  of 
such  a  master,  and  how  ye  taught  such  a 
scholar.  And  in  uttering  the  stuff  ye  received 
of  the  one,  in  declaring  the  order  ye  took  with 
the  other,  ye  shall  never  lack  neither  matter 
nor  manner,  what  to  write  nor  how  to  write,  in 
this  kind  of  argument."  I,  beginning  some 
farther  excuse,  suddenly  was  called  to  come 
to  the  Queen. 

The  night  following  I  slept  little,  my  head 
was  so  full  of  this  our  former  talk,  and  I  so 
mindful  somewhat  to  satisfy  the  honest  re- 
quest of  so  dear  a  friend.  I  thought  to  pre- 
pare some  little  treatise  for  a  New  Year 's  gift 

10  Intellects  12  knowledge 

II  like  13  honor 

•  A  famous  teacher  at  St.  John's,  Cambridge,  who 
gave  a  great  impulse  to  classical  learning. 


124 


FIFTEENTH  AND  EARLY  SIXTEENTH  CENTURIES 


that  Christmas.  But,  as  it  chaneeth  to  busy 
builders,  so,  in  building  this  my  poor  school- 
bouse  (the  rather  because  the  form  of  it  is 
somewhat  new,  and  differing  from  others),  the 
work  rose  daily  higher  and  wider  than  1 
thought  it  would  in  the  beginning.  And  though 
it  appear  now,  and  be  in  vei'y  deed,  but  a  small 
cottage,  poor  for  the  stuff  and  rude  for  the 
workmanshij),  yet  in  going  forward  I  found  the 
site  so  good  as  I  was  loth  to  give  it  over,  but 
the  making  so  costly,  outreaching  my  ability, 
as  many  times  I  wished  that  some  one  of  those 
three  my  dear  friends  with  full  purses,  Sir 
Thomas  Smith,  Mr.  Haddon,  or  Mr.  Watson, 
had  had  the  doing  of  it.  Yet  nevertheless  I 
myself,  spending  gladly  that  little  that  I  gat 
at  home  by  good  Sir  John  Cheke,  and  that 
that  I  borrowed  abroad  of  my  friend  Stur- 
mius,  beside  somewhat  that  was  left  me  in  re- 
version by  my  old  masters  Plato,  Aristotle,  and 
Cicero,  I  have  at  last  patched  it  up  as  I  could, 
and  as  you  see. 

A  Gentle  Teacher  and  Pupil.  From  Book  I. 
And  one  example  whether  love  or  fear  doth 
work  more  in  a  child  for  virtue  and  learning,  I 
will  gladly  report;  which  may  be  heard  with 
some  pleasure,  and  followed  with  more  profit. 
Before  I  went  into  Germany  I  came  to  Broad- 
gate  in  Leicestershire,  to  take  my  leave  of  that 
noble  Lady  Jane  Grey,  to  whom  I  was  exceed- 
ing much  beholaen.  Her  parents,  the  duke  and 
duchess,  with  all  the  household,  gentlemen  and 
gentlewomen,  were  hunting  in  the  park.  I 
found  her  in  her  chamber  reading  "Phaedon 
Platonis"!  in  Greek,  and  that  with  as  much 
delight  as  some  gentlemen  would  read  a  merry 
tale  in  Bocase.2  After  salutation  and  duty 
done,  with  some  other  talk,  I  asked  her  why 
she  would  lose  such  pastime  in  the  park? 
Smiling  she  answered  me,   "I   wis,3   all   their 


sport  in  the  park  is  but  a  shadow  to  that  pleas- 
ure that  I  find  in  Plato.  Alas!  good  folk,  they 
never  felt  what  true  pleasure  meant."  "And 
how  came  you,  madam, ' '  quoth  I,  "to  this 
deep  knowledge  of  pleasure,  and  what  did 
chiefly  allure  you  unto  it,  seeing,  not  many 
women,  but  very  few  men,  have  attained  there- 
unto ?  "  "1  will  tell  you, ' '  quoth  she ;  ' '  and 
tell  you  a  truth  which,  perchance,  ye  will  mar- 
vel at.  One  of  the  greatest  benefits  that  ever 
God  gave  me  is  that  he  sent  me  so  sharp  and 
severe  parents  and  so  gentle  a  schoolmaster. 
For  when  I  am  in  presence  of  either  father  or 
mother,  whether  I  speak,  keep  silence,  sit, 
stand,  or  go,  cat,  drink,  be  merry  or  sad,  be 
sewing,  playing,  dancing,  or  doing  anything 
else,  I  must  do  it,  as  it  were,  in  such  weight, 
measure,  and  number,  even  so  perfectly  as  God 
made  the  workl,  or  else  I  am  so  sharply  taunt- 
ed, so  cruelly  threatened,  yea  presently  some- 
times with  pinches,  nips,  and  bobs,*  and  other 
ways  which  I  will  not  name  for  the  honor  I 
bear  them,  so  without  measure  misordered,^ 
that  I  think  myself  in  hell  till  time  come  that 
I  must  go  to  Mr.  Elmer,  who  teaeheth  me  so 
gently,  so  oleasantly,  with  such  fair  allure- 
ments to  learning,  that  I  think  all  the  time 
nothing  whilst  I  am  with  him.  And  when  I  am 
called  from  him  I  fall  ons  weeping,  because 
whatsoever  I  do  else  but  learning,  is  full  of 
grief,  trouble,  fear,  and  whole  misliking  unto 
me.  And  thus  my  book  hath  been  so  much  my 
pleasure,  and  bringeth  daily  to  me  more  pleas 
ure  and  more,  that  in  respect  of  it  all  other 
pleasures,  in  very  deed,  be  but  trifles  and 
troubles  unto  me." 

I  remember  this  talk  gladly,  both  because 
it  is  so  worthy  of  memory,  and  because  also 
it  was  the  last  talk  that  ever  I  had  and  the  last 
time  that  ever  I  saw  that  noble  and  worthy 
lady. 


1  Plato's  Phaedo,  on   the  Immortality  of  the  Soul.    4  raps 

2  Boccaccio.  a  j-wis,  certainly  I  ^  ill  dlscipUnea 


c  to  (a-weeping) 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE-POETRY 


SIR  THOMAS  WYATT 

(1503-1542)* 

The  Lover  Having  Dreamed  of  Enjoyment 
OF  His  Love,  Complaineth  that  the  Dream 
Is  not  Either  Longer  or  Truer 

Unstable  dream,  according  to  the  place,t 
Be  steadfast  once,  or  else  at  least  be  true. 
By  tasted  sweetness  make  me  not  to  rue 
The  sudden  loss  of  thy  false  feigned  grace. 
By  good  respect  in  such  a  dangerous  case 
Thou  broughtst  not  her  into  these  tossing  seas. 
But   madest  my  spirit  to  live,   my  care   t  'en- 
crease. 
My  body  in  tempest  her  delight  t 'embrace. 
The  body  dead,  the  spirit  had  his  desire; 
Painless  was  the  one,  the  other  in  delight. 
Why  then,  alas!    did  it  not  keep  it  right, 
But  thus  return  to  leap  into  the  fire. 
And  where  it  was  at  wish,  could  not  remain! 
Such  mocks  of  dreams  do  turn  to  deadly  pain. 

Of  His  Love  That  Pricked  Her  Finger  With 
a  Needle 

She   sat   and   sewed,   that   hath   done   me   the 
wrong 
Whereof  I  plain,  and  have  done  many  a  day ; 
And    whilst    she   heard   my    plaint    in    piteous 
song, 
She  wished  my  heart  the  sampler i,  thats  it 
lay. 
The  blind  master  whom  I  have  served  so  long, 
Grudging  to  hear  thats  he  did  hear  her  say, 
Made  her  own  weapon  do*  her  finger  bleed, 
To  feel  if  pricking  were  so  good  indeed! 

1  needle-work  pattern        3  that  which 

2  as  4  make 

*  Though  Wyatt  and  Surrey  were,  in  strictness, 
pre-Elizabethans,  their  poems,  first  published 
In  1557,  were  manifest  harbingers  of  the 
creative  impulse  we  associate  with  Elizabeth's 
reign.  Thirty  years  later  Sidney  called  th^se 
poets  "the  two  chief  lanterns  of  light  to  all 
others  that  have  since  employed  their  pens 
upon  English  poesy."  Wyatt  introduced  the 
Petrarchian  sonnet  form  into  England ;  Sur- 
rey devised  the  variation  used  later  by  Shake- 
speare :  and  Surrey  was  the  first  to  employ 
heroic  blank  verse.     See  Eng.  Lit.,  p.  84. 

t  This  phrase  appears  to  have  more  rhyme  than 
reason.  Pfissihly  place  =  text,  referring  to 
1   Cor.,  XV,  58. 


The  Lover  Complaineth  the  Unkindness  op 
His  Love 

My  lute,  awake,  perform  the  last 
Labour  that  thou  and  I  shall  waste, 
And  end  thati  I  have  now  begun. 
And  when  this  song  is  sung  and  past, 
My  lute,  be  still,  for  I  have  done. 

As  to  be  heard  where  ear  is  none, 
As  lead  to  grave2  in  marble  stone, 
My  song  may  pierce  her  heart  as  soon. 
Should  we  then  sigh  or  sing  or  moanf 
No,  no,  my  lute,  for  I  have  done. 

The  rocks  do  not  so  cruelly 
Bepulse  the  waves  continually. 
As  she  my  suit  and  affection; 
So  that  I  am   past  remedy. 
Whereby  my  lute  and  I  have  done. 

Proud  of  the  spoil  that  thou  hast  got 
Of  simple  hearts  through  Loves  shot, 
By  whom  unkind  thou  hast  them  won. 
Think  not  he  hath  his  bow  forgot. 
Although  my  lute  and  1  have  done. 

Vengeance  shall  fall  on  thy  disdain 
That  makest  but  game  on  earnest  pain. 
Think  not  alone  under  the  sun 
Unquit*  to  cause  thy  lovers  plain*, 
Although  my  lute  and  I  have  done. 

May  chance  thee  lie  withered  and  old 
In  winter  nights  that  are  so  cold, 
Plaining   in   vain   unto   the   moon; 
Thy  wishes  then  dare  not  be  told. 
Care  then  who  list,  for  I  have  done. 

And  then  may  chance  thee  to  repent 
The  time  that  thou  hast  lost  and  spent 
To  cause  thy  lovers  sigh  and  swoon; 
Then  shalt  thou  know  beauty  but  lent, 
And  wish  and  want,  as  I  have  done. 

Now  cease,  my  lute,  this  is  the  last 
Labour  that  thou  and  I  shall  waste, 
And  ended  is  that   we  begun. 
Now  is  this  song  both  sung  and  past. 
My  lute,  be  still,  for  I  have  done. 


1  that  which 

2  cii*,  engrave 


3  unrepald 
*  to  ( omplain 


125 


126 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


HENRY  HOWARD.  EARL  OF  SUR- 
REY  (I517?-1547)* 

Description  of  Spring,  Wherein  Each  Thing 
Benews,  Save  Only  the  Lover 

Th6  sootei  season  that  bud  and  bloom  forth 

brings 
With  green  hath  clad  the  hill  and  eke  the  vale ; 
The  nightingale  with  feathers  new  she  sings; 
The  turtle  to  her  make2  hath  told  her  tale: 
Summer  is  come,  for  every  spray  now  springs; 
The  hart  hath  hung  his  old  head  on  the  pale ; 
The  buck  in  brake  his  winter  cote  he  flings; 
The  fishes  flete  with  new  repaired  scale; 
The  adder  all  her  slough  away  she  slings; 
The  swift  swallow  pursueth  the  flies  smale; 
The  busy  bee  her  honey  now  she  mingss. 
Winter  is  worn,  that  was  the  flowers'  bale: 
And  thus  I  see  among  these  pleasant  things 
Each  care  decays,  and  yet  my  sorrow  springs. 

A     Praise     op     His     Love,     Wherein     He 

Reproveth    Them    That    Compare    Their 

Ladies  With  His 
Give   place,   ye  lovers,   here  before. 

That  spent  your  boasts  and  brags  in  vain; 
My  Lady's  beauty  passeth  more 

The  best  of  yours,  I  dare  well  sayen, 
Than  doth  the  sun  the  candle  light, 
Or  brightest  day  the  darkest  night. 

And  thereto  hath  a  troth  as  just 

As  had  Penelope  the  fair; 
For  what  she  saith,  ye  may  it  trust 

As  it  by  writing  sealed  were. 
And  virtues  hath  she  many  moe 
Than  I  with  pen  have  skill  to  show. 

I  could  rehearse,  if  that  I  would. 
The  whole  effect*  of  Nature's  plaint 

When  she  had  lost  the  perfect  mold, 
The  like  to  whom  she  could  not  paint. 

With  wringing  hands  how  she  did  cry, 

And  what  she  said,  I  know  it,  I. 

I  know  she  swore  with  raging  mind. 

Her  kingdom  only  set  apart, 
There  was  no  loss,  by  law  of  kind", 

That  could  have  gone  so  near  her  heart. 
And  this  was  chiefly  all  her  pain: 
She  could  not  make  the  like  again. 

Sith«  nature  thus  gave  her  the  praise 
To  be  the  chiefest  work  she  wrought, 


1  vweet  4  tenor 

2  turtle-dove  to  her  mate  s  nature 
s  mixes                                         «  Bince 

*  See  note  on  preceding  page. 


In  faith,  methink,  some  better  ways 

On  your  behalf  might  well  be  sought. 
Than  to   compare,  as  ye  have  done. 
To  match  the  candle  with  the  sun. 

Departure  op  Aeneas  from  Dido 

Such  great  complaints  brake  forth   out  of 

her  breast; 
Whiles  Aeneas  full  minded  to  depart, 
All  things  prepared,  slept  in  the  poop  on  high. 
To  whom  in  sleep  the  wonted  godhead's  form 
'Gan  aye  appear,  returning  in  like  shapei 
As  seemed  him,  and    'gan  him  thus  advise, 
Like   unto    Mercury   in  voice   and   hue. 
With  yellow  bush2,  and  comely  limbs  of  youth: 
"O   goddess'   son,   in  such   case   canst   thou 

sleep, 
Ne  yet,  bestraughts,  the  dangers  dost  foresee 
That  compass  thee,  nor  hear'st  the  fair  winds 

blow? 
Dido  in  mind  rolls  vengeance  and  deceit; 
Determ'd  to  die,  swells  with  unstable  ire. 
Wilt  thou  not  flee  whiles  thou  hast  time  of 

flight? 
Straight  shalt  thou  see  the  seas  covered  with 

sails. 
The  blazing  brands  the  shore  all  spread  with 

flame, 
And  if*  the  morrow  steal  upon  thee  here. 
Come  off,  have  done,  set  all  delay  aside; 
For  full  of  change  these  women  be  alway. ' ' 
This  said,  in  the  dark  night  he  'gan  him  hide. 

Aeneas,  of  this  sudden  vision 
Adread,  starts  up  out  of  his  sleep  in  haste, 
Calls    up    his    feres^:      "Awake,    get    up,    my 

men! 
Aboard    your    ships,    and    hoise    up    sail   with 

speed. 
A  god  me  wills,  sent  from  above  again. 
To  haste  my  flight  and  wreathen  cables  cut. 
O   holy   god,   whatso  thou  art,   we  shall 
Follow  thee;  and  all  blithe  obey  thy  will. 
Be  at  our  hand  and  friendly  us  assist; 
Address^  the  stars  with  prosperous  influence." 
And  with  that  word  his  gUstering  sword  un- 

sheaths, 
With  which  drawn  he  the  cables  cut  in  twain. 
The  like  desire  the  rest  embraced  all. 
All  things  in  haste  they  cast,  and  forth  they 

whirl ; 
The  shores  they  leave;  with  ships  the  seas  are 

spread: 
Cutting  the  foam  by  the  blue  seas  thay  sweep. 
(From  the  Translation  of  the  Fourth 
Book  of   Virgil's  Aeneid.) 


1  (as  before) 

2  locks 

3  nor  yet,  distracted 


4  an  if,  if 
B  comrades 
•  endue 


EDMUND  SPENSER 


127 


EDMUND  SPENSER  (1552-1599)* 

THE    FAEBIE    QUEENE 

The    Dedication 

to  the  most  high, 

mightie,  and  magnificent  empresse 

renowmed  for  pietie,  vertue, 

and  all  gratious  government 

ELIZABETH 

BY   THE   GRACE   OF    GOD 

QUEENE    OF    ENGLAND,     FRAUNCE,    AND    IRELAND, 

AND    OF    VIRGINIA, 

DEFENDOUR  OF  THE  FAITH,  &C. 

HER   MOST   HUMBLE   SERVAUNT 

EDMUND  SPENSEE 

DOTH  IN  ALL  HUMILITIE 

DEDICATE,   PRESENT,   AND   CONSECRATE 

THESE    HIS    LABOURS 

TO   LIVE   WITH    THE   ETERNITIE 

OF   HER  FAME. 


Lo  I  the  man,  whose  Muse  whilomei  did  maske, 
As    time    her    taught,    in    lowly    Shepheards 

weeds2, 
Am  now  enforst  a  far  unfitter  taske, 

1  formerly 

2  Referring  to  the  Shepheardes  Calender,  a  pastoral 

poem.  See  Eng.  Lit.,  89-90. 
•  The  Faerie  Queene  is  an  allegory  designed  to  set 
forth  "a  gentleman  or  noble  person  in  virtuous 
and  gentle  discipline."  The  central  characters 
are  Gloriana,  the  queen  of  an  imaginary 
("faerie")  court,  who  symbolizes  Glory,  and 
her  suitor  Prince  Arthur,  who  stands  for 
Magnificence  (Munificence),  "which  virtue  is 
the  perfection  of  all  the  rest."  Besides  these, 
the  twelve  moral  virtues  were  to  have  been 
separately  represented  by  twelve  knights, 
each  performing  deeds  and  overcoming  tempta- 
tions according  to  his  character.  But  as  the 
poet's  design  was  never  finished,  only  half 
these  virtues  get  representation,  and  the  cen- 
tral characters  receive  rather  less  prominence 
than  the  six  several  virtues  which  are  set 
forth  in  the  six  completed  books.  Each  of 
these  books,  consisting  of  twelve  cantos,  is 
practically  a  complete  story  in  Itself.  The 
first  deals  with  the  Knight  of  the  Red  Cross, 
or  Holiness,  who,  clad  in  the  armor  of  the 
Christian  faith,  is  sent  forth  by  his  Queen  as 
the  champion  of  Una  (Truth)  "to  deliver  her 
parents,  "who  had  been  by  an  huge  dragon 
many  years  shut  up  in  a  brasen  castle."  Be- 
neath the  moral  allegory  may  be  read  also  a 
political  one,  according  to  which  Gloriana  is 
Queen  Elizabeth,  Prince  Arthur  is  Lord 
Leicester,  Duessa  is  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  etc. 
But  after  all,  the  poetry  of  the  poem  is 
worth  far  more  than  the  elaborate  allegory. 
The  language  and  spelling  are  deliberately 
and  sometimes  falsf  Iv  archaic.  See  Eng.  Lit., 
po.  91-94. 


For   trumpets   sterne  to   chaunge   mine   Oaten 

reeds, 
A.nd  sing  of  Knights  and  Ladies  gentles  deeds; 
Whose  prayses  having  slept  in  silence  long, 
Me,  all  too  meane,  the  sacred  Muse  areeds* 
To  blazon  broad  emongst  her  learned  throng: 
Fierce  warres  and  faithfull  loves  shall  moral- 
ize my  song. 


Helpe  then,  0  holy  Virgin  ehiefe  of  nine', 
Thy  weaker  Novice  to  performe  thy  will; 
Lay  forth  cut  of  thine  everlasting  scryne* 
The  antique  rolles,  which  there  lye  hidden  still, 
Of  Faerie  knights  and  fairest  Tanaquill^, 
Whom  that  most  noble  Briton  Prince*  so  long 
Sought    through    the    world,    and    suffered    so 

much   ill, 
That  I  must  rue  his  undeserved  wrong: 
O  helpe  thou  my  weake  wit,  and  sharpen  my 

dull  tong. 


And  thou  most  dreaded  impe»  of  highest  Jove, 
Faire  Venus  sonne,  that  with  thy  cruell  dart 
At  that  good  knight  so  cunningly  didst  rove, 
That  glorious  fire  it  kindled  in  his  hart, 
Lay  now  thy  deadly  Hebenio  bow  apart. 
And  with  thy  mother  milde  come  to  mine  ayde; 
Come    both,    and   with   you    bring   triumphant 

Martii, 
In  loves  and  gentle  jollities  arrayd. 
After  his  murdrous  spoiles  and  bloudy  rage 
allayd. 


And    with    them    eke,    O    Goddesse    heavenly 

bright, 
Mirrour  of  grace  and  Majestie  divine, 
Great  Lady  of  the  greatest  Isle,  whose  light 
Like    Phoebus    lampei2    throughout    the   world 

doth  shine, 
Shed  thy  faire  beames  into  my  feeble  eyne, 
And   raise   my   thoughts,   too   humble   and   too 

vile, 
To  thinke  of  that  true  glorious  type  of  thine, 
The  argument  of  mine  afllicted  stilei': 

The   which    to   heare,   vouchsafe,    O    dearest 

dredi*,  a-while. 


3  noble  (as  distinguished 

from   rustic) 

4  urges 

6  Clio,  Muse  of  History. 

6  shrine,  chest 

7  The  daughter  of  Obe- 

ron ;    here    another 
name  for  Gloriana. 


8  Prince  Arthur 

9  child 

10  ebony 

11  Mars 

12  the  sun 

13  subject   of   my  lowly 

pen 

14  object  of  reverence 


l-?8 


THE  ELIZABETHAX  AriK 


The  Kxight  of  the  Red  Cross  axd  his  Fight 
WITH  THE  Monster  Error.  The  Wiles 
OF  Archimago.    From  Book  I,  Canto  1. 


A  gentle  Knight  was  priekingi  on  the  plaine, 
Ycladd  in  niightie  armes  and  silver  shielde, 
Wherein   old    dints   of    deepe   wounds   did    re- 
nt aine, 
The  eruell  markes  of  many  a  bloudy  fielde; 
Yet  armes  till  that  time  did  he  never  wield: 
His  angry  steede  did  chide  his  foming  bitt. 
As  much  disdayning  to  the  curbe  to  yield: 
Full  jollyz  knight  he  seemd,  and  faire  did  sitt, 
As  one   for   knightly   giusts"*   and   fierce  en- 
counters fitt. 


But  on  his  brest  a  bloudie  Crosse  he  bore, 
The  deare  remembrance  of  his  dying  Lord, 
For  whose  sweete  sake  that  glorious  badge  he 

wore, 
And  dead  as  living  ever  him  ador'd: 
Upon  his  shield  the  like  was  also  seor'd, 
For  soveraine  hope,  which  in  his  helpe  he  had: 
Right  faithful!  true  he  was  in  deede  and  word, 
But  of  his  cheere*  did  seeme  too  solemne  sad; 
Yet    nothing    did    he    dread,    but    ever    was 

ydrads. 

3 

Upon  a  great  adventure  he  was  bond. 
That  greatest  Gloriana  to  him  gave. 
That  greatest  Glorious  Queene  of  Faerie  lond, 
To  winne  him  worship*,  and  her  grace  to  have, 
Which  of  all  earthly  things  he  most  did  crave; 
And  ever  as  he  rode,  his  hart  did  earne" 
To  prove  his  puissance  in  battell   brave 
Upon  his  foe,  and  his  new  force  to  learne; 
Upon  his  foe,  a  Dragon  horrible  and  stearne. 


A   lovely   Ladie"   rode  him    faire  beside. 
Upon  a  lowly  Ass*  more  white  then  snow, 
Yet  she  much  whiter,  but  the  same  did  hide 
Under  a  vele,  that  wimpled  was  full  low. 
And  over  all  a  blacke  rtole  she  ilifl  throw. 
As  one  that  inly  mournd:   so  was  she  snd. 
And  heavie  sat  upon  her  palfrey  slow; 


1  ridlDK.  8piirrInK 
>'  handHomc 

.'I  JoilStK 

4  .'oiinlcnance 
•  dreaded 


0  honor 
T  yearn 

X  I'na,  personiflrntion  of 
Truth. 


Seemed  in  heart  some  hidden  care  she  had, 
And  by  her  in  a  line  a  milkp  white  I^rabe 
she  lad.* 


So  pure  and  innocent,  as  that  same  lambe, 
She  was  in  life  and  every  vertuous  lore. 
And  by  descent  from  Royall  lynage  came 
Of   ancient    Kings   and    Queenes,   that   had    of 

yore 
Their  scepters  stretcht  from  East  to  Westerne 

shore, 
And  all  the  world  in  their  subjection  held; 
Till  that  infernall  feend  with  foule  uprore 
Forwasted  all  their  land,  and  them  expeld: 
Whom  to  avenge,  she  had  this  Knight  from 

far   compeld^. 

6 

Behind  her  farre  away  a  Dwarfe  did  lag. 
That  lasie  seemd  in  being  ever  last, 
Or  weariedio  with  bearing  of  her  bag 
Of  needments  at  his  backe.    Thus  as  they  past. 
The  day  with  cloudes  was  suddeine  overcast. 
And  angry  Jove  an  hideous  storme  of  raine 
Did  poure  into  his  Lemansn  lap  so  fast, 
That  every  \vight12  to  shrowdis  it  did  constrain, 
And   this  faire  couple  eke  to  shroud  them- 
selves were  fain. 


Enforst  to  seeke  some  covert  nigh  at  hand. 
A  shadie  grove  not  far  away  they  spide, 
That  promist  ayde  the  tempest  to  withstand: 
Whose  loftie   trees  yclad   with   sommers   pride 
Did    spred    so    broad,    that    heavens   liglit    did 

hide. 
Not  perceable  with  power  of  any  starre; 
And  all  within  were  pathes  and  alleles  wide. 
With  footing  worne,  and  leading  inward  farre: 
Faire  harbour  that  them  seemes;  so  in  they 
entred  arre. 

8 

And  foorth  they  passe,  with  pleasure  forward 

led, 
•Joying  to  heare  the  birdes  sweete  harmony. 
Which  therein  shrouded  from  the  tempest  dre<l, 

»  summoned  12  person 

10  Pronounce  "wea-rl-ed."  I'l  shelter 

1 1  beloved     one     (the 

earfh). 
•  •That  lamb  we  never  see  again  I  It  was  a 
tbou);ht  that  rose  and  passed  awny  from  the 
poet's  soul ;  but  the  imaKe  had  shown  us  the 
character  of  Una  In  her  simplicity,  as  if  it 
had  l>een  a  dove  that  hung  for  a  moment  over 
her  head,  and  while  a  voice  spolte.  disap- 
peared— This  is  my  l)eloved  daufihtrt;  In 
whom  I  am  well  pleas*^!." — I'hrlstopher 
North. 


EDMUND  SPENSER 


129 


Seemd  in  their  song  to  scorne  the  cruell  sky.      j 
Much  canii  they  prayse  the  trees  so  straight 

and  hy,  I 

The  sayling  Pinei^,  the  Cedar  proud  and  tall,  j 

The  vine-prop  Elme,  the  Poplar  never  dry. 

The  builder  Oake,  sole  king  of  forrests  all,       j 

The   Aspine   good    for   staves,    the   Cypresse  , 

funerall.  | 

9 

The  Laurell,  meed  of  mightie  Conquerours 
And  Poets  sage,  the  firre  that  weepeth  still, 
The  Willow  worne  of  forlorne  Paramours, 
The  Eughi«  obedient  to  the  benders  will. 
The  Birch  for  shaftes,  the  Sallow  for  the  mill, 
The     Mirrhe     sweete    bleeding    in    the    bitter 

wound. 
The  warlike  Beech,  the  Ash  for  nothing  ill, 
The  fruitful  Olive,  and  the  Platane  round. 
The  carver  Holme,  the  Maple  seeldom  inward 

sound.* 

10 

Led  with  delight,  they  thus  beguile  the  way, 
Untill  the  blustring  storme  is  overblowne; 
When    weening    to    returne,    whence    they    did 

stray. 
They  cannot  finde  that  path,  which  first  was 

showne. 
But  wander  too  and  fro  in  wayes  unknowne, 
Furthest    from    end    then,    when    they  jieerest 

weene. 
That  makes  them  doubt  their  wits  be  not  their 

owne: 
So  many  pathes,  so  many  turnings  seene. 
That  which  of  them  to  take,  in  diverse  doubt 

they  been. 

11 
At  last  resolving  forward  still  to  fare. 
Till  that  some  end  they  finde  or  in  or  out, 
That  path  they  take,  that  beaten  seemd  most 

bare, 
And  like  to  lead  the  labyrinth  about; 
Which    when     by     tracti^     they    hunted     had 

throughout, 
At  length  it  brought  them  to  a  hollow  cave 
Amid  the  thickest  woods.     The  Champion  stout 
Eftsoonesi"  dismounted  from  his  courser  brave. 
And  to  the  Dwarfe  awhile  his  needlesse  spere 

he  gave. 

12 
Be  well  aware,  quoth  then  that  Ladie  railde. 
Least  suddaine  mischiefe  ye  too  rash  provoke: 
The  danger  hid,  the  place  unknowne  and  wilde, 

14  did 

15  Cp.  Paradise  Lost,  I.  292-294.    it  trace 

IS  yew  ^^  forthwith 

•  Perhaps  such  a  diversity  of  trees  may  be  allow^ed 

in  the  Wood  of  Error.     Spenser  Is  nothing  If 

not  imaginative. 


Breedes  dreadful!  doubts:    Oft  fire  is  without 

smoke, 
And  peril  without  show:  therefore  your  stroke. 
Sir  Knight,  with-hold,  till  further  triall  made. 
Ah  Ladie,  (said  he)  shame  were  to  revoke 
The  forward  footing  for  an  hidden  shade: 
Vertue  gives  her  selfe  light,  through  darke- 

nesse  for  to  wadei». 

13 
Yea  but  (quoth  she)  the  perill  of  this  place 
I  better  wot  then  you,  though  now  too  late 
To  wish  you  backe  returne  with  foule  disgrace, 
Yet   wisdome   warnes,   whilest   foot   is   in   the 

gate2o, 
To  stay  the  steppe,  ere  forced  to  retrate. 
This  is  the  wandring  wood^i,  this  Errours  den, 
A  monster  vile,  whom  God  and  man  does  hate: 
Therefore  I  readss  beware.  Fly,  fly  (quoth  then 
The  fearcfull  Dwarle)  this  is  no  place  for 
living  men. 

14 
But  full  of  fire  and  greedy  hardiment, 
The  youthfull   knight   could   not   for  ought  be 

staide. 
But  forth  unto  the  darksome  hole  he  went. 
And  looked  in:   his  glistring  armor  made 
A  litle  glooming  light,  much  like  a  shade. 
By  which  he  saw  the  ugly  monster  plaine, 
Halfe  like  a  serpent  horribly  displaide, 
But  th 'other  halfe  did  womans  shape  retaine. 
Most  lothsom.  filthie,  foule,  and  full  of  vile 
di8daine23. 

15 
And  as  she  lay  upon  the  durtie  ground, 
Her  huge  long  taile  her  den  all  overspred, 
Yet   was   in   knots   and   many   boughtes24   up- 
wound. 
Pointed    with    mortall    sting.      Of    her    there 

bred 
A  thousand  yong  ones^s,  which  she  dayly  fed, 
Sucking  upon  her  poisnous  dugs,  eachone 
Of   sundry   shapes,   yet   all   ill   favored: 
Soone  as  that  uncouth  light  upon  them  shone. 
Into  her  mouth  they  crept,  and  suddain  all 
were  gone. 

16 

Their  dam  upstart,  out  of  her  den  effraide, 
And  rushed  forth,  hurling  her  hideous  taile 
\bout  her  cursed  head,  whose  folds  displaid 
Were    stretcht    now    forth    at    length    without 
entraile24. 


19  Cp.   Comus,  373. 
i  20  way 

I  21  wood  of  wandering 
'  22  counsel 


23  disgusting  vlleness 

24  coils  ,  . 

23  Lies,  the  children  of 
Error. 


130 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


She  lookt  about,  and  seeing  one  in  mayle 
Armed    to    point2«,    sought    backe    to    turne 

againe ; 
For  light  she  hated  as  the  deadly  bale, 
Ay  wont  in  desert  darknesse  to  remaine, 
Where  plain  none  might  her  see,  nor  she  see 

any  plaine. 

17 

Which  when  the  valiant  Elfe  perceiv'd,  he  lept 
As  Lyon  fierce  upon  the  flying  pray, 
And  with  his  trenchand  blade  her  boldly  kept 
From  turning  backe,  and  forced  her  to  stay: 
Therewith  enrag'd  she  loudly  gan  to  bray, 
And  turning  fierce,  her  speckled  taile  advaunst, 
Threatning  her  angry  sting,  him  to  dismay: 
Who    nought    aghast    his    mightie    hand    en- 

haunst-T: 
The   stroke   down   from   her   head  unto   her 

shoulder   glaunst. 

18 

Much  daunted  with  that  dint28,  her  sence  was 

dazd. 
Yet  kindling  rage,  her  selfe  she  gathered  round. 
And  all  attonce  her  beastly  body  raizd 
With   doubled  forces  high  above   the  ground: 
Tho2»  wrapping  up  her  wrethed  sterne  arownd, 
Lept  fierce  upon  his  shield,  and  her  huge  traine 
All  suddenly  about  his  body  wound, 
That  hand  or  foot  to  stirre  he  strove  in  vaine: 
God  helpe  the  man  so  wrapt  in  Errours  end- 
lesse  traine. 

19 

His  Lady  sad  to  see  his  sore  constraint, 
Cride  out.  Now  now  Sir  knight,  shew  what  ye 

bee. 
Add  faith  unto  your  force,  and  be  not  faint: 
Strangle  her,  else  she  sure  will  strangle  thee. 
That  when  he  heard,  in  great  perplexitie, 
His  gall  did   grate  for  griefso  and  high  dis- 

daine. 
And  knitting  all  his  force  got  one  hand  free, 
Wherewith  he  grypt  her  gorge  with  so  great 

painesi, 
That  BOone  to   loose  her  wicked  bands  did 

her  constraine.* 


30  his  anger  was  stirred 

through  pain 
81  effort 


2«  completely 
37  raised 

28  blow 

29  then 

•  Stanzas  20-26  describe,  In  lan>ruage  made  pur- 
posely coarse  for  the  sake  of  the  allegory,  the 
monster's  foul  tactics  in  self-defense,  until 
from  her  body  the  knight  "raft  her  hatefull 
heade  withotit  remorse,"  and  the  yuung  ones 
gorged   themselves   to  death   upon   bcr   blood. 


27 

His  Ladie  seeing  all  that  chaunst,  from  farre 

Approcht  in   hast   to   greet  his  victorie. 

And    said,    Faire   knight,    borne    under   happy 

starre. 
Who  see  your  vanquisht  foes  before  you  lye:' 
Well  worthie  be  you  of  that  Armorie^a, 
Wherein  ye  have  great  glory  wonne  this  day, 
And  proov'd  your  strength  on  a  strong  enimie, 
Your  first  adventure:  many  such  I  pray, 

And  henceforth  ever  wish  that  like  succeed  it 

may. 

28 

Then  mounted  he  upon  his  Steede  againe. 
And  with  the  Lady  backward  sought  to  wend ; 
That    path    he    kept    which    beaten    was    most 

plaine, 
Ne33  ever  would  to  any  by-way  bend. 
But  still  did  follow  one  unto  the  end, 
The  which    at  last    out    of    the    wood    them 

brought. 
So  forward  on  his  way   (with  God  to  frend) 
He  passed  forth,  and  new  adventure  sought ; 
Long  way  he  travelled,  before  he  heard  of 

ought. 

29 

At  length  they  chaunst  to  meet  upon  the  way 
An  aged  Sire34,  in  long  blacke  weedes  yclad. 
His  feete  all  bare,  his  beard  all  hoarie  gray, 
And  by  his  belt  his  booke  he  hanging  had; 
Sober  he  seemde,  and  very  sagely  sad. 
And  to  the  ground  his  eyes  were  lowly  bent. 
Simple  in  shew,  and  voyde  of  malice  bad, 
And  all  the  way  he  prayed,  as  he  went, 
And  often  knockt  his  brest,  as  one  that  did 
repent. 

30 

He  faire  the  knight  saluted,  loutingss  low, 
Who  faire  him  quitedse,  as  that  courteous  was: 
And  after  asked  him,  if  he  did  know 
Of  straunge  adventures,  which  abroad  did  pas. 
Ah  my  deare  Sonne    (quoth  he)    how  should, 

alas, 
Silly37  old  man,  that  lives  in  hidden  cell. 
Bidding  his  beades^s  all  day  for  his  trespas, 
Tydings  of  warre  and  worldly  trouble  tell? 
With  holy  father  sitss"  not  with  such  things 

to  mell<o. 

81 

But  if  of  daunger  which  hereby  doth  dwell, 
And  homebred  evil  ye  desire  to  heare, 
Of  a  straunge  man  I  can  you  tidings  tell, 

82  armor  88  bowing 

33  nor  •■'«  requited 

84  The  enchanter  ArchI-  37  simple 

mago,     or     Hypoc-  as  praying  his  prayers 

risy.     who     stands  30  befits 

for  false  religion.  *o  meddle 


EDMUND  SPENSER 


131 


That  wasteth  all  this  countrey  farre  and  neare. 
Of  such   (said  he)   I  chiefly  do  inquere, 
And  shall  you  well  reward  to  shew  the  place, 
In   which   that    wicked   wight   his   dayes   doth 

weare: 
For  to  all  knighthood  it  is  foule  disgrace, 
That  such  a  cursed  creature  lives  so  long  a 
space. 

32 

Far  hence  (quoth  he)  in  wastfuU  wildernesse 
His  dwelling  is,  by  which  no  living  wight 
May  ever  passe,  but  thorough*i  great  distresse. 
Now   (sayd  the  Lady)    draweth  toward  night, 
And  well  I  wote,  that  of  your  later  fight 
Ye  all   forwearied   be:    for  what  so   strong, 
But  wanting  rest  will  also  want  of  might? 
The  Sunne  that  measures  heaven  all  day  long, 
At  night  doth  baiters  his  steedes  the  Ocean 
waves  emong. 

33 

Then   with   the    Sunne    take    Sir,   your   timely 

rest, 
And  with  new  day  new  worke  at  once  begin: 
Untroubled  night  they  say  gives  counsell  best. 
Eight  well  Sir  knight  ye  have  advised  bin, 
(Quoth  then  that  aged  man;)  the  way  to  win 
Is  wisely  to  advisees;    now  day  is  spent; 
Therefore  with  me  ye  may  take  up  your  In 
For  this  same  night.    The  knight  was  well  con- 
tent: 
So  with  that  godly  father  to  his  home  they 
went. 

34 

A  little  lowly  Hermitage  it  was, 
Downe  in  a  dale,  hard  by  a  forests  side, 
Far  from  resort  of  people,  that  did  pas 
In  travell  to  and  froe:  a  little  wyde** 
There  was  an  holy  Chappell  edifyde*5, 
Wherein  the  Hermite  dewly  wont  to  say 
His  holy  things  each  morne  and  eventyde: 
Thereby  a  Christall  streame  did  gently  play, 
"Which  from  a  sacred  fountaine  welled  forth 
alway. 

35 

Arrived  there,  the  little  house  they  fill, 
Ne  looke  for  entertainement,  where  none  was: 
Rest  is  their  feast,  and  all  things  at  their  will: 
The  noblest  mind  the  best  contentment  has. 
With  faire  discourse  the  evening  so  they  pas: 
For  that  old  man  of  pleasing  wordes  had^  store, 
And  well  could  file  his   tongue   as  smooth  as 

glas, 
He  told  of  Saintes  and  Popes,  and  evermore 
He  strowd  an  Ave-Mary  after  and  before. 


41  except  through 

42  feed 

43  consider 


44  distant 

45  built 


S« 

The   drouping    Night   thus   creepeth   on   them 

fast. 
And  the  sad  humour*"  loading  their  eye  liddes, 
As  messenger  of  Morpheus  on  them  cast 
Sweet    slombring    deaw,    the    which    to    sleepe 

them  biddes. 
Unto     their     lodgings     then     his     guestes    he 

riddes47: 
Where  when   all   drownd   in   deadly  sleepe   he 

findes. 
He  to  this  study  goes,  and  there  amiddes 
His  Magick  bookes  and  artes  of  sundry  kindes. 
He   seekes   out   mighty   charmes,   to   trouble 

sleepy  mindes. 

37 

Then  choosing  out  few  words  most  horrible, 
(Let    none    them    read)     thereof    did    verses 

frame, 
With  which  and  other  spelles  like  terrible, 
He  bad  awake  blacke  Plutoes  griesly  Dame48, 
And  cursed  heaven  and  spake  reprochfull  shame 
Of  highest  God,  the  Lord  of  life  and  light; 
A  bold  bad  man,  that  dar'd  to  call  by  name 
Great  Gorgon49,  Prince  of  darknesse  and  dead 

night, 
At  which  Cocytus  quakes,  and  Styx  is  put  to 

flight. 

38 
And  forth  he  cald  out  of  deepe  darknesse  dred 
Legions    of    Sprights^o,    the    which    like   little 

flyes 
Fluttring  about  his  ever  damned  hed, 
Awaite  whereto  their  service  he  applyes. 
To  aide  his  friends,  or  fraysi  his  enimies: 
Of  those  he  chose  out  two,  the  falsest  twoo, 
And  fittest  for  to  forge  true-seeming  lyes; 
The  one  of  them  he  gave  a  message  too. 
The  other  by  him  selfe  staide  other  worke  to 

doo. 

39 
He  making  speedy  way  through  spersed^^  ayre. 
And   through    the   world   of   waters  wide  and 

deepe. 
To   Morpheus  house  doth  hastily  repaire. 
Amid  the  bowels  of  the  earth  full  steepe. 
And  low,  where  dawning  day  doth  never  peepe, 
His  dwelling  is;  there  Tethysss  his  wet  bed 
Doth  ever  wash,  and  Cynthias*  still  doth  steepe 
In   silver   deaw   his  ever-drouping  hed. 

Whiles  sad  Night  over  him  her  mantle  black 

doth  spred. 


46  dew  of  sleep 

47  dismisses 

48  Proserpine,  or  Hecate. 

49  Cp.      Paradine     Lost, 

II,  965. 


50  sprites,  spirits 

51  affright 

52  widespread 

53  the  ocean 

54  the  moon 


132 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


40 

Whose  double  gatesss  he  findeth  locked  faat, 
The  one  faire  Irani  'd  of  burnisht  Yvory, 
The  other  all  witli  silver  overcast ; 
And  wakeful  dogges  before  them  farre  do  lye, 
Watching   to    banish   Care   their  enimy, 
Who  oft  is  wont  to  trouble  gentle  Sleepe. 
By  them  the  Sprite  doth  passe  in  quietly, 
And    unto    Morpheus    comes,    whom    drowned 

deepe 
In  drowsie  fit  he  findes:  of  nothing  he  takes 

keepers. 

41 

Anil  more,  to  lulle  him  in  his  slumber  soft, 
A  trickling  streame  from  high  rock  tumbling 

downe. 
And  ever-drizzling  raine  upon  the  loft. 
Mixt  with   a  murmuring  winde,  much  like  the 

sowno 
Of  swarming  Bees,  did  cast  him  in  a  swowno: 
iS'o  other  noyse,  nor  peoples  troublous  cryes, 
As  still  are  wont  t  'annoy  the  walled  towne. 
Might  there  be  heard:  but  carelesse  Quiet  lyes. 
Wrapt  in  eternall  silence  farre  from  enemyes.* 

42 

The  messenger  approching  to  him  spake. 
But  his  wast  wordes  returnd  to  him  in  vaine: 
So   sound    he   slept,    that    nought    mought   him 

awake. 
Then    rudely    he    him    thrust,    and    pusht   with 

paine 
Whereat  he  gan  to  stretch:   but  he  againe 
Shooke  him  so  hard,  that  forced  him  to  speako. 
As  one  then  in  a  dreame,  whose  dryer^T  braino 
Is  tost  with  troubled  sights  and  fancies  weake. 
He    mumbled    soft,    but    would    not    all    his 

silence  breake. 

43 

The  Sprite  then  gan  more  Iwldly  him  to  wake. 

And  threatned  unto  him  the  dreaded  name 

Of  Hecate:  whereat  he  gan  to  quake, 

And   lifting  up   his  lumpish   head,  with   blame 

Halfe  angry  aske*!  him,  for  what  he  came. 

Hither  (quoth  he)  me  Archimago  sent, 

He  that  the  stubborne  Sprites  can  wisely  tame. 

He  bids  thee  to  him  send  for  his  intent 

A    fit    falne    dreame,    that    can    delude    the 
sleepers  scnto*. 


BR  of  false  and  truo  dreuius       57  feverish 
r>«  care  68  sense 

•A  stanza  not  ensll.v  inntrhed  In  literature  for 
adaptation  of  souud  to  nense.  It  has  heen 
much  admired  and  Imitated.  See  Thomson's 
Cantlr  of  Indolence,  I.  :$-« ;  also  Tennyson's 
The  LotoH-Katers. 


44 
The  God  obayde,  and,  calling  forth   straight- 
way 
A  diverse  dreame  out  of  his  prison  darke. 
Delivered  it   to   him,  anci   downe   did  lay 
His  heavie  head,  devoide  of  carefull  carke^®, 
Whose  sences  all  were  straight  benumbed  and 

Starke. 
He  backe  returning  by  the  Yvorie  dore. 
Remounted  up  as  light  as  chearefull  Larke, 
And  on  his  litle  Winges  the  dreame  he  bore 
In   hast   unto   his   Lord,    where   he   him   left 

afore. 

45 
Who  all   this  while   with  charmes  and  hidden 

artes. 
Had  made  a  Lady  of  that  other  Spright, 
And  fram  'd  of  liquid  ayre  her  tender  partes 
So  livolys",  and  so  like  in  all  mens  sight. 
That  weaker  senee  it  I'ould  have  ravisht  quight: 
The  maker  sclfe.  for  all  his  wondrous  witt. 
Was   nigh   beguiled  with   so  goodly  sight: 
Her  all  in   white  he  clad,   and  over  it 

Cast  a   black  stole,  most   like  to  seeme  for 

Una  fit. 

46 
Now    when    that    ydle    dreame    was    to    him 

brought. 
Unto  that  Elfin  knight  he  bad  him  fly, 
Where  he  slept  soundly  void  of  evill  thought, 
And  with  false  shewes  abuse  his  fantasy. 
In  sort  as  he  him  schooled  privily: 
And    that    new    creature,    borne    without    her 

dew-ei, 
Full  of  the  makers  guile,  with  usage  siy 
He  taught  to  imitate  that  Lady  trew, 

Whose     semblance     she     did     carrie     under 

feigned  hew. 

[The  knight,  deceived  by  the  dream  into 
thinking  his  lady  Una  false,  flees  with  the 
Dwarf,  until  meeting  on  the  way  a  Sarazin 
(Saracen,  Pagan),  named  Sansfoy  (Faithless), 
he  slays  him.  and  proceeds  in  the  company  of 
Sansfoy 's  lady.  Dnessa  (Falsehood),  wiio 
passes  herself  off  as  Fidessa  (Faith).] 

Uka  and  the  Lion.    From  Book  I,  Canto  III. 

] 
Nought    is    there   under    hoav'ns    wide    htdlow- 

nesse, 
That  moves  more  fleare  compassion  of  mimi. 
Then   beautie   brought   t'   unworthy   wretched- 

nesse 

.-.» anxious    care     (with    characteristic    Spenserian 

tautology) 
«u  lifelike  ">  unnaturally 


EDMUND  SPENSER 


133 


Through  envies  snares,  or  fortunes  freakes  un   , 

kind. 
].  whether  lately  through  her  brightnesse  blind, 
Or  through  alleageance  and  fast  fealtie, 
Which   I   do  owe  unto  all   woman  kind. 
Feele  my  heart  perst  with  so  great  agonie, 
When  such  I  see,  that  all  for  pittie  1  could 
die. 

2 

And  now  it  is  empassioned  so  deepe, 

For  fairest  Unaes  sake,  of  whom  1  sing, 

That  my  fraile  eyes  these  lines  with  teares  do 

steepe. 
To  thiuke  how  she  through  guilefull  handeling, 
Though  true  as  touchi,  though  daughter  of  a 

kiug, 
Though  faire  as  ever  living  wight  was  faire, 
Though  nor  in  word  nor  deede  ill  meriting, 
Is  from  her  knight   divorced  in  despaire, 
And    her    due    loves    deriv'ds    to    that    vile 

witches  share. 

3 

Yet  she  most  faithfull  Ladle  all  this  while 
Forsaken,  wofull,  solitarie  mayd 
Far  from  all  peoples  preases,  as  in  exile, 
In  wildernesse  and  wastfuU  deserts  strayd, 
To  seeke  her  knight;   who  subtilly  betrayd 
Through  that  late  vision,  which  th'  Enchaunter 

wrought, 
Had  her  abandond.    She  of  nought  affrayd. 
Through  woods  and  wastnesse  wide  him  daily 

sought ; 
Yet  wished   tydings  none   of  him  unto  her 

brought. 

4 

One  day  nigh  wearie  of  the  yrkesome  way. 
From  her  unhastie  beast  she  did  alight. 
And  on  the  grasse  her  daintie  limbes  did  lay 
In  secret  shadow,  farre  from  all  mens  sight: 
From  her  faire  head  her  fillet  she  undight, 
And  laid  her  stole  aside.     Her  angels  face 
As  the  great  eye  of  heaven  shyned  bright, 
And  made  a  sunshine  in  the  shadie  place; 
Did  never  mortall  eye  behold  such  heavenly 
grace. 

5 

It  fortuned  out   of  the  thickest  wood 
A  ramping  Lyon  rushed  suddainly, 
Hunting  full  greedy  after  salvage  blood; 
Soone  as  the  royall  virgin  he  did  spy. 
With  gaping  mouth  at  her  ran  greedily, 
To  have  attonce  devourd  her  tender  corse: 
But  to  the  pray  when  as  he  drew  more  ny, 

1  as  if  tested  by  the  touchstone 

2  the  love  which  is  her  due  diverted 

3  press,  crowd 


His  bloody  rage  asswaged  with  remorse. 
And  with  the  sight  amazd,  forgat  his  furious 
forse. 

6 
In  stead  thereof  he  kist  her  wearie  feet, 
And  lickt  her  lilly  hands  with  fawning  tong, 
As  he  her  wronged  innocence  did  weet*. 
O  how  can  beautie  maister  the  most  strong, 
And  simple  truth  subdue  avenging  wrong? 
Whose  yeelded  pride  and  proud  submission. 
Still    dreading    death,    when    she    had    marked 

long. 
Her  hart  gan  melt  in  great  compassion. 

And  drizling  teares  did  shed  for  pure  affec- 
tion. 

7 
The  Lyon  Lord  of  every  beast  in  field, 
Quoth  she,  I'.is  princely  puissance  doth  abate. 
And  mightie  proud  to  humble  weake  does  yield, 
Forgetfull  of  the  hungry  rage,  which  late 
Him  prickt,  in  pittie  of  my  sad  estate: 
But  he  my  Lyon,  and  my  noble  Lord, 
How  does  he  find  in  cruell  hart  to  hate, 
Her  that  him  lov'd,  and  ever  most  adord, 
As   the  God   of  my  life?  why  hath  he  me 
abhordf 

8 
Redounding^  teares  did  choke  th'  end  of  her 

plaint, 
Which  softly  ecchoed  from  the  neighbour  wood ; 
And  sad  to  see  her  sorrowfull  constraint 
The  kingly  beast  upon  her  gazing  stood; 
W^ith  pittie  calmd,  downe  fell  his  angry  mood. 
At  last  in  close  hart  shutting  up  her  paine, 
Arose  the  virgin  borne  of  heavenly  brood, 
And  to  her  snowy  Palfrey  got  againe. 

To  seeke  her  strayed  Champion,  if  she  might 
attaine. 

9 
The  Lyon  would  not  leave  her  desolate. 
But  with  her  went  along,  as  a  strong  gard 
Of  her  chast  person,  and  a  faithfull  mate 
Of  her  sad  troubles  and  misfortunes  hard: 
Still  when  she  slept,  be  kept  both  watch  and 

ward. 
And  when  she  wakt,  he  waited  diligent, 
With  humble  sen-ice  to  her  will  prepard: 
From  her  faire  eyes  he  tooke  commaundement. 
And   ever  by  her  lookes  conceived  her   in- 
tent. 

[L^na  is  overtaken  by  Archimago,  disguised 
as  the  Redcross  Knight,  and  accompanies  him 
therefore  trustingly.  But  they  are  met  by 
Sansloy  (Lawless,  a  brother  of  Sansfoy),  who 
overcomes  both  Archimago  and  the  Lion  and 
takes  Una   as   his  prey.] 


i  wit,  know 


5  overflowing 


134 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


The  Knight  of  the  Red  Cross  at  the  House 
or  Pride.    From  Book  I,  Canto  IV. 


Young  knight  whatever  that  dost  armes  pro- 

fesse, 
And  through  long  labours  huntest  after  fame, 
Beware  of  fraud,  beware  of  ficklenesse, 
In  choice,  and  change  of  thy  deare  loved  Daine, 
Least  thou  of  her  beleeve  too  lightly  blame. 
And  rash  misweening  doe  thy  hart  remove: 
For  unto  knight  there  is  no  greater  shame. 
Then  lightnesse  and  inconstancie  in  love; 

That  doth  this  Redcrosse  knights  ensample 

plainly  prove. 

2 
Who  after  that  he  had  faire  Una  lorne, 
Through  light  misdeeming  of  her  loialtie, 
And  false  Duessa  in  her  sted  had  borne. 
Called  Fidess',  and  so  supposed  to  bee; 
Long  with  her  traveild,  till  at  last  they  see 
A  goodly  building,  bravely  garnished. 
The  house  of  mightie  Prince  it  seemd  to  bee: 
And  towards  it  a  broad  high  way  that  led, 
All  bare  through  peoples  feet,  which  thither 

travelled. 

3 
Great  troupes  of  people  traveild  thitherward 
Both  day  and  night,  of  each  degree  and  place. 
But  few  returned,  having  scaped  hard. 
With  balefull  beggerie,  or  foule  disgrace; 
Which  ever  after  in  most  wretched  case. 
Like  loathsome  lazars,i  by  the  hedges  lay. 
Thither  Duessa  bad  him  bend  his  pace: 
For  she  is  wearie  of  the  toilesome  way, 
And  also  nigh  consumed  is  the  lingring  day. 


A  stately  Pallace  built  of  squared  bricke. 
Which  cunningly  was  without  morter  laid, 
Whose  wals  were  high,  but  nothing  strong,  nor 

thick. 
And  golden  foile  all  over  them  displaid, 
That  purest  skye  with  brightnesse  they  disraaid : 
High  lifted  up  were  many  loftie  towres. 
And  goodly  galleries  farre  over  laid, 
Full  of  faire  windowes  and  delightful  bowres; 
And    on    the    top    a   Diall   told   the   timely 

howres. 

5 

It  was  a  goodly  heape  for  to  behould, 
And  spake  the  praises  of  the  workmans  wit; 
But  full  great  pittie,  that  so  faire  a  mould 
Did  on  so  weake  foundation  ever  sit: 
For  on  a  sandie  hill,  that  still  did  flit 
And  fall  away,  it  mounted  was  full  hie, 

1  lepers 


That  every  breath  of  heaven  shaked  it: 
And  all  the  hinder  parts,  that  few  could  spie, 
Were  ruinous  and  old,  but  painted  cunningly. 

6 

Arrived  there,  they  passed  in  forth  right; 
For  still  to  all  the  gates  stood  open  wide: 
Yet  charge  of  them  was  to  a  Porter  hight^ 
Cald  Malvenil,*  who  entrance  none  denide: 
Thence  to  the  hall,  which  was  on  every  side 
With  rich  array  and  costly  arras  dight: 
Infinite  8orts2  of  people  did  abide 
There  waiting  long,  to  win  the  wished  sight 
Of  her  that  was  the  Lady  of  that  Pallace 

bright. 

7 
By  them  they  passe,  all  gazing  on  them  round, 
And   to   the   Presence   mount;    whose   glorious 

vew3 
Their  frayle  amazed  senses  did  confound: 
In  living  Princes  court  none  ever  knew 
Such  endlesse  richesse,  and  so  sumptuous  shew; 
Ne  Persia  selfe,  the  nourse  of  pompous  pride 
Like  ever  saw.    And  there  a  nobel  crew 
Of  Lordes  and  Ladies  stood  on  every  side, 
Which   with    their   presence   faire  the   place 

much  beautifide. 

8 
High  above  all  a  cloth  of  State  was  spred, 
And  a  rich  throne,  as  bright  as  sunny  day. 
On  which  there  sate  most  brave  embellished 
With  royall  robes  and  gorgeous  array, 
A  mayden  Queene,  that  shone  as  Titans  ray. 
In  glistring  gold,  and  peerelesse  pretious  stone: 
Yet  her  bright  blazing  beautie  did  assay 
To  dim  the  brightnesse  of  her  glorious  throne. 
As    envying    her    selfe,    that    too    exceeding 

shone. 

9 
Exceeding  shone,  like  Phoebus  fairest  childe,* 
That  did  presume  his  fathers  firie  wayne. 
And  flaming  mouthes  of  steedes  unwonted  wilde 
Through  highest  heaven  with  weaker  hand  to 

rayne ; 
Proud  of  such  glory  and  advancement  vaine, 
While  flashing  beames  do  daze  his  feeble  eyen. 
He  leaves  the  welkin  way  most  beaten  plaine, 
And  rapt  with  whirling  wheeles,  inflames  the 

skyen, 
With  fire  not  made  to  burne,  but  fairely  for 

to  shyne. 

10 
So  proud  she  shyned  in  her  Princely  state, 
Looking  to  heaven;  for  earth  she  did  disdayne: 

1  asRlgned  s  the    vision    of    whose 

s  throngs  Riory 

4  PbaPthun 
•  I.  v..  Ill-come,  the  opposite  of  Welcome. 


EDMUND  SPENSER 


135 


And  sitting  high;  for  lowly  she  did  hate: 
Lo  underneath  her  scornefull  feete  was  layne 
A  dreadful]  Dragon  with  an  hideous  trayne, 
And  in  her  hand  she  held  a  mirrhour  bright,* 
Wherein  her  face  she  often  vewed  fayne, 
And   in   her    selfe-lov'd    semblance    tooke    de- 
light; 
For  she  was  wondrous  faire,  as  any  living 
wight. 

11 

Of  griesly  Pluto  she  the  daughter  was, 
And  sad  Proserpina  the  Queene  of  hell; 
Yet  did  she  thinke  her  pearlesse  worth  to  pas 
That  parentage,  with  pride  so  did  she  swell; 
And  thundring  Jove,  that  high  in  heaven  doth 

dwell, 
And  wield  the  world,  she  claymed  for  her  syre, 
Or  if  that  any  else  did  Jove  excell: 
Tor  to  the  highest  she  did  still  aspyre, 

Or  if  ought  higher  were  then  that,  did  it 

desyre. 

12 

And  proud  Lucifera  men  did  her  call. 

That  made  her  selfe  a  Queene,  and  crowned  to 

be. 
Yet  rightfuU  kingdome  she  had  none  at  all, 
Ne  heritage  of  native  soveraintie. 
But  did  usurpe  with  wrong  and  tyrannic 
Upon  the  scepter,  which  she  now  did  hold: 
Ne  ruld  her  Eealmes  with  lawes,  but  pollicie, 
And  strong  advizement  of  six  wizards  old,t 
That  with  their  counsels  bad  her  kingdome 

did  uphold. 

13 

Soone  as  the  Elfin  knight  in  presence  came, 

And  false  Duessa  seeming  Lady  faire, 

A  gentle  Husher,  Vanitie  by  name 

Made  rowme,  and  passage  for  them  did  pre- 

paire: 
So  goodly  brought  them  to  the  lowest  staire 
Of    her    high    throne,    where    they    on    humble 

knee 
Making  obeyssance,  did  the  cause  declare, 
Why  they  were  come,  her  royall  state  to  see, 
To    prove    the    wide    report    of    her    great 

Majestee. 

14 
With  loftie  eyes,  halfe  loth  to  looke  so  low. 
She  thanked  them  in  her  disdainefull  wise; 
Ne  other  grace  vouchsafed  them  to  show 
Of  Princesse  worthy,  scarse  them  bad  arise. 
Her  Lordes  and  Ladies  all  this  while  devise 
Themselves  to  setten  forth  to  straungers  sight: 

•  Court  ladies  used  to  carry  mirrors. 

t  Pride  and  her  six  counsellors,  Idleness,  Gluttony, 

Lechery,  Avarice,  Envy,  and  Wrath,  constitute 

the  "seven  deadly  sins." 


Some    frounce    their    curled    haire    in    courtly 

guise, 
Some  prancke  their  ruffes,  and  others  trimly 
dight 
Their  gay  attire:   each  others  greater  pride 
does  spight. 

15 
Goodly  they  all  that  knight  do  entertaine, 
itight    glad   with    him    to    have   increast   their 

crew: 
But  to  Duess'  each  one  himself e  did  paine 
All  kindnesse  and  faire  courtesie  to  shew; 
For  in  that  court  whylome  her  well  they  knew: 
Yet  the  stout  Faerie  mongst  the  middest  crowd 
Thought  all  their  glorie  vaine  in  knightly  vew, 
And  that  great  Princesse  too  exceeding  prowd, 
That    to    strange    knight    no    better    counte- 
nance allowd. 

[Sansjoy  (Joyless,  third  of  the  pagan  broth- 
erhood) appears,  seeking  vengeance  for  the 
death  of  Sansfoy,  and,  secretly  encouraged  by 
Duessa,  challenges  the  Knight  to  combat.] 

The  Combat  Between  the  Knight  of  the 
Eed  Cross  and  Sansjoy.  Feom  Book  I, 
Canto  V. 

1 
The  noble  hart,  that  harbours  vertuous  thought, 
And  is  with  child  of  glorious  great  intent, 
Can  never  rest,  untill  it  forth  have  brought 
Th'  eternall  brood  of  glorie  excellent. 
Such   restlcsse  passion   did   all  night   torment 
The  flaming  coragei  of  that  Faery  knight. 
Devizing,  how  that  doughtie  turnament 
With  greatest  honour  he  atchieven  might; 
Still  did  he  wake,  and  still  did  watch  for 
dawning  light. 

2 
At  last  the  golden  Orientall  gate, 
Of  greatest  heaven  gan  to  open  faire, 
And  Phoebus  fresh,  as  bridegrome  to  his  mate, 
Came  dauncing  forth,  shaking  his  deawie  haire: 
And  hurls  his  glistring  beams  through  gloomy 

aire. 
Which     when     the    wakeful     Elfe    perceiv'd, 

streightway 
He  started  up,  and  did  him  selfe  prepaire, 
In  sunbright  armes,  and  battailous  array: 
For  with  that  Pagan  proud  he  combat  will 
that  day. 

3 
And  forth  he  comes  into  the  commune  hall, 
Where  earely  waite  him  many  a  gazing  eye. 
To  weet  what  end  to  straunger  knights  may 

fall. 
There  many  Minstrales  maken  melody, 

1  heart 


136 


THE  ELlZABETHAiSi  AGE 


To  drive  away  the  dull  melancholy, 
And  many  Bardes,  that  to  the  trembling  chord 
Can  tune  their  timely  voyces  cunningly, 
And  many  Chroniclers  that  can  record 

Old   loves,   and   warres   for   Ladies   doen   by 

many  a  Lord. 

4 
Soon  after  comes  the  cruell  Sarazin, 
In  woven  maile  all   armed   warily, 
And  sternly  lookes  at  him,  who  not  a  pin 
Does  care  for  looke  of  living  creatures  eye. 
They  bring  them  wines  of  Greece  and  Araby, 
And  daintie  spices  fecht  from  furthest  Ynd, 
To  kindle  heat  of  corage  privily: 
And  in  the  wine  a  solemne  oth  they  bynd 
T'  observe  the  sacred  lawes  of  armes,  that 

are  assynd. 

5 
At  last  forth  comes  that  far  renowned  Queene, 
With  royall  pomp  and  Princely  majestie; 
She  is  ybrought  unto  a  paled  greene,- 
And  placed  under  stately  canapee. 
The   warlike  feates   of   both   those  knights  to 

see. 
On  th '  other  side  in  all  mens  open  vew 
Duessa  placed  is,  and  on  a  tree 
Sans-foy  hiss  shield  is  hangd  with  bloody  hew: 
Both  those  the  lawrell  girlonds*  to  the  vic- 
tor dew. 

6 
A  shrilling  trompet  sownded  from  on  hye. 
And  unto  battaill  bad  them  selves  addresse: 
Their  shining  shieldes  about  their  wrestes  they 

tye, 
And    burning    blades    about    their     heads     do 

blesse,5 
The  instruments  of  wrath  and  heavinesse: 
With  greedy  force  each  other  doth  assayle. 
And  strike  so  fiercely,  that  they  do  impresse 
Deepe  dinted  furrowes  in  the  battred  mayle; 
The  yron   walles   to   ward   their  blowes  are 

weak  and  fraile. 


The  Sarazin  was  stout,  and  wondrous  strong, 
And  heaped  blowes  like  yron  hammers  great ; 
For  after  bloud  and  vengeance  he  did  long. 
The  knight  was  fiers,  and  full  of  youthly  heat, 
And    doubled    strokes,    like    dreaded    thunders 

threat: 
For  all  for  prayse  and  honour  he  did  fight. 
Both  stricken  strike,  and  beaten  both  do  beat. 
That  from  their  shields  forth  flyeth  firie  light. 
And    helmets   hewen    decpe   show    marks    of 

eithors  might. 


So   th'   one  for   wrong,   the   other   strives  for 

right ; 
As  when  a  Gryfon  seized  of"'  his  pray, 
A  Dragon  fiers  encountreth  in  his  flight. 
Through  widest  ayre  making  his  ydle  way, 
That  would  his  rightfull  ravine  rend  away; 
With  hideous  horror  botli  together  smight, 
And  souce«  so  sore  that  they  the  heavens  aflfray: 
The  wise  Soothsayer  seeing  so  sad  sight, 
Th'  amazed  vulgar  tels"  of  warres  and  mor- 

tall  fight. 

9 

So   th '   one   for   wrong,   the   other   strives   for 

right. 
And  each  to  deadly  shame  would  drive  his  foe: 
The  cruell  Steele  so  greedily  doth  bight 
In  tender  flesh   that  streames  of  bloud  down 

flow. 
With   which    the    armes,   that   earst   so   bright 

did  show. 
Into  a  pure  vermillion  now  are  dyde: 
Great  ruth  in  all  the  gazers  liarts  did  grow. 
Seeing  the  gored  woundes  to  gape  so  wyde. 
That   victory   they   dare   not    wish   to   either 

side. 

10 

At  last  the  Paynim  chaunst  to  cast  his  eye, 
His  suddein  eye,  flaming  with  wrathful  fyre, 
Upon  his  bi  others  shield,  which  hong  thereby: 
Therewith  redoubled  was  his  raging  yre. 
And  said.  Ah  wretched  sonne*  of  wofuH  syre, 
Doest  thou  sit  wayling  by  blacke  Stygian  lake, 
Whilest   here   thy  shield  is  hangd   for  victors 

hyre. 
And  sluggish  german^  doest  thy  forces  slake 
To  after-send  his   foe,   that   him   may  over- 
take! 

11 
Goe  captive  Elfe,  him  quickly  overtake. 
And   soone   redeeme    from    his   long   wandring 

woe; 
Goe  guiltie  ghost,  to  him  my  message  make, 
That  I  his  shield  have  quit'"  from  dying  foe. 
Therewith   upon  his  crest   he  stroke  him  so, 
That  twise  he  reeled,  readie  twise  to  fall; 
End  of  the  doubtful  battell  deemeil  tho" 
The  lookers  on,  and  lowd  to  him  gan  call 
The  false  Duessa,  Thine  the  shield,  and    F, 

and  all. 


8  iDclosed  field 

3  Sannfoy's 

4  Both   Duessa  and  the 


K  h  I  0  1  d     arc     the 
prizes  of   victory. 
&  brandlMh 


n  possessed  of 
I  0  KW(><i|)  ( term  from  fal- 
conry) 
I  7  proplu'sles      to      the 
I  amazed    people. 

I  «  Addressed      to      his 
I  brother. 


»  Addressed  to  himself 
{(ivriiHiii  means 
hrutlH'i). 

10  redepmt'd 

11  then 


EDMUND  SPENSER 


137 


12 
Soone  as  the  Faerie  heard  his  Ladie  speake, 
Out  of  his  swowning  dreaine  he  gan  awake, 
And    quickning    faith,    that    earst    was    woxen 

weake, 
The  creeping  deadly  cold  away  did  shake: 
Tlio  niov'd  with  wrath,  and  shame,  and  Ladies 

sake, 
Of  all  attouce  he  cast>o  avengd  to  bee, 
And  with  so '  exceeding  furie  at  him  strake, 
'J'hat  forced  him  to  stoupe  upon  his  knee ; 
Had    he   not    stouped    so,     he     should     have 

cloven  bee. 

13 
And  to  him  said,  Goe  now  proud  Miscreant, 
Thy  selfe  thy  message  doe  to  german  deare; 
Alone  he  wandring  thee  too  long  doth  want: 
Goe  say,  his  foe  thy  shield  with  his  doth  beare. 
Therewith  his  heavie  hand  he  high  gan  reare, 
Him    to    have   slaine;    when    loe    a    darkesome 

clowd 
Upon  him  fell:   he  no  where  doth  appeare, 
But   vanisht   is.     The   Eife  him   calls  alowd, 
But  answer  none  receives:    the  darkness  him 

does  shrowd. 

14 
In  haste  Duessa  from  her  place  arose. 
And  to  him  running  said.  O  prowest  knight. 
That  ever  Ladie  to  her  love  did  chose, 
Let  now  abate  the  terror  of  your  might, 
And  quench  the  fiame  of  furious  despight. 
And     bloudie     vengeance;      lo     th'     infernall 

powres, 
Covering  your  foe  with  cloud  of  deadly  night, 
Have    borne    him    hence    to    Plutoes    balefull 

bowres. 
The  conquest  yours,  T  yours,  tlie  shield,  the 

glory  yours. 

13 
Not  all  so  satisfide,  with  greedie  eye 
He  sought  all  round  about,  his  thristie^  blade 
To  bath  in  bloud  of  faithlesse  enemy; 
Who  all  that  while  lay  hid  in  secret  shade: 
He  standes  amazed,  how  he  thence  should  fade. 
At  last  the  trumpets  Triumph  sound  on  hie. 
And  running  Heralds  humble  homage  nia<le. 
Greeting  him   goodly  with  new  victorie. 

And  to  him  brought  the  shield,  the  cause  of 

cnmitie. 

16 
Wherewith  he  goeth  to  that  soveraine  Queene. 
And  falling  her  before  on  lowly  knee. 
To  her  makes  present  of  his  service  seene: 
Which   she   accepts,  with   thankes,   and   goodly 

gree,J2 
Greatly  advauncing's  his  gay  chevalree. 


10  resolved 

11  thirsty 


12  g;ood  will 

13  lauding 


So  marcheth  home,  and  by  her  takes  the  knight, 

Whom   all   the  people   follow   with   great   glee, 

Shouting,    and    clapping    all    their    hands    on 

hight, 

That  all  the  aire  it  fils,  and  flyes  to  heaven 

bright. 


Home   is   he   brought,    and   laid    in   sumptuous 

bed: 
Where   many   skilfull   leaches   him   abide, 
To  salve  his  hurts,  that  yet  still  freshly  bled. 
In  wine  and  oyle  they  wash  his  woundes  wide. 
And   softly   cani*   embalme   on   every   side. 
And  all  the  while,  most  heavenly  melody 
About  the  bed  sweet  musicke  did  divide,!^ 
Him  to  beguile  of  griefe  and  agony: 

And  all  the  while  Duessa  wept  full  bitterly. 

[The  Knight  and  the  Dwarf  escape  from  the 
house  of  Pride,  but  the  Knight  is  captured  by 
the  giant  Orgoglio  (another  impersonator  of 
Pride)  and  thrown  into  a  dungeon.  Meanwhile 
Una,  having  escaped  from  Sansloy,  meets  the 
Dwarf,  who  tells  her  what  has  befallen.  Just 
then  appears  Prince  Arthur,  seeking  the  court 
of  the  Faerie  Queene.  He  hears  their  story, 
fights  with  Orgoglio,  and  frees  his  prisoner.  Re- 
united, the  Knight  and  Una  proceed  on  their 
way.  After  further  trial  in  the  Cave  of  De- 
spair, and  wholesome  discipline  at  the  House  of 
Holiness,  they  reach  the  goal  of  their  journey — 
the  wasted  kingdom,  and  the  brazen  tower  where 
Una 's  parents  are  imprisoned  by  the  Dragon. 
The  Knight  engages  in  a  desperate  conflict  with 
the  Dragon,  and  only  on  the  third  day  succeeds 
in   conquering  him.] 


The  Dragox  Slain.    The  Betrothal  of  Una. 
From  Book  I,  Canto  XII. 


Behold  I  see  the  haven  nigh  at  hand, 

To  which  I  meane  my  wearie  course  to  bend ; 

Vere  the  maine  shete,  and  beare  up  withi  the 

land, 
The  which  afore  is  fairely  to  be  keiid, 
And   seemeth   safe    from   storms   that   may   of- 
fend ; 
There  this  faire  virgin  wearie  of  her  way 
Must  landed  be,  now  at  her  journeyes  end: 
There  eke  my  feeble  barke  a  while  may  stay 
Till  merry  wind  and  weather  call  her  thence 
away. 


14  did 

15  descant,  perform  in 

musical  "divisions" 


1  make  for 


138 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


Scarsely  had  PhcEbus  in  the  glooming  East 

Yet  harnessed  his  firie-footed  teeme, 

Ne  reard  above  the  earth  his  flaming  creast; 

When  the  last  deadly  smoke  aloft  did  steeme 

That  signe  of  last  outbreathed  life  did  seeme 

Unto  the  watchman  on  the  castle  wall, 

Who    thereby    dead    that    balefull    Beast     did 

deeme, 
And  to  his  Lord  and  Ladie  lowd  gan  call, 
To  tell  how  he  had  seene  the  Dragons  fatall 

fall. 

3 
Uprose  with  hastie  joy,  and  feeble  speed 
That  aged  Sire,  the  Lord  of  all  that  land. 
And  looked  forth,  to  weet  if  true  indeede 
Those  tydings  were,  as  he  did  understand, 
Which  whenas  true  by  tryall  he  out  found. 
He  bad  to  open  wyde  his  brazen  gate, 
Which   long  time  had   been   shut,   and   out   of 

hond 
Proclaymed    joy    and    peace    through    all    his 

state; 
For  dead  now  was  their  foe  which  them  for- 

rayed  late. 

4 
Then  gan  triumphant  Trompets  sound  on  hie. 
That  sent  to  heaven  the  ecchoed  report 
Of  their  new  joy,  and  happie  vietorie 
Gainst  him,  that  had  them  long  opprest  with 

tort,2 
And  fast  imprisoned  in  sieged  fort. 
Then  all  the  people,  as  in  solemne  feast, 
To  him  assembled  with  one  full  consort, 
Bejoycing  at  the  fall  of  that  great  beast, 
Erom  whose  eternall  bondage  now  they  were 

releast. 

5 
Forth    came    that    auncient    Lord    and    aged 

Queene, 
Arayd  in  antique  robes  downe  to  the  ground, 
And  sad  habiliments  right  well  beseeneS; 
A  noble  crew  about  them  waited  round 
Of  sage  and  sober  Peres*,  all  gravely  gownd ; 
Whom  farre  before  did  march  a  goodly  bard 
Of  tall  young  men,  all  hable  armes  to  sownds, 
But  now  they  laurell  braunches  bore  in  hand; 
Glad  signe  of  vietorie  and  peace  in  all  their 

land. 

6 
Unto   that   doughtie  Conqueror   they   came, 
And  him  before  themselves  prostrating  low, 
Their  Lord  and  Patrone  loud  did  him  proclame. 
And  at  his  feet  their  laurell  boughes  did  throw. 
Boone  after  them  all  dauncing  on  a  row 
The  comely  virgins  came,  with  girlands  dlght, 


2  wrong 

3  arrayed 


4  peorB,  princps 
B  clash,  wield 


As  fresh  as  flowres  in  medow  greene  do  grow, 
When    morning   deaw    upon    their    leaves   doth 
light: 
And  in  their  hands  sweet  Timbrels  all  up- 
held on  hight. 

17 
Then  sayd  the  royall  Pere  in  sober  wise; 
Deare  Sonne,  great   beene   the  evils  which  ye 

bore 
From  first  to  last  in  your  late  enterprise, 
That  I  notes  whether  prayse,  or  pitty  more; 
For  never  living  man,  I  weene,  so  sore 
In  sea  of  deadly  daungers  was  distrest; 
But  since  now  safe  ye  seised  have  the  shore, 
And  well  arrived  are,  (high  God  be  blest) 
Let  us  devize  of  ease  and  everlasting  rest. 

18 
Ah,    dearest    Lord,    said    then    that    doughty 

knight. 
Of  ease  or  rest  I  may  not  yet  devize, 
For  by  the  faith,  which  I  to  armes  have  plight, 
I  bounden  am  streight  after  this  emprize. 
As  that  your  daughter  can  ye  well  advize, 
Backe  to  returne  to  that  great  Faerie  Queene, 
And  her  to  serve  six  yeares  in  warlike  wize, 
Gainst  that  proud  Paynim  king  that  workes  her 

teene^ : " 
Therefore  I  ought  crave  pardon,  till  I  there 

have  beene. 

19 
Unhappie  falles  that  hard  necessitie, 
(Quoth  he)  the  troubler  of  my  happie  peace, 
And  vowed  foe  of  my  felicitie; 
Ne  I  against  the  same  can  justly  preace:* 
But  since  that  band  ye  cannot  now  release. 
Nor  doen  undo;9  (for  vowes  may  not  be  vaine), 
Soone  as  the  terms  of  those  six  yeares  shall 

cease. 
Ye  then  shall  hither  backe  returne  againe. 
The   marriage   to    accomplish    vowd    betwixt 

you  twain. 

20 
Which  for  my  part  I  covet  to  performe, 
In  sort  as  through  the  world  I  did  proclame, 
That  whoso  kild  that  monster  most  deforme, 
And  him  in  hardy  battaile  overcame. 
Should  have  mine  onely  daughter  to  his  Dame, 
And  of  my  kingdome  heyre  apparaunt  bee: 
Therefore  since  now  to  thee  perteines  the  same, 
By  dew  desert  of  noble  chevalree. 

Both  daughter  and  eke  kingdome,  lo,  I  yield 

to  thee. 


0  ne  wot.  know  not 
7  cauHOR  her  grief 


R  press 


0  cause  to  bo  undone 


EDMUND  SPEXSER 


139 


[Archimago,  in  a  last  spiteful  efifort,  comes 
disguised  as  a  messenger  and  attempts  to  pre- 
vent the  betrothal  by  producing  a  letter  from 
Duessa  in  which  she  asserts  that  the  Knight  is 
plighted  to  her.    His  ruse,  however,  is  exposed.] 

36 

But  they  him  layd  full  low  in  dungeon  deepe, 
And    bound    him    hand    and    foote    with    yron 

chains 
And   with   continual   watch   did  warely  keeper 
Who   then    would    thinke,    that    by    his   subtile 

trains 
He  could  escape  fowle  death  or  deadly  paines? 
Thus  when  that  princes  wrath  was  pacifide, 
He  gan  renew  the  late  forbidden  banesio, 
And  to  the  knight  his  daughter  dear  he  tyde, 
With    sacred    rites    and    vowes    for    ever    to 

abyde. 

37 
His  owne  two  hands  the  holy  knots  did  knit. 
That  none  but  death  for  ever  can  devide; 
His  owne  two  hands,  for  such  a  turne  most  fit, 
The  housUngii  fire  did  kindle  and  provide, 
And  holy  water  thereon   sprinckled  wide; 
At  which  the  bushy  Teadei2  a  groome  did  light, 
And  sacred  lamp  in  secret  chamber  hide, 
Where  it  should  not  be  quenched  day  nor  night, 
For    feare    of   evill   fates,   but   burnen   ever 

bright. 

38 
Then    gan    they    sprinckle   all    the    posts    with 

wine. 
And  made  great  feast  to  solemnize  that  day; 
They   all   perfumde   with   frankencense   divine. 
And  precious  odours  fetcht  from  far  away, 
That  all  the  house  did  sweat  with  great  aray: 
And  all  the  while  sweete  Musicke  did  apply 
Her  curious  skill,  the  warbling  notes  to  play. 
To    drive   away    the   dull    Melancholy; 

The    whiles   one    sung   a   song   of   love   and 

jollity. 

39 
During  the  which  there  was  an  heavenly  noise 
Heard  sound  through  all  the  Pallace  pleasantly. 
Like  as  it  had  bene  many  an  Angels  voice 
Singing    before    th'    eternall    Majesty, 
In  their  trinall  triplicitiesia  on  hye; 
Yet    wist    no    creature    whence    that    heavenly 

sweet 
Proceeded,  yet   eachone   felt   secretly 
Himselfe  thereby  reft  of  his  sences  meet. 
And    ravished    with    rare    impression    in    his 

sprite. 

10  banns  ii  sacramental      12  torch 

13  The  thrice  three  orders  of  the  celestial  hler- 
aroliy :  Seraphim.  Cherubim,  Thrones,  Domin- 
ions, Virtues,  Powers,  Princedoms,  Aroh- 
angeis.  Angels. 


40 
Great  joy  was  made  that  day  of  young  and 

old, 
And   solemne    feast   proclaimd  throughout   the 

land, 
That  their  exceeding  merth  may  not  be  told: 
Suffice  it  heare  by  signes  to  understand 
The  usuall  joyes  at  knitting  of  loves  band. 
Thrise    happv    man    the    knight    himselfe    did 

hold,  " 
Possessed  of  his  Ladies  hart  and  hand, 
And  ever,  when  his  eye  did  her  behold, 
His   heart    did    seeme    to   melt   in   pleasures 

manifold. 

41 
Her  joyous  presence,  and  sweet  company 
In  full  content  he  there  did  long  enjoy; 
Ne  wicked  envie,  ne  vile  gealosy, 
His  deare  delights  were  able  to  annoy: 
Yet  swimming  in  that  sea  of  blissfull  joy. 
He  nought  forgot  how  he  whilome  had  sworne, 
In  case  he  could  that  monstrous  beast  destroy, 
Unto  his  Faerie  Queene  backe  to  returne; 
The  which  he  shortly  did,  and  Una  left  to 

mourne, 

42 
Now  strike  your  sailes  ye  jolly  Mariners, 
For  we  be  come  unto  a  quiet  rode. 
Where  we  must  land  some  of  our  passengers, 
And  light  this  wearie  vessell  of  her  lode. 
Here  she  a  while  may  make  her  safe  abode, 
Till  she  repaired  have  her  tackles  spent, 
And  wants  supplide.    And  then  againe  abroad 
On  the  long  voyage  whereto  she  is  bent: 
Well  may  she  speede  and  fairely  finish  her 

intent. 


PEOTHALAMION* 

Calm  was  the  day,  and  through  the  trembling 

air 
Sweet-breathing  Zephyrus  did  softly  play — 
A  gentle  spirit,  that  lightly  did  delay 
Hot    Titan's    beams,    which    then    did    glister 

fair; 
When   I,    (whom  sullen  care, 
Through  discontent  of  my  long  fruitless  stay 
In  princes '  court,  and  expectation  vain 
Of  idle  hopes,  which  still  do  fly  away 
Like  empty  shadows,  diu  afflict  my  brain) 

*  A  "Spousall  Verse"  made  in  honor  of  the  ap- 
proaching double  marriage  of  the  Ladies 
Elizabeth  and  Katherine  Somerset  in  1596, 
and  apparently  celebrating  some  visit  of 
theirs  to  Essex  House.  F.  T.  Palgrave  says 
of  this  poem :  "Nowhere  has  Spenser  more 
emphatically  displayed  himself  as  the  very 
poet  of  Beauty  :  The  Renaissance  impulse  in 
England  is  here  seen  at  its  highest  and 
purest." 


140 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


Walk'd  forth  to  ease  my  pain  10 

Along  the  shore  of  silver-streaming  Thames; 
Whose  rutty  1  bank,  the  which  his  river  hems, 
Was  painted  all  with   variable  flowers. 
And  all  the  meads  adorn  M  with  dainty  gems 
Fit  to  deck  maidens'  bowers, 
And  crown  their  paramours 
Against  the  bridal  day,  which  is  not  long: 
Sweet    Thames!    run    softly,    till    I   end   my 
song. 

There  in  a  meadow  by  the  river's  side 

A  flock  of  nymphs  1  chanced  to  espy,  20 

All  lovely  daughters  of  the  flood  thereby, 

With  goodly  greenish  locks  all  loose  untied 

As  each  had  been  a  bride; 

And  each  one  had  a  little  wicker  basket 

Made  of  fine  twigs,  entrailed  curiously. 

In   which    they    gather 'd    flowers    to    fill   their 

flasket. 
And  with  fine  fingers  cropt  full  feateouslys 
The  tender  stalks  on  high. 
Of  every  sort  which  in  that  meadow  grew 
They  gather 'd  some;  the  violet,  pallid  blue,    30 
The  little  daisy  that  at  evening  closes. 
The  virgin  lily  and  the  primrose  true, 
With  store  of  vermeil  roses, 
To  deck  their  bridegrooms'  posies 
Against  the  bridal  day,  which  was  not  long: 
Sweet    Thames!    run   softly,   till   I    end   my 

song. 

With  that  I  saw  two  swansf  of  goodly  hue 

Come  softly  swimming  down  along  the  Ijee"*; 

Two  fairer  birds  I  yet  did  never  see; 

The  snow  which  doth  the  top  of  Pindus  strow 

Did   never  whiter  show,  41 

Nor  Jove  himself,  when  he  a  swan  would  be 

For  love  of  Leda,  whiter  did  appear; 

Yet  Leda  was  (they  say)  as  white  as  he, 

Yet  not  80  white  as  these,  nor  nothing  near; 

So  purely  white  they  were 

That  even  the  gentle  stream,  the  which  them 

bare, 
Seem'd    foul    to    them,    and    bade   his    billows 

spare 
To  wet  their  silken  feathers,  lest  they  might 
Soil  their  fair  plumes  with  water  not  so  fair.  50 
And  mar  their  beauties  bright 
That  shone  as  Heaven's  light 

1  rooty 

2  pluckod  very  dexterously 
.T  stream 

t  "The  rrltlcH  blame  him  becauBo  In  hlfl 
I'rothalamion  the  subjects  of  It  enter  on  the 
Tbam"8  as  swans  and  leave  It  at  Temple 
Tfardens  as  noble  damsels  ;  but  to  those  who 
are  grown  familiar  with  his  imaginary  world 
such  a  transformation  seems  as  natural  as  In 
the  old  legend  of  the  Knight  of  the  Swan  "- 
Lowell. 


Against  their  bridal  day,  which  was  not  long: 
Sweet    Thames!    run    softly,    till    1    end    my 
song. 

Eftsoons  the  nymphs,  which  now  had   flowers 

their  fill, 
Ran  all  in  haste  to  see  that  silver  brood 
As  they  came  floating  on  the  crystal  flood; 
Whom  when  they  saw,  they  stood  amazed  still 
Their  wondering  eyes  to  fill;  59 

Thiem  seem  'd  they  never  saw  a  sight  so  fair 
Of  fowls,  so  lovely,  that  they  sure  did  deem 
Them  heavenly  born,  or  to  be  that  same  pair 
Which    through    the    sky    draw    Venus'    silver 

team ; 
For  sure  they  did  not  seem 
To  be  begot  of  any  earthly  seed, 
But  rather  Angels,  or  of  Angels'  breed; 
Yet  were   they  bred  of  summer's   heat*,  they 

say, 

In  sweetest  season,  when  each  flower  and  weed 
The  earth  did  fresh  array; 
So  fresh  they  seem  'd  as  day,  70 

Ev  'n  as  their  bridal  day,  which  was  not  long: 
Sweet    Thames!    run   softly,    till    I    end   my 
"    song. 

Then  forth  they  all  out  of  their  baskets  drew 
Great  store  of  flowers,  the  honour  of  the  field. 
That  to  the  sense  did  fragrant  odours  yield. 
All  which  upon  those  goodly  birds  they  threw 
And  all  the  waves  did  strew. 
That  like  old  Peneus'  waters  they  did  seem 
When   down  along  by  pleasant   Tempe  's  sliore 
Scatter 'd  with  flowers,  through  Thessaly  they 

stream,  80 

That    they    appear,    through    lilies'    plenteous 

store, 
Like  a  bride's  chamber-floor. 
Two  of  those  nymphs  meanwhile  two  garlands 

bound 
Of  freshest   flowers  which  in  that  mead  they 

found, 
The  which  presenting  all  in  trim  array. 
Their      snowy      foreheads      therewithal      they 

crown  'd ; 
Whilst  one  did  sing  this  lay 
Prepared  against  that  day, 
Against  their  bridal  day,  which  was  not  long: 
Sweet    Thames!    run    softly    till    I    end    my 

song.  ^ 

'Ye  gentle  birds!  the  world's  fair  ornament, 
And  Heaven's  glory,  whom  this  happy  hour 
Doth  lead  unto  your  lovers'  blissful  bower, 

4  Spenser  spelled  It  Somer's  hent  (Somerset)  and 
the  pun  was  no  doubt  regarded  as  an  orna- 
ijint. 


EDMUND  SPENSER 


141 


Joy  may  you  have,  and  gentle  hearts '  content 
Of  your  love 's  couplement ; 
And  let  fair  Venus,  that  is  queen  of  love, 
With  her  heart-quelling  son  upon  you  smile, 
"Whose   smile,   they  say,   hath   virtue  to   remove 
All  love's  dislike,  and  friendship's  faulty  guile 
For  ever  to  assoil.  100 

Let  endless  peace  your  steadfast  hearts  accord, 
And  blessed  plenty  wait  upon  your  board ; 
And  let  your  bed  with  pleasures  chaste  abound, 
That  fruitful  issue  may  to  you  afford 
Which  may  your  foes  confound, 
And  make  your  joys  redound 
Upon  your  bridal  day,  which  is  not  long: 
Sweet    Thames!    run   softly,    till    1   end    my 
song. ' 

So  ended  she;  and  all  the  rest  around 
To  her  redoubled  that  her  undersong,  HO 

Which  said  their  bridal  day  should  not  be  long: 
And  gentle  Echo  from  the  neighbour  ground 
Their   accents   did   resound. 
So  forth  those  joyous  birds  did  pass  along 
Adown  the  Lee  that  to  them  murmur  'd  low. 
As  he  would  speak  but  that  he  lack  'd  a  tongue ; 
Yet  did  by  signs  his  glad  affection  show, 
Making   his   stream   run  slow. 
And  all  the  fowl  which  in  his  flood  did  dwell 
'Gan  flock  about  these  twain,  that  did  excel 
The  rest,  so  far  as  Cynthia  doth  shends         121 
The  lesser  stars.    So  they,  enranged  well, 
Did  on  those  two  attend. 
And  their  best  service  lend 
Against  their  wedding  day,  which  was  not  long ! 
Sweet  Thames !  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

At  length  they  all  to  merry  London  came. 
To  merry  London,  my  most  kindly  nurse. 
That  to  me  gave  this  life's  first  native  source, 
Though  from  another  place  I  take  my  name,   130 
An  house  of  ancient  fame: 
There   when    she    came   whereass    those   bricky 

towers 
The   which    on    Thames'   broad   ag6d   back   do 

ride, 
Where    now    the    studious    lawyers    have    their 

bowers. 
There    whilome    wont    the    Templar-knights    to 

bide. 
Till  they  decay 'd  through  pride; 
Next  whereunto  there  stands  a  stately  place. 
Where  oft  I  gained  gifts  and  goodly  grace 
Of    that    great    lord^,    which    therein    wont    to 

dwell, 


5  the  moon  doth  shame 
«  where 


7  Lord  Leicester,  Spen- 
ser's patron,  whose 
death  left  him  in 
"friendless  case." 


Whose  want   too   well   now  feels  my  friendless 

case; 
But  ah!  here  fits  not  well  m 

Old  woes,  but  joys  to  tell 
Against  the  bridal  day,  which  is  not  long: 
Sweet  Thames!  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

Yet  therein  now  doth  lodge  a  noble  peer,* 
Great   England 's   glory   and   the  world 's   wide 

wonder. 
Whose  dreadful   name  late  through   all   Spain 

did  thunder. 
And  Hercules'  two  pillars  standing  near 
Did  make  to  quake  and  fear: 
Fair  branch  of  honour,  flower  of  chivalry!    150 
That  fiUest  England  with  thy  triumphs '  fame 
Joy  have  thou  of  thy  noble  victory ,» 
And  endless  happiness  of  thine  own  nameio 
That  promiseth   the  same; 

That  through  thy  prowess  and  victorious  arms 
Thy  country  may  be  freed  from  foreign  harms, 
And  great  Elisa  's  glorious  name  may  ring 
Through    all    the    world,    fill  'd    with   thy   wide 

alarms, 
Which  some  brave  Muse  may  sing 
To  ages  following:  160 

Upon  the  bridal  day,  which  is  not  long: 

Sweet  Thames!  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song? 

From  those  high  towers  this  noble  lord  issuing 

Like  Radiant  Hesper,  when  his  golden  hair 

In  th'  ocean  billows  he  hath  bathed  fair, 

Descendetl  to  the  river's  open  viewing 

With  a  great  train  ensuing. 

Above  the  rest  were  goodly  to  be  seen 

Two  gentle  knights  of  lovely  face  and  feature. 

Beseeming  well  the  bower  of  any  queen,       170 

With  gifts  of  wit  and  ornaments  of  nature. 

Fit  for  so  goodly  stature. 

That  like  the  twins  of  Joven  they  seem'd  in 

sight 
Which  deck  the  baldric  of  the  Heavens  bright; 
They  two,  forth  pacing  to  the  river's  side. 
Received    those    two    fair    brides,    their    love 's 

delight ; 
Which,  at  th '  appointed  tide, 
Each  one  did  make  his  bride 
Against  their  bridal  day,  which  is  not  long: 
Sweet  Thames!  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 


8  Robert  Devereux,  second  Earl  of  Essex 

9  At  Cadiz,  1596. 

10  Apparently    an    allusion    to    the   fact    that    the 

words  ever  and  heureux   (Fr.,   "happy")    can 
be  seen  in  the  name  Devereux. 
n  Castor  and  Pollux,  who  were  placed  amongr  the 
stars  as   the   constellation  Gemini. 


142 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


ELIZABETHAN  SONNETS* 

EDMUND  SPENSEB    (1552-1599) 

Amoretti  XV. 
Ye  tradeful  merchants  that  with  weary  toil 
Do  seek  most  precious  things  to  make  your  gain, 
And  both  the  Indias  of  their  treasures  spoil, 
What  needeth  you  to  seek  so  far  in  vain? 
For  lo,  my  love  doth  in  herself  contain 
All  this  world's  riches  that  may  far  be  found: 
If  sapphires,  lo,  her  eyes  be  sapphires  plain; 
If  rubies,  lo,  her  lips  be  rubies  sound; 
If  pearls,  her  teeth  be  pearls,  both  pure  and 

round ; 
If  ivory,  her  forehead  ivory  ween; 
If  gold,  her  locks  are  finest  gold  on  ground; 
If  silver,  her  fair  hands  are  silver  sheen. 
But  that  which  fairest  is,  but  few  behold — 
Her  mind  adorned  with  virtues  manifold. 

Amoeetti  XXXVII. 

What    guile    is    this,    that    those    her    golden 

tresses 
She  doth  attire  under  a  net  of  gold, 
And  with  sly  skill  so  cunningly  them  dresses 
That  which  is  gold  or  hair  may  scarce  be  told? 
Is  it  that  men 's  frail  eyes,  which  gaze  too  bold, 
She  may  entangle  in  that  golden  snare. 
And,  being  caught,  may  craftily  enfold 
Their  weaker  hearts,  which  are  not  well  aware? 
Take  heed,  therefore,  mine  eyes,  how  ye  do  stare 
Henceforth  too  rashly  on  that  guileful  net, 
In  which  if  ever  ye  entrapped  are. 
Out  of  her  bands  ye  by  no  means  shall  get. 
Fondnessi  it  were /or  any,  being  free, 
To  covet  fetters,  though  they  golden  be! 

Amoretti  LXL 
The  glorious  image  of  the  Maker's  beauty, 
My  sovereign  saint,  the  idol  of  my  thought. 
Dare  not  henceforth,  above  the  bounds  of  duty, 
T'  accuse  of  pride,  or  rashly  blame  for  ought. 
For  being,  as  she  is,  divinely  wrought, 
And  of  the  brood  of  angels  heavenly  born, 
And  with  the  crew  of  blessed  saints  upbrought. 
Each  of  which  did  her  with  their  gifts  adorn — 
The  bud  of  joy,  the  blossom  of  the  morn. 
The  beam  of  light,  whom  mortal  eyes  admire; 
What  reason  is  it  then  but  she  should  scorn 

1  folly 

*  Sonnet  groups  or  sequences  were  a  marked 
feature  of  Elizabethan  verse.  The  Amoretti 
are  a  series  of  eighty-eight,  recording  Spenser's 
courtship  of  Elizabeth  Boyle,  his  marriage  to 
whom  In  1594  was  the  occasion  of  his 
Kpithalamion.  The  Aatrophel  and  Stella 
series,  of  one  hundred  and  ten,  chronicles  Sid- 
ney's love  for  Penelope  Devereux.  The  In- 
splrers  of  most  of  the  other  series  seem  more 
or  less  ImaKlnary.     See  Eng,  Lit.,  pp.  95,  107. 


Base  things  that  to  her  love  too  bold  aspire! 
Such  heavenly  forms  ought  rather  worshipt  be 
Than  dare  be  loved  by  men  of  mean  degree. 

SIE  PHILIP  SIDNEY  (1554-1586) 

ASTROPHEL  AND  StELLA  I.f 

Loving  in  truth,  and  fain  in  verse  my  love  to 
show, 

That  she,  dear  she,  might  take  some  pleasure 
of  my  pain, — 

Pleasure  might  cause  her  read,  reading  might 
make  her  know, 

Knowledge  might  pity  win,  and  pity  grace 
obtain, — 

I  sought  fit  words  to  paint  the  blackest  face 
of  woe; 

Studying  inventions  fine,  her  wits  to  entertain. 

Oft  turning  others'  leaves,  to  see  if  thence 
would  flow 

Some  fresh  and  fruitful  showers  upon  my  sun- 
burn'd  brain. 

But  words  came  halting  forth,  wanting  Inven- 
tion's  stay2; 

Invention,  Nature's  child,  fled  step-dame 
Study's  blows; 

And  others'  feet  still  seem'd  but  strangers  in 
my  way. 

Thus,  great  with  child  to  speak,  and  helpless 
in   my  throes. 

Biting  my  truant  pen,  beating  myself  for  spite; 

Fool,  said  my  Muse  to  me,  look  in  thy  heart 
and  write. 

Astrophel  and  Stella  XXXI. 

With  how  sad  steps,  0  Moon,  thou  climb 'st  the 

skies ! 
How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face! 
What,  may  it  be  that  e  'en  in  heavenly  place 
That  busy  archer  his  sharp  arrows  tries! 
Sure,  if  that  long-with-love-acquainted  eyes 
Can  ;^dge  of  love,  thou  feel'st  a  lover's  case, 
I  read  it  in  thy  looks;  thy  languish 'd  grace, 
To  me,  that  feel  the  like,  thy  state  descries. 
Then,  e  'en  of  fellowship,  O  Moon,  tell  me, 
Is  constant  love  deem'd  there  but  want  of  wit? 
Are  beauties  there  as  proud  as  here  they  be? 
Do  they  above  love  to  be  loved,  and  yet 
Those  lovers  scorn  whom  that  love  doth  possess? 
Do  they  call  virtue,  there,  ungratefulness? 

SAMUEL  DANIEL  (1562-1619) 

To  Deua  LI. 

Care-charmer  Sleep,  son  of  the  sable  Night, 

Brother  to  Death,  in  silent  darkness  born, 

t  See  last  note.  "After  Shakespeare's  sonnets,  Sid- 
ney's Astrophel  and  IStclla  offers  the  most  In- 
tense and  powerful  picture  of  the  passion  of 
love  In  the  whole  range  of  our  poetry." — F.  T. 
Palgrave.  2  support 


EUZABETHAN  SONNETS 


143 


Relieve  my  languish,  and  restore  the  light; 
With  dark  forgetting  of  my  care  return. 
And  let  the  day  be  time  enough  to  mourn 
The  shipwreck   of  my  ill-adventured  youth: 
Let  waking  eyes  suflSce  to  wail  their  scorn, 
Without  the  torment  of  the  night 's  untruth. 
Cease,  dreams,  the  images  of  day-desires, 
To  model  forth  the  passions  of  the  morrow ; 
Never  let  rising  Sun  approve  you  liars, 
To  add  more  grief  to  aggravate  my  sorrow: 
Still  let  me  sleep,  embracing  clouds  in  vain. 
And  never  wake  to  feel  the  day's  disdain. 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON  (1563-1631) 
Idea  LXI. 

Since   there 's   no    help,   come   let   us   kiss   and 

part,— 
Nay  I  have  done,  you  get  no  more  of  me; 
And  I  am  glad,  yea,  glad  with  all  my  heart. 
That  thus  so  cleanly  I  myself  can  free; 
Shake  hands  for  ever,  cancel  all  our  vows, 
And  when  we  meet  at  any  time  again, 
Be  it  not  seen  in  either  of  our  brows 
That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retain. 
Now  at  the  last  gasp  of  love's  latest  breath. 
When  his  pulse  failing,  passion  speechless  lies. 
When  faith  is  kneeling  by  his  bed  of  death, 
And  innocence  is  closing  up  his  eyes, 
— Now  if  thou  would 'st,  when  all  have  given 

him   over. 
From    death    to    life    thou    might 'st    him    yet 

recover ! 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE   (1564-1616) 

Sonnet  XXIX. 

When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes 

I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state, 

And    trouble    deaf    heaven    with    my    bootless 

cries, 
And  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my  fate; 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope, 
Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  possest, 
Desiring  this  man's  art,  and  that  man's  scope. 
With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least; 
Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising. 
Haply  I  think  on  thee; — and  then  my  state, 
Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From    sullen   earth,   sings   hymns   at  heaven's 

gate; 
For  thy  sweet  love  remember 'd,  such  wealth 

brings 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with 

kings. 


Sonnet  XXX. 

WTien  to  the  sessionss  of  sweet  silent  thought 
I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 
I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 
And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time's 

waste; 
Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow, 
For   precious   friends  hid   in   death's   dateless 

night, 
And  weep  afresh  love 's  long-since-eancell  'd  woe,. 
And  moan  the  expense*   of  many   a  vanished 

sight. 
Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone, 
And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o  'er 
The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan. 
Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before: 
— But   if   the  while   I    think   on   thee,   dear 

Friend, 
All  losses  are  restored,  and  sorrows  end. 

Sonnet  LXIV. 

When  I  have  seen  by  Time's  fell  hand  defaced 
The  rich  proud  cost  of  out-worn  buried  age; 
When  sometime  lofty  towers  I  see  down-razed. 
And  brass  eternal  slave  to  mortal  rage; 
When  I  have  seen  the  hungry  ocean  gain 
Advantage  on  the  kingdom  of  the  shore, 
And  the  firm  soil  win  of  the  watery  main, 
Increasing  store  with  loss,  and  loss  with  store; 
When  I  have  seen  such  interchange  of  state. 
Or  state  itself  confounded  to  decay, 
Ruin  hath  taught  me  thus  to  ruminate — 
That  Time  will  come  and  take  my  Love  away: 

— This  thought  is  a«  a  death,  which  cannot 
choose 

But  weep  to  have  that  which  it  fears  to  lose. 

Sonnet  LXV. 

Since  brass,  nor  stone,  nor  earth,  nor  boundless 

sea. 
But  sad  mortality  o'ersways  their  power, 
How  with  this  rage  shall  beauty  hold  a  plea, 
Whose  action  is  no  stronger  than  a  flower  I 
O  how  shall  summer's  honey  breath  hold  out 
Against  the  wreckful  siege  of  battering  days. 
When  rocks  impregnable  are  not  so  stout 
Nor  gates  of  steel  so  strong,  but  time  decays T 
O  fearful  meditation!   where,  alack! 
Shall  Time's  best  jewels  from  Time's  chest  lie 

hid? 
Or  what  strong  hand  can  hold  his  swift  foot  back. 
Or  who  his  spoil  of  beauty  can  forbid? 
O!  none,  unless  this  miracle  have  might, 
That  in  black  ink  my  love  may  still  shine 

bright. 


3  Legal  phraseology 

4  the  cost   ( in  grief) 


5  1.  e.,  the  poet's  friend. 


144 


THE  PZLIZABETHAN  AGE 


Sonnet  LXXIII. 

That  time  of  year  thou  niay'st  in  me  behol<l 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 
Bare  ruin'd  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds 

sang: 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  twilight  of  such  day 
As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west. 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away. 
Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest: 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  glowing  of  such  fire, 
That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie 
As  the  death-bed  whereon  it  must  expire, 
Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nourish 'd  by: 
— This  thou  perceiv  'st,  which  makes  thy  love 

more   strong, 
To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere 

long. 

Sonnet  LXXIV. 

But- be  contented:  when  that  fell  arrest 
Without  all  bails  shall  carry  me  away, 
My  life  hath  in  this  line  some  interest, 
Which  for  memorial  still  with  thee  shall  stay. 
When  thou  reviewest  this,  thou  dost  review 
The  very  part  was  consecrate  to  thee: 
The  earth  can  have  but  earth,  which  is  his  due ; 
My  spirit  is  thine,  the  better  part  of  me: 
So  then  thou  hast  but  lost  the  dregs  of  life. 
The  prey  of  worms,  my  body  being  dead, 
The  coward  conquest  of  a  wretch's  knife. 
Too  base  of  thee  to  be  remembered. 

The  worth  of  that  is  that  which  it  contains. 
And  that  is  this,  and  this  with  thee  remains. 


ELIZABETHAN  LYRICS 

SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY  (1554-1586) 

ASTROPHEL  AND  STELLA,  FiRST  SONG 

Doubt    you    to    whom    my    Muse    these    notes 

intendeth, 
Which    now    my    breast    surcharged    to    music 

lendeth  ? 
To  you,  to  you,  all  song  of  praise  is  due. 
Only  in  you  my  song  begins  and  endeth. 

Who    hath    the   eyes    which    marry    state    with 

pleasure? 
Who    keeps    the    keys    of    Nature's    chiefest 

treasure? 
To  you,  to  you,  all   song  of   praise  is  due. 
Only  for  you  the  heaven  forgat  all  measure.!     S 

•s  rofuHluK  bail 

■  was   Immeasurably  lavlKh 


Who    hath     the    lips    where    wit    in     fairness^ 

reigneth  ? 
Who     womankind     at     once     both     decks     and 

staineth-l 
To  you,  to  you,  all  song  of  praise  is  due. 
Only  by  you  Cupid  his  crown  maintaineth. 

Who   hath   the    feet   whose   step  all   sweetness 

planteth  ? 
Who    else,    for    whom    Fame    worthy    trumpets 
wanteth  ? 
To  you,  to  you,  all  song  of  praise  is  due, 
Only  to  you  her  scepter  Venus  granteth.  16 

Who  hath  the  breast  whose  milk  doth  patience 

nourish? 
Whose  grace  is  such  that  when  it  chides  doth 

cherish? 
To  you,  to  you,  all  song  of  praise  is  due. 
Only  through  you  the  tree  of  life  doth  flourish. 

Who    hath    the     hand    which    without    stroke 

subdueth  ? 
Who  long-dead  beauty  with  increase  reneweth? 

To  you,  to  you,  all  song  of  praise  is  due. 
Only  at  you  all  envy  hopeless  rueth.3  24 

Who  hath  the  hair  which,  loosest,  fastest  tietht 
Who    makes    a    man    live    then    glad   when   he 
dieth? 
To  you,  to  you,  all  song  of  praise  is  due. 
Only  of  you  the  flatterer  never  lieth. 

Who    hath    the   voice   which   soul   from    senses 

sunders  ? 
Whose    force    but    yours    the    bolts   of    beauty 

thunders? 
To  you,  to  you,  all  song  of  praise  is  due. 
Only  with  you  not  miracles  are  wonders.'*        32 

Doubt    you    to    whom    my    Muse    these    notes 

intendeth  ? 
Which    now    my    breast    o'ercharged    to    music 

lendeth? 
To  you,  to  you,  all  song  of  praise  is  due, 
Only  in  you  my  song  begins  and  endeth. 


OEOBGE  PEELE   (1558?-1597?) 
From  the  Arraignment  of  Paris 

(Enone 

Fair  and  fair,  and  twice  so  fair, 

As  fair  as  any  may  be. 
The  fairest  shepher<l  on  our  green, 

A   love   for  any  lady. 


si.  c,  by  comparison 
s  Morrowii 


4  mlrnoles  are  not  wondera 


ELIZABETHAN  LYKICS 


145 


Paris 
Fair  and  fair,  and  twice  so  fair, 

As  fair  as  any  may  be; 
Thy  love  is  fair  for  thee  alone, 

And  for  no  other  lady. 

(Enone 
My  love  is  fair,  my  love  is  gay. 

And  fresh  as  bin  the  flowers  in  May, 
And  of  my  love  my  roundelay. 

My  merry,   merry  roundelay, 
Concludes   with   Cupid's   curse. — 

"They  that  do  change  old  love  for  new, 
Pray  gods  they  change  for  worse!" 

Ambo  Simul'' 

They  that  do  change  old  love  for  new, 

Pray  gods  they  change  for  worse! 

(Enone 
Fair  and  fair,  and  twice  so  fair, 

As  fair  as  any  may  be. 
The   fairest   shepherd   on   our   green, 

A  love  for  any  lady. 

Paris 
Fair  and  fair,  and  twice  so  fair, 

As  fair  as  any  may  be; 
Thy  love  is  fair  for  thee  alone, 

And  for  no  other  lady. 

(Enone 
My  love  can  pipe,  my  love  can  sing. 
My  love  can  many  a  pretty  thing, 
And  of  his  lovely  praises  ring 
My  merry,  merry  roundelay. 

Amen  to  Cupid's  curse, — 
"They  that  do  change  old  love  for  new. 

Pray  gods  they  change  for  worse  I  ' ' 

Part* 

They  that  do  change  old  love  for  new, 
Pray  gods  they  change  for  worse  I 

Ambo  Simul 
Fair  and  fair,  and  twice  so  fair. 

As  fair  as  any  may  be; 
Thy  love  is  fair  for  thee  alone, 

And  for  no  other  lady. 

THOMAS  LODGE  (15o8M625) 
Rosalind's  Madrigal 

Love  in  my  bosom,  like  a  bee, 

Doth  suck-  his  sweet ; 
Now  with  his  wings  he  plays  with  me, 

Now  with  his  feet. 

>  Both  together 


Within  mine  eyes  he  makes  his  nest. 
His  bed  amidst  my  tender  breast; 
My  kisses  are  his  daily  feast, 
And  yet  he  robs  me  of  my  rest: 

Ah!  wanton,   will  ye?  9 

And  if  I  sleep,  then  percheth  he 

With  pretty  flight, 
And  makes  his  pillow  of  my  knee 
The  livelong  night. 
Strike  I  my  lute,  he  tunes  the  string; 
He  music  plays  if  so  I  sing; 
He  lends  me  every  lovely  thing. 
Yet  cruel  he  my  heart  doth  sting. 

WTiist,  wanton,  still  ye!  18 

Else  I  with  roses  every  day 

Will  whip  you  hence. 
And  bind  you,  when  you  long  to  play, 
For  your  offense; 
I  '11  shut  my  eyes  to  keep  you  in ; 
1  '11  make  you  fast  it  for  your  sin ; 
I  '11  count  your  power  not  worth  a  pin ; 
— Alas!   what  hereby  shall  I  win, 

If  he  gainsay  me?  27 

WTiat  if  I  beat  the  wanton  boy 

With  many  a  rod? 
He  will  repay  me  with  annoy, 
Because  a  god. 
Then  sit  thou  safely  on  my  knee. 
And  let  thy  bower  my  bosom  be; 
Lurk  in  mine  eyes,  I  like  of«  thee; 
O  Cupid,  so  thou  pity  me, 

Spare  not,  but  play  thee  I 


36 


HUBERT  SOUTHWELL   (1561?  1595) 
TiiE  Bltsnixg  Babe 

As  I  in  hoary  winter's  night 

Stood  shivering  in  the  snow, 
Surprised  I  was  with  sudden  heat 

Which   made   my   heart   to   glow; 
And  lifting  up  a  fearful  eye 

To  view  what  fire  was  near, 
A  pretty  Babe  all  burning  bright 

Did  in  the  air  appear. 
Who,  scorched  with  excessive  heat. 

Such  floods  of  tears  did  shed,  l'^ 

As  tho'  His  floods  should  quench  His  flames 

Which  with  His  tears  were  fed. 
'  •  Alas !  ' '  quoth  He,  ' '  but  newly  born 

In  fiery  heats  I  fry. 
Yet  none  approach  to  warm  their  hearts 

Or  feel  my  fire  but  I ! 
My  faultless  breast  the  furnace  i.. 

The  fuel,  wounding  thorns; 

•Jam  pleased  with 


146 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


Love  is  the  fire  and  sighs  the  smoke, 

The  ashes,  shame  and  scorns;  20 

The  fuel  Justice  layeth  on, 

And  Mercy  blows  the  coals; 
The  metal  in  this  furnace  wrought 

Are  men's  defiled  souls; 
For  which,  as  now  on  fire  I  am 

To  work  them  to  their  good, 
So  will  I  melt  into  a  bath 

To  wash  th3m  in  my  blood." 
With  this  He  vanish 'd  out  of  sight, 

And  swiftly  shrunk  away,  30 

And  straight  I  called  unto  mind 

That  it  was  Christmas-day. 

CHEISTOPHER  MARLOWE  (1564-1593) 

The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  His  Love 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love. 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  valleys,  groves,  hills  and  fields. 
Woods  or  steepy  mountain  yields. 

And  we  will  sit  upon  the  rocks. 

Seeing  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks, 

By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 

Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals,  8 

And  I  will  make  thee  beds  of  roses. 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies, 
A  cap  of  flowers,  and  a  kirtle 
Embroider 'd  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle; 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool. 

Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull; 

Fair  lined  slippers  for  the  cold, 

With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold;  16 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs: 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love. 

The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delight  each  May-morning: 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me  and  be  my  love.  24 

SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH   (1552M618)* 

The  Nymph's  Reply  to  the  Shepherd 

If  .all  the  world  and  love  were  young. 
And  truth  in  every  shepherd's  tongue. 
These  pretty  pleasures  might  me  move 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  love. 

•  Neither  of  the  two  poems  here  given  as  Raleigh's 
can  he  ascribed  to  him  with  much  confldence. 
The  first  appeared  in  England's  Helicon  over 
the  name  "Ignoto."  The  MS.  of  the  second 
bears  the  Initials  "Sr.  W.  R." 


Time  drives  the  flocks  from  field  to  fold. 
When  rivers  rage,  and  rocks  grow  cold; 
And  Philomel  becometh  dumb; 
The  rest  complains  of  cares  to  come.  8 

The  flowers  do  fade,  and  wanton  fields 
To  wayward  Winter  reckoning  yields; 
A  honey  tongue,  a  heart  of  gall. 
Is  fancy's  spring,  but  sorrow's  fall. 

Thy  gowns,  thy  shoes,  thy  beds  of  roses, 
Thy  cap,  thy  kirtle,  and  thy  posies. 
Soon  break,  soon  wither,  soon  forgotten. 
In  folly  ripe,  in  reason  rotten.  16 

Thy  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds. 
Thy  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs, 
All  these  in  me  no  means  can  move 
To  come  to  thee  and  be  thy  love. 

But  could  youth  last,  and  love  still  breed, 
Had  joys  no  date^,  nor  age  no  need. 
Then  these  delights  my  mind  might  move 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  love.  24 


Pilgrim  to  Pilgrim 

As  you  came  from  the  holy  land 

Of  Walsinghame,t 
Met  you  not  with  my  true  love 

By  the  way  as  you  camel 

How  shall  I  know  your  true  love, 

That  have  met  many  one. 
As  I  went  to  the  holy  land. 

That  have  come,  that  have  gonet  8 

She  is  neither  white  nor  brown. 

But  as  the  heavens  fair; 
There  is  none  hath  a  form  so  divine 

In  the  earth  or  the  air. 

Such  a  one  did  I  meet,  good  sir. 

Such  an  angel-like  face, 
Who  like  a  queen,  like  a  nymph,  did  appear. 

By  her  gait,  by  her  grace.  16 

She  hath  left  me  here  all  alone. 

All  alone,  as  unknown. 
Who  sometimes  did  nie  lead  with  herself. 

And  me  loved  as  her  own. 

7  pnd 

t  An  ancient  Triory  in  Norfollt,  with  a  famous 
shrine  of  Our  Lady,  the  object  of  many  pil- 
grimages until  its  dissolution  In  15:58  (Eng. 
Lit.,  p.  70).  "A  lover  growing  or  grown  old,  it 
would  seem,  has  been  left  In  the  lurch  by  the 
object  of  his  afflictions.  As  all  the  world 
thronged  to  Walsingham  the  lover  supposes 
that  she  too  must  have  gone  that  way  ;  and 
meeting  a  pilgrim  returning  from  that  Eng- 
lish Holy  Land,  asks  him  If  he  has  seen  any- 
thing of  her  runaway  ladyship." — J.  W.  Hales. 


ELIZABETHAN  LYRICS 


147 


What's   the   cause   that   she   leaves  you  alone, 

And  a  new  way  doth  take. 
Who  lovetl  you  once  as  her  own, 

And  her  joy  did  you  makef  24 

I  have  loved  her  all  my  youth, 

But  now  old,  as  you  see, 
Love  likes  not  the  falling  fruit 

From  the  withered  tree. 

Know  that  Love  is  a  careless  child, 

And  forgets  promise  past; 
He  is  blind,  he  is  deaf  when  he  list, 

And  in  faith  never  fast.  32 

His  desire  is  a  durelessi  content, 

And  a  trustless  joy; 
He  is  won  with  a  world  of  despair 

And  is  lost  with  a  toy.- 

Of  womankind   such   indeed  is  the  love, 

Or  the  word  love  abused. 
Under  which  many  childish  desires 

And  conceits  are  excused.  40 

But  true  love  is  a  durable  fire. 

In  the  mind  ever  burning, 
Never  sick,  never  old,  never  dead. 

From  itself  never  turning. 

W^ILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE  (1564-1616) 

From  As  You  Like  It 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me. 
And  turns  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird  's  throat — 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither ! 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun 
And  loves  to  live  i '  the  sun. 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats 
And  pleased  with  what  he  gets — 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither! 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

From  As  You  Like  It 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind. 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 

As  man's  ingratitude; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen 
Because  thou  art  not  seen. 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 

I  unendurlng         2  trifle  3  modulate 


Heigh  ho !  sing  heigh  ho !  unto  the  green  holly: 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere 
folly: 

Then,  heigh  ho!  the  holly! 

This  life  is  most  jolly. 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
Thou  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot: 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp. 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 
As  friend  remember 'd  not. 
Heigh  ho!  sing  heigh  ho!  unto  the  green  holly: 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere 
folly: 
Then,  heigh  ho!   the  holly! 
This  life   is  most  jolly. 

Fkom  Measure  for  Measure 
Take,  O,  take  those  lips  away. 

That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn; 
And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day. 

Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn: 
But  thy  kisses  bring  again, 

Bring  again. 
Seals  of  love,  but  sealed  in  vain, 
Sealed  in  vain! 

From  Twelfth  Night 
Come  away,  come  away.  Death, 
And  in  sad  cypress  let  me  be  laid; 

Fly  away,  fly  away,  breath; 
I  am  slain  by  a  fair  cruel  maid. 
My  shroud  of  white,  stuck  all  with  yew, 

O  prepare  it! 
My  part  of  death,  no  one  so  true 
Did  share  it. 

Not  a  flower,  not  a  flower  sweet 
On  my  black  coffin  let  there  be  strown; 

Not  a  friend,  not  a  friend  greet 
My    poor    corpse,    where    my    bones    shall    be 

thrown: 
A  thousand  thousand  sighs  to  save. 

Lay  me,  O  where 
Sad  true  lover  never  find  my  grave, 
To  weep  there. 

From  Hamlet 
How  should  I  your  true  love  know 

From  another  one? 
By  his  cockle  hat  and  staff. 

And  his  sandal  shoon.* 

4  Pilgrims  wore  cockle  shells  in  their  hats  in  sign 
of  their  baving  crossed  tlie  sea  to  tlie  Holy 
Land,  and  lovers  not  infrequently  assumed 
this  disguise. 


148 


THE  ELlZABETHAiN  AGE 


He  is  dead  and  gone,  lady, 

He  is  <iead  and  gone; 
At  his  head  a  grass-green  turf, 

At  his  heels  a  slone. 

White   his   shroud   as   the   mountain   snow, 

Larded''  with  sweet  flowers. 
Which  bewept  to  the  grave  did  go 

With  true-love  showers. 

From  Cymbeline 

Hark,  hark!    the  lark  at   heaven's  gate  siugs, 

And  Phoebus   'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies ; 
And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes: 

With  everything  that  pretty  is, 

My  lady  sweet,  arise! 

Arise,  arise! 

THOMAS  DEKKER  (1570M641?) 

From  Patient  Grissell 

Art  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slumbers! 

O  sweet  content! 
Art  thou  rich,  yet  is  thy  mind  perplexed? 

O  punishment! 
Dost  thou  laugh  to  see  how  fools  are  vexed 
To  add  to  golden  numbers  golden  numbers? 

O  sweet  content,  O  sweet,  O  sweet  content! 

Work  apace!   apace!   apace!   apace! 

Honest  labour  bears  a  lovely  face. 

Then  hey  noney,  noney,  hey  noney,  noney! 

Canst  drink  the  waters  of  the  crisped  spring? 

O  sweet  content! 
Swim'st   thou   in  wealth,  yet   sink'st  in   thino 
own  tears? 

O  punishment! 
Then  he  that  patiently  want 's  burden  bears 
No  burden  bears,  but  is  a  king,  a  king, 
O  sweet  content,  O  sweet,  O  sweet  content! 

Work  apace!  apace!  apace!  apace! 

Honest  labour  bears  a  lovely  face. 

Then  hey  noney,  noney,  hey  noney,  noney! 

THOMAS  CAMPION   (d.  1619) 
Cherry-Ripe 

There  is  a   garden   in   her   face 
Where  roses  and  wiiite  lilies  grow ; 

A  heavenly  paradise  is  that  place, 
Wherein  all  pleasant  fruits  do  flow ; 

0  thickly  «trewn 


There  cherries  grow  that  none  may  buy. 
Till  "Cherry-Ripe"  themselves  do  cry. 

Those  cherries  fairly  do  enclose 

Of  orient  pearl  a  double  row, 
AVhich  when  her  lovely  laughter  shows, 

They  look  like  rose-buds  fill  'd  with  snow : 
Yet  them  no  peer  nor  prince  may  buy. 
Till  "Cherry-Ripe"  themselves  do  cry. 

Her  eyes  like  angels  watch  them  still ; 

Her  brows  like  bended  bows  do  stand, 
Threat  'ning  with  piercing  frowns  to  kill 

All  that  attempt  with  eye  or  hand 
Those  sacred  cherries  to  come  nigh, 
Till  "Cherry-Ripe"  themselves  do  cry! 

MICHAEL  DRAYTON  (1563-1631) 

Agincourt* 

Fair  stood  the  wind"  for  France, 
When  we  our  sails  atlvance; 
Nor  now  to  prove  our  chance 

Longer  will  tarry ; 
But'  putting  to  the  main. 
At  Caux,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 
With  all  his  martial  train 

Landed  King  Harry. 

And  taking  many  a  fort,  -» 

Furnished  in  warlike  sort, 
March.^th  towards  Agincourt 

In  happy  hour; 
Skirmishing,  day  by  day. 
With  those  that  stopped  his  way. 
Where  the  French  general  lay 

With  all  his  power.. 

Whichs,  in  his  height  of  pride. 
King  Henry  to  deride. 
His  ransom  to  provide 

To  the  King  sending^; 
Which  he  neglects  the  while. 
As  from  a  nation  vile. 
Yet  with  an  angry  smile, 

Their  fall  portending. 

c  who   (the  French  Koneral) 

7  1.  c.  Ncuding  an  order- 

*  In  the  courso  of  tlic  Hundred  Years  \\ar  tlie 
Kn«Iish  won  throe  jjreat  victories  over  th<' 
French  in  the  face  of  enormous  odds — Crecy 
In  1346.  Poitiers  in  13.")«.  and  Aslncourt  in 
141.">.  The  lust  was  won  hy  Henry  the  Fifth, 
and  so  well  was  the  glory  of  it  rememhered 
that  after  nearly  two  hundred  years  Drayton 
could  celebrate  "it  in  this  ballad,  which  bids 
fair  to  stand  as  the  supreme  national  ballad 
of  England.  Breathless  from  the  flrst  word 
to  the  last,  rude  and  rhythmic  as  the  tread 
of  an  armv,  It  arouses  the  martial  spirit  as 
few  things  but   its  Imitators  can. 


16 


24 


ELIZABETHAN  LYRICS 


149 


And  turning  to  his  men, 
Quoth  our  brave  Henry  then: 
"Though  they  to  one  be  ten 

Be  not  aniaz&d! 
Yet  have  we  well  begun: 
Battles  so  bravely  won 
Have  ever  to  the  sun 

By  Fame  been  raised!  32 

"And  for  myself,"  quoth  he, 
' '  This  my  full  rests  shall  be : 
England  ne  'er  mourn  for  me. 

Nor  more  esteem  me! 
Victor  I  will  remain, 
Or  on  this  earth  lie  slain; 
Never  shall  She  sustain 

Loss  to  redeem  me!  40 

* '  Poitiers  and  Cressy  tell, 

When  most  thoir  pride  did  swell,  * 

Under  cur  swords  they  fell. 

No  less  our  skill  is, 
Than  when  our  Grandsire  great, 
Claiming  the  regal  seat, 
By  many  a  warlike  feat 

Lopped  the  French  lilies. "       .  48 

The  Duke  :>f  York  so  dread 
The  eager  vanward  led; 
With  the  main,  Henry  sped 

Amongst  his  henchmen: 
Exeter  had  the  rear, 
A  braver  man  not  there! 
O  Lord,  how  hot  they  were 

On  the  false  Frenchmen!  56 

They  now  to  fight  are  gone; 
Armour  on  armour  shone; 
Drum  now  to  drum  did  groan: 

To  hear,  was  wonder; 
That,  with  the  cries  they  make, 
The  very  earth  did  shake; 
Trumpet  to  trumpet  spake; 

Thunder  to  thunder.  64 

Well  it  thine  ago  became, 
0  noble  Erpingnam, 
Which  didst  the  signal  aim 

To  our  hid  forces! 
When,  from  a  meadow  by, 
Like  a  storm  suddenly, 
The  English  archery 

Stuck  the  French  horses.  72 

W'ith  Spanish  yew  so  strong; 
Arrows  a  cloth-yard  long, 


8  resolution 


That  like  to  serpents  stung, 

Piercing  the  weather. 
None  from  his  fellow  starts; 
But,  playing  manly  parts, 
And  like  true  English  hearts, 

Stuck  close  together.  80 

When    down    their    bows    they    threw, 
And  forth  their  bilboess  drew, 
And  on  the  French  they  flew: 

Not  one  was  tardy. 
Arms  were  from  shoulders  sent. 
Scalps  to  the  teeth  were  rent, 
Down  the  French   peasants  went: 

Our  men  were  hardy.  88 

This  while  our  noble  King, 
His  broad  sword  brandishing, 
Down  the  French  host  did  ding. 

As  to  o  'erwhelm  it ; 
And  many  a  deep  wound  lent ; 
His  arms  with  blood  besprent, 
And  many  a  cruel  dent 

Bruised  Ms  helmet.  96 

Gloucester,  that  duke  so  good, 
Next  of  the  royal  blood, 
For  famous  England  stood 

With  his  brave  brother; 
Clarence,  in  steel  so  bright, 
Though  but  a  maiden  knight. 
Yet  in  that  furious  fight 

Scarce  such  another!  104 

Warwick  in  blood  did  wade, 
Oxford,  the  foe  invade. 
And  cruel  slaughter  made. 

Still  as  they  ran  up. 
Suffolk  his  axe  did  ply; 
Beaumont  and  Willoughby 
Bare  them  right  doughtily; 

Ferrers  and  Fanhope.  112 

Upon  Saint  Crispin 's  Day 
Fought  was  this  noble  Fray; 
Which  Fame  did  not  delay 

To  England  to  carry. 
O  when  shall  English  men 
With  such  acts  fill  a  pen? 
Or  England  breed  again 

Such  a  King  Harry?  120 

BEN  JONSON  (1573?-1637) 
To  Celia 
Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup 
And  I  '11  not  look  for  wine. 

8  swords 


150 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honouring  thee 
As  giving  it  a  hope  that  there 

It  could  not  wither 'd  be; 
But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe 

And  seut'st  it  back  to  me; 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear, 

Not  of  itself  but  thee! 

The  Triumph  of  Charis 

See  the  chariot  at  hand  here  of  Love, 

Wherein  my  lady  rideth ! 
Each  that  draws  is  a  swan  or  a  dove, 

And  well  the  car  Love  guideth. 
As  she  goes,  all  hearts  do  duty 

Unto  her  beauty; 
And  enamour 'd,  do  wish,  so  they  might 

But  enjoy  such  a  sight, 
That  they  still  were  to  run  by  her  side. 


Through    swords,    through    seas,    whither    she 
would  ride.  10 

Do  but  look  on  her  eyes,  they  do  light 

All  that  Love 's  world  compriseth ! 
Do  but  look  on  her  hair,  it  is  bright 

As  Love's  star  when  it  risethi 
Do  but  mark,  her  forehead  smoother 

Than  words  that  soothe  her; 
And  from  her  arched  brows,  such  a  grace 

Sheds  itself  through   the   face 
As  alone  there  triumphs  to  the  life 
All    the   gain,   all    tli.?   good,   of   the   elements' 
strife.  20 

Have  you  seen  but  a  bright  lily  grow, 
Before  rude  hands  have  touched  it? 

Have  you  marked  but  the  fall  of  the  snow  , 

Before  the  soil  hath  smutched  it? 

Have  you  felt  the  wool  of  the  beaver? 
Or  swan  's  down  ever  ? 

Or  have  smelt  o '  the  bud  of  the  briar  ? 
Or  the  nard  in  the  fire? 

Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  beef 

Oh  so  white!  Oh  so  soft!   Oh  so  sweet  is  she! 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE— DRAMA 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE 
(1564-1593) 

FROM 

THE    TRAGICAL    HISTORY    OF    DOCTOR 

FAUSTUS.* 

Enter  Chorus. 
Chorus.     Not  marching  in  the  fields  of  Thrasy- 

meue,i 
Where    Mars    did    mate"-    the    warlike    Car- 

thagens ; 
Nor  sporting  in  the  dalliance  of  love, 
In    courts    of    kings    where    stated    is    over- 

tuKu  'd ; 
Nor  in  the  pomp  of  proud  audacious  deeds, 
Intends    our    Muse    to    vaunt    her    heavenly 

verse : 
Only  this,  gentles, — we  must  now  perform 
The  form  of  Faustus '  fortunes,  good  or  bad : 
And  now  to  patient  judgments  we  appeal, 
And  speak  for  Faustus  in  his  infancy.        10 
Now  is  he  born  of  parents  base  of  stock. 
In  Germany,  within  a  town  call'd  Rhodes:* 
At  riper  years,  to  Wittenberg  he  went, 
Whereas^  his  kinsmen  chiefly  brought  him  up. 
So  much  he  profits  in  divinity, 

1  The  scene  of  Hannibal's  defeat  of  the  Romans, 

217  B.  C.  Marlowe  means  that  hi.s  drama  is 
not  to  deal,  like  others,  with  wars  and  in- 
trigues. 

2  cope  with  4  Roda.  near  Weimar. 

3  statehood,    majesty  5  whore 

•  The  P'aust  legend,  which  embodies  the  old  fancy 
of  a  compact  with  the  K\i\  One,  had  its  origin 
in  the  life  of  a  certain  German  doctor 
(i.  e.  learned  man)  of  evil  character,  .Tohann 
Faustus,  who,  dying  about  1538,  was  reputel 
to  have  been  carried  off  by  the  devil.  The 
tales  that  grew  up  about  his  memory  wen- 
collected  in  "The  History  of  Dr.  Faustus.  the 
Notorious  Magician  and  Master  of  the  Black 
Art."  published  at  Frankfort-on-the-Main  In 
1587.  A  translation  was  printed  in  England 
and  Marlowe  immediately  dramatized  it 
(1588)  :  since  then  the  story  has  appeared  in 
many  forms.  Marlowe's  drama  was  probably 
not  printed  in  his  lifetime.  The  editions 
dated  1604  and  1616  differ  in  many  particu- 
lars and  certainly  neither  of  them  gives  us 
the  text  as  he  left  it.  It  is  possible  that  none 
of  the  comic  scenes,  the  mingling  of  which 
with  tragedy  came  to  be  one  of  the  charac- 
teristics of  Elizabethan  drama,  were  from  his 
pen.  The  extracts  given  above  present  only 
the  central  tragic  theme.  The  1616  text  Is 
followed,  with  scene  numbers  inserted  to  cor- 
respond with  A.  W.  Ward's  divisions  of  the 
1604  text. 


That    shortly   he    was   grac'd    with    doctor's 

name, 
Excelling  all,  and  sweetly  can  dispute 
In  th'  heavenly  matters  of  theology; 
Till  swoln  with  cunning,^  of  a  self-conceit, 
His     waxen    wings     did    mount     above    his 
reach, 7  20 

And,    melting,    heavens    conspir'd    his    over- 
throw ; 
For,  falling  to  a  devilish  exercise, 
And  glutted  now  with  learning's  golden  gifts, 
He  surfeits  upon  cursed  necromancy; 
Nothing  so  sweet  as  magic  is  to  him. 
Which  he  prefers  before  his  chief  est  bliss: 
And  this  the  man  that  in  his  study  sits. 

[Exit. 

[Scene  I.] 

Faustus  discovered  in  his  study. 
Faustus.     Settle*  thy  studies,  Faustus,  and  be- 
gin 
To   sound  the  depth   of  that  thou   wilt  pro- 
fess :  9 
Having  commenc'd,io  be  a  divine  in  show. 
Yet  level  at  the  endu  of  every  art, 
And  live  and  die  in  Aristotle's  works. 
Sweet  Analytics,   'tis  thou  hast  ravish 'd  me! 
Bene  disserere  est  finis  logices.^- 
Is,  to  dispute  well,  logic 's  chiefest  end  ? 
Affords  this  art  no  greater  miracle? 
Then  read  no  more;    thou  hast  attain 'd  that 
end:  10 

A  greater  subject  fitteth  Faustus '  wit : 
Bid  Economy  farewell,  and  Galenis  come: 
Be  a  physician,  Faustus;    heap  up  gold. 
And  be  eterniz  'd  for  some  wondrous  cure : 
Summnm  bonum  medicince  sanitas. 
The  end  of  physic  is  our  body's  health. 
Why,   Faustus,   hast   thou   not   attain 'd   that 

end? 
Are  not  thy  bills'*  hung  up  as  monuments. 
Whereby  whole  cities  have  escap'd  the  plague. 


6  knowledge 

7  Alluding  to  the  story 

of  Icarus. 

8  fix  upon 

9  choose    for    a    profes- 

sion 

10  taken      the      doctor's 

degree 


11  aim  at  the  goal  (viz., 

metaphysics) 

12  "To    dispute    well    is 

the  end  of  logic." 

13  .V    famous    physician 

of   the   second   cen- 
tury. 

14  prescriptions 


151 


152 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


And     thousand     desperate     maladies     been 
cur'd?  20 

Yet  art  thou  still  but  Faustus,  and  a  man. 
Couldst  thou  make  men  to  live  eternally, 
Or,  being  dead,  raise  them  to  life  again. 
Then  this  profession  were  to  be  esteem  'd. 
Physic,  farewell!     Where  is  Justinian fi'' 

[Eeads. 
Si  una  eademque  res  legatur  diiohus,  alter 

rem,  alter  valorem  rei,  4'C-^^ 
A  petty  case  of  paltry  legacies!  [Eeads. 

Exhcereditare   filiuw   non   potest   pater,   iiisi. 

Such  is  the  subject  of  the  institute, 

And  universal  body  of  the  law:  30 

This  study  fits  a  mercenary  drudge. 

Who  aims  at  nothing  but  external  trash; 

Too  servile  and  illiberal  for  me. 

When  all  is  done,  divinity  is  best: 

Jerome's  Bible,i8  Faustus;    view  it  well. 

[Eeads. 
Stipendium  peccati  mors  est.  Ha!  Stipen- 
diiim,  4'C.  The  reward  of  sin  is  death;  that's 
hard.  [Beads. 

Si  peccasse  negamus,  fallimur,  et  nulla  est 
in  nobis  Veritas;  If  we  say  that  we  have 
no  sin,  we  deceive  ourselves,  and  there  is 
no  truth  in  us.  Why,  then,  belike  we  must 
sin,  and  so  consequently  die :  42 

Ay,  we  must  die  an  everlasting  death. 
What  doctrine  call  you  this,  Che  sera,  sera, 
What  will  be,  shall  be?     Divinity,  adieu li" 
These  metaphysics  of  magicians, 
And  necromantic  books  are  heavenly; 
Lines,  circles,  scenes,  letters,  and  characters; 
Ay,  these  are  those  that  Faustus  most  desires. 
O,  what  a  world  of  profit  and  delight,  50 

Of  power,  of  honour,  and  omnipotence, 
Is  promis'd  to  the  studious  artizan! 
All  things  that  move  between  the  quiet  poles 
Shall    be    at    my    command:     emperors    and 

kings 
Are  but  obeyed  in  their  several  provinces; 
But  his  dominion  that  exceeds  in  this, 
Stretcheth  as  far  as  doth  the  mind  of  man; 
A  sound  magician  is  a  demigod: 
Here  tire,  my  brains,  to  gain  a  deity. 

Enter  Wagner. 
Wagner,  commend  mo  to  my  dearest  friends,  60 
The  German  Valdos  and  (Jornolius; 
Request  them  earnestly  to  visit  me. 

15  A  Roman  omperor  and  law-glver. 

16  "If   one   nnd    tho   same   thlnj;   bf   boniipathod    to 

two,  one   (shall  have]   the  thing,  the  other  Its 
value,  etc." 

17  "A   father   may   not   disinherit    his   son.    unless, 

etc." 
11  The   Vul;:ate. 
19  Here   F.nuHtus   turns   to   his   hooi<K   of  magic. 


Wag.     I  will,  sir.  [Exit. 

Faust.     Their  conferenceio  will  be  a   greater 
help  to  me 
Than  all  my  labours,  plod  I  ne'er  so  fast. 
Enter  Good  Angel  and  Evil  Angel. 
G.   AXG.     O,   Faustus,   lay    that   damned   book 
aside, 
And  gaze  not  on  it,  lest  it  tempt  thy  soul. 
And  heap  God's  heavy  wrath  upon  thy  head! 
Read,    read    the    Scriptures: — that    is    blas- 
phemy. 
E.  Ang.     Go  forward,  Faustus,  in  that  famous 
art2i  70 

Wherein  all  Nature 's  treasure  is  contain  'd: 
Be  thou  on  earth  as  Jove  is  in  the  sky, 
Lord  and  commander  of  these  elements. 

[Exeunt  Angels. 
Faust.     How  am  I  glutted  with  conceit  of  this! 
Shall  I  make  spirits  fetch  me  what  I  please. 
Resolve  me  of--  all  ambiguities, 
Perform  what  desperate  enterprise  I  will  ? 
I  '11  have  them  fly  to  India  for  gold. 
Ransack  the  ocean  for  orient  pearl, 
And    search    all    corners    of    the    new-found 
world23  80 

For  pleasant  fruits  and  princely  delicates;-* 
1  '11  have  them  read  me  strange  philosophy, 
And  tell  the  secrets  of  all  foreign  kings; 
I  '11  have  them  wall  all  Germany  with  brass, 
And   make   swift   Rhine   circle   fair  Witten- 
berg; 
I  '11  have  them  fill  the  public  schools  with  silk, 
Wherewith  the  students  shall  be  bravely  clad ; 
I  '11  levy  soldiers  with  the  coin  they  bring, 
And  chase  the  Prince  of  Parma*  from  our 

land. 
And  reign  sole  king  of  all  the  provinces;     90 
Yea,  stranger  engines  for  the  brunt  of  Avar, 
Than  was  the  fiery  keel  at  Antwerp-bridge,t 
I  '11  make  my  servile  spirits  to  invent. 

Enter  Valdes  and  Cornelius. 
Come,  German  Valdes,  and  Cornelius, 
And  make  me  blest  with  your  sage  conference. 
Valdes,  sweet  Valdes,  and  Cornelius, 
Know  that  your  words  have  won  me  at  the 

last 
To  practise  magic  and  concealed  arts. 
Piiilosophy  is  odious  and  obscure; 
Both  law  nnd  ])hysic  are  for  petty  wits:      1"'* 
'Tis  magic,  magic  that  hath  ravish  'd  mo. 

20  conversation  23  America 

21  black  art,  1.  e..  magic  24  delicacies 

22  interpret  for  me 

•  Alexander  Farnese.  the  famous  Governor  of  the 
Netherlands,  who  suhdnefl  Antwerp  In  ^'^X•> 
and  later  planned  at  Philip  ITs  orders  to  in- 
vade lOngland. 

t  Ships  set  on  tire  and  driven  niialnst  the  Antwerp 
bridge  to  burn  It  down. 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE 


153 


Theu,  gentle  friends,  aid  me  in  this  attempt; 
And  I,  that  have  with  subtle  syllogisms 
Gruvell  'd--*  the  pastors  ol"  the  German  church, 
And  made  the  flowering  pride  of  Wittenberg 
Swarm  to  my  problems,  as  th'  infernal  spirits 
On  sweet  .Musa'us  when  he  came  to  hell,-« 
Will  be  as  cunning  as  Agrippa-^  was, 
Whose  shadow  made  all  Europe  honour  him. 
V'ald.     Faustus,  these  books,  thy  wit,  and  our 

experience,  110 

Shall  make  all  nations  to  canonize  us. 
As  Indian  Moorsss  obey  their  Spanish  Icrds, 
So  shall  the  spirits  of  every  elemeat 
Be  always  serviceable  to  us  three; 
Like    lions    shall    they    guard    us    when    we 

please; 
Like  Alniain  rutters^o  with  their  horsemen 's 

staves, 
Or  Lapland  giants,  trotting  by  our  sides; 
Sometimes  like  women,  or  unwedded  maids, 
Shadowing  more  beauty  inso  their  airy  brows 
Than  have  the  white  breasts  of  the  queen  of 

love:  120 

From  Venice  shall  they  drag  huge  argosies. 
And  from  America  the  golden  fleece 
That  yearly  stufl's  old  Philip's  treasury; 
If  learned  Faustus  will  be  resolute. 
Faust.     Valdes,  as  resolute  am  I  in  this 

As  thou  to  live :    therefore  object  it  not.i 
Corn.     The  miracles  that  magic  will  perform 
Will  make  thee  vow  to  study  nothing  else. 
He  that  is  grounded  in  astrology. 
Enrich 'd   with    tongues,    well   seen^   in   min- 
erals, 130 
Hath  all  the  principles  magic  doth  require: 
Then  doubt  not,  Faustus,  but  to  be  renown  'd, 
And  more  frequented  for  this  mystery 
Than  heretofore  the  Delphian  oracle. 
The  spirits  tell  me  they  can  dry  the  sea. 
And  fetch  the  treasure  of  all  foreign  wrecks, 
Yea,  all  the  wealth  that  our  forefathers  hid 
Within  the  massy  entrails  of  the  earth; 
Then  tell  me,  Faustus,  what  shall  we  three 

want? 
Faust.     Nothing,  Cornelius.    O,  this  cheers  my 

soul!  140 

Come^  show  me  some  demonstrations  magical. 
That  I  may  conjure  in  some  bushy  grove, 
And  have  these  joys  in  full  possession. 
Vald.     Then  haste  thee  to  some  solitary  grove, 
And  bear  wise  Bacon's  and  Albertus's  works. 


25  puzzled 

26  See  .Enriil  VI.,  666. 

27  A    magician    at    the 

time      of      Johann 
Faustus. 


2S  American  Indians 
20  German  horsemen 
30  Perhaps  iw  =  under 


1  make  it  no  objeotlon         2  skilled 

3  Roger    Bacon    and    Albertiis    Magnus,    mediaeval 

scholars  popularly  reputed   to   have  practiced 

magic. 


The   Hebrew   Psalter,   and    New    Testament; 

And  whatsoever  else  is  requisite 

We  will  inform  thee  ere  our  conference  cease. 
Corn,     Valdes,  first  let  him  know  the  words  of 
art; 

And  then,  all  other  ceremonies  learn  'd,       130 

Faustus  may  try  his  cunning  by  himself. 
Vald.     First  I'll  instruct  thee  in  the  rudiments. 

And  then  wilt  thou  be  perfecter  than  I. 
Faust.     Then   come   and    dine   with   me,   and 
after  meat. 

We'll  canvass  every  quiddity^  thereof; 

For,  ere  I  sleep,  I  '11  try  what  I  can  do ; 

This  night  I'll  conjure,  though  I   die  there- 
fore. [Exeunt. 

[Scene  II.] 

Enter  two  Scholars. 

First  Schol.  I  wonder  what  "s  become  or'  Faus- 
tus, that  was  wont  to  make  our  sciiools 
ring  with  sic  probo.^ 

Sec.  Schol.  That  shall  we  presently  know; 
here  comes  his  boy. 

Enter  Wagner. 
First  Schol,     How  now,  sirrah!   where 's  thy 

master  ? 
Wag.     God  in  heaven  knows. 
Sec.  Schol.     Why,  dost  not  thou  know,  then! 
Wag.     Yes,  I  know;  but  that  follows  not. 
First  Schol.     Go  to,  sirrah !  leave  your  jesting, 
and  tell  us  where  he  is.     ,     .     .         10 
Wag.     Truly,  my  dear  brethren,  my  master  is 
within  at  dinner,  with  Valdes  and  Cornelius, 
as  this  wine,  if  it  could  speak,  would  inform 
your  worships:    and  so,   the  Lord  bless  you, 
preserve  you,  and  keep  you,  my  dear  breth- 
ren !  [Exit. 
First  Schol.    O  Faustus!  33 
Then  I  fear  that  which  I  have  long  suspected. 
That  thou  art  fall'n  into  that  damned  art 
For  which  they  two  are  infamous  through  the 
world. 
Sec.  Schol.     Were  he   a  stranger,   not    allied 
to  me, 
The    danger    of    his    soul    would    make    me 

mourn. 

But,  come,  let  us  go  and  inform  the  Rector; 

It    may   be    his    grave   counsel    may   reclaim 

him.  40 

First  Schol.     I  fear  me  nothing  will  reclaim 

him  now. 
Sec.  Schol.     Yet  let  us  see  what  we  can  do. 

[Exeunt. 

*  matter 

s  "Thus    I    prove"     (a    formula    in    logical    demon- 
stration. 


154 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


[Scene  III.] 

Enter  Faustus. 

Faust.     Now  that  the  gloomy  shadow  of  the 

night, 
Longing  to  view  Orion's  drizzling  look,* 
Leaps  from  th'  antarctic  world  unto  the  sky, 
And  dims  the  welkin  with  her  pitchy  breath, 
Faustus,  begin  thine  incantations. 
And  try  if  devils  will  obey  thy  hest, 
Seeing   thou    hast   pray'd    and   sacriflc'd   to 

them. 
Within  this  circle  is  Jehovah's  name. 
Forward  and  backward  anagrammatiz 'd,8 
Th'  abbreviated  names  of  holy  saints,         10 
Figures  of  every  adjunct  to  the  heavens. 
And  characters  of  signs  and  erring"  stars. 
By  which  the  spirits  are  enforc  'd  to  rise: 
Then  fear  not,  Faustus,  to  be  resolute. 
And  try  the  utmost  magic  can  perform. 

[Thunder. 
Sint  mihi  dii  Acherontis  propitii!  Valeat 
numen  triplex  Jehova!  Ignei,  derii,  aquatani 
spiritus,  salvete!  Orientis  princeps  Belzebub, 
inferni  ardentis  monarcha,  et  Demogorgon, 
propitiamns  vos,  ut  appareat  et  surgat  Meph- 
istophilis  Dragon,  quod  ttimeraris:  per  Je- 
hovam,  Gehennam,  et  consecratam  aquam 
quam  nunc  spargo,  signunique  cruets  quod 
nunc  facio,  et  per  vota  nostra,  ipse  nunc  sur- 
gat nobis  dicatus  Mephistophilis  !^  23 

Enter  Mephistophilis. 
I   charge   thee  to   return,   and    change    thy 

shape; 
Thou  art  too  ugly  to  attend  on  me: 
Go,  and  return  an  old  Franciscan  friar; 
That  holy  shape  becomes  a  devil  best.** 

[Exit   Mephistophilis. 
I  see  there's  virtue  in  my  heavenly  words. 
Who  would  not  be  proficient  in  this  art? 
How  pliant  is  this  Mephistophilis,  30 

8  written  as  an  anagram 

7  wandering  (1.  e..  planets) 

8  A  Protestant  fling  at  monasticism. 

♦  The  rising  and  setting  of  the  constellation  of 
Orion  was  said  to  be  accompanied  by  rain. 

t  "May  the  gods  of  Acheron  [river  of  pain,  in 
Hades],  be  propitious  to  me!  May  the  triple 
name  of  .lenovah  avail  !  Hail,  spirits  of  fire, 
air,  and  water  !  Beolzel)ub,  prince  of  the  east, 
monarch  of  burning  hell,  and  Demogorgon, 
we  propitiate  you,  that  Mephistophilis  the 
Dragon,  quod  iumeiariH  [text  corrupt  and  un- 
translatable), may  appear  and  arise:  In  the 
name  of  Jehovah,  Oehenna  and  the  holy  water 
which  I  now  nprinlcle,  and  the  sign  "of  the 
cross  which  I  now  make  and  in  the  name  of 
our  vows,  let  Mephistophilis  himself  at  our 
command,  now  arise."  Beelzebub,  etc.,  were 
memliers  of  the  infernal  hierarchy,  of  whicli 
Lucifer  (Satan)  was  commonly  "regarded  as 
chief.  Marlowe  makes  Meph'l»<tophlliR  the 
servant  of  Lucifer,  to  whom  he  later  gives 
the  title  of  pritiie  of  the  east,  liere  given  to 
Beelzebub. 


Full  of  obedience  and  humility! 
Such  is  the  force  of  magic  and  my  spells. 
Re-enter  Mephistophilis  ?iAc  a  Franciscan  friar. 
Meph.     Now,  Faustus,  what  wouldst  thou  have 

me  <lo  ? 
Faust.     I  charge  thee  wait  upon  me  whilst  I 
live. 
To  do  whatever  Faustus  shall  command, 
Be  it  to  make  the  moon  drop  from  her  sphere, 
Or  the  ocean  to  overwhelm  the  world. 
Meph.     I  am  a  servant  to  great  Lucifer, 
And  may  not  follow  thee  without  his  leave: 
No   more   than   he  commands  must   we  per- 
form. 40 
Faust.     Did  not  he  charge  thee  to  appear  to 

me? 
Meph.     No,  I  came  hither  of  mine  own  accord. 
Faust.     Did  not  my  conjuring  speeches  raise 

thee?  speak! 
Meph.     That  was  the  cause,  but  yet  per  acci- 
dens;o 
For,  when  we  hear  one  rackio  the  name  of 

God, 
Abjure  the  Scriptures  and  his  Saviour  Christ, 
We  fl^',  in  hope  to  get  his  glorious  soul ; 
Nor  will  we  come,  unless  he  use  such  means 
Whereby  he  is  in  danger  to  be  damn  'd. 
Therefore  the  shortest  cut  for  conjuring      50 
Is  stoutly  to  abjure  all  godliness. 
And  pray  devoutly  to  the  prince  of  hell. 
Faust.     So  Faustus  hath 

Already  done;  and  holds  this  principle, 
There  is  no  chief  but  only  Belzebub; 
To  whom  Faustus  doth  dedicate  himself. 
This  word  ' '  damnation  ' '  terrifies  not  mo, 
For  I  confound  hell  in  Elysium:  n 
My  ghost  be  with  the  old  philosophers!        59 
But,  leaving  these  vain  trifles  of  men  's  souls, 
Tell  me  what  is  tliat  Lucifer  thy  Lord? 
Meph.     Arch-regent     and    commander    of    all 

spirits. 
Faust.     Was  not  that  Lucifer  an  angel  once? 
Meph.     Yes,  Faustus,  and  most  dearly  lov'd  of 

God. 
Fau.st.     How  comes  it,  then,  that  he  is  prince 

of  devils? 
Meph.     O,  by  aspiring  pride  and  insolence ; 
For  which  God  threw  him  from  the  face  of 
heaven. 
FAU.«iT.     And  what  are  you  that  live  with  Luci- 
fer? 
Meph.     Unhappy  spirits  that  fell  with  Lucifer, 
Conspired  against  our  God  with  Lucifer,      70 
And  are  for  ever  <lamn  'd  with  Lucifer. 
Faust.     WTiere  are  you  damn'd? 

•  by  accident  lo  torture  (In  anagrams) 

11  count    hell   and  Elysium   the  same 


CHKISTOPHER  MARLOWE 


155 


Meph.     In  hell. 

Faust.     How  comes  it,  then,  that  thou  art  out 
of  hell  ? 

Mepu.     Why,  this  is  hell,  nor  am  I  out  of  it:  12 
Think 'st  thou  that   1,  that  saw  the  face  of 

G0.I. 
And  tasted  the  eternal  joys  of  heaven. 
Am  not  tormented  with  ten  thousand  hells, 
In  being  depriv 'd  of  everlasting  bliss? 
O,  Faustus,  leave  these  frivolous  demands,  80 
Which  strike  a  terror  to  my  fainting  soul! 

Faust.     What,  is  great  Mephistophilis  so  pas- 
sionate 
For  being  deprived  of  the  joys  of  heaven  ? 
Learn  thou  of  Faustus  manly  fortitude, 
And  scorn  those  joys  thou  never  shalt  possess. 
Go  bear  these  tidings  to  great  Lucifer: 
Seeing  Faustus  hath  incurr  M  eternal  death 
By  desperate  thoughts  against  Jove's  deity, 
Say,  he  surrenders  up  to  him  his  soul. 
So  he  will  spare  him  four  and  twenty  years,     90 
Letting  him  live  in  all  voluptuousness; 
Having  thee  ever  to  attend  on  me, 
To  give  me  whatsoever  I  shall  ask, 
To  tell  me  whatsoever  I  demand, 
To  slay  mine  enemies,  and  to  aid  my  friends. 
And  always  be  obedient  to  my  will. 
Go,  and  return  to  mighty  Lucifer, 
And  meet  me  in  my  study  at  midnight. 
And  then  resolve  me  of  thy  master 's  mind. 

ilEPH.     I  will,  Faustus.  [Exit.     lOO 

Faust.     Ha'd  I  as  many  souls  as  there  be  stars, 
I  'd  give  them  all  for  Mephistophilis. 
By  him  I  '11  be  great  emperor  of  the  world, 
And  make  a  bridge  thorough  the  moving  air, 
To  pass  the  ocean  with  a  band  of  men; 
I  '11  join  the  hills  that  bind  the  Afric  shore, 
And  make  that  country  continentis  to  Spain, 
And  both  contributary  to  my  crown: 
The  Hmperor  shall  not  live  but  by  my  leave, 
Nor  any  potentate  of  Germany.  HO 

Now  that  I  have  obtain 'd  what  I  desir'd, 
I'll  live  in  speculation  of  this  art. 
Till  Mephistophilis  return  again.  \Exit. 

[Scene  Y.] 
Faustus  discovered  in  Ids  study. 

Faust.     Now,  Faustus, 

Must  thou  needs  be  danin'd,  canst  thou  not 

be  sav'd. 
What   boots   it,   then,   to   think    on    God    or 

heaven  * 
Away  with  such  vain  fancies,  and  despair; 
Despair  in  God.  and  trust  in  Belzebub: 

12  Compare  Paradise  Lost,  I.  2.")4. 

13  connected 


Now,  go  not  backward,  Faustus,  be  resolute: 
Why  waver 'st  thou.'     O,  something  soundeth 

in  mine  ear, 
' '  Abjure  this  magic,  turn  to  God  again !  ' ' 
Why,  he  loves  thee  not ; 

The  god  thou  serv  'st  is  thine  own  appetite,  10 
Wherein  is  fix'd  the  love  of  Belzebub: 
To  him  I  '11  build  an  altar  and  a  church. 
And  offer  lukewarm  blood  of  new-born  babes. 
Enter  Good  Angel  and  Evil  Angel. 
E.  AxG.     Go  forward,  Faustus.  in  that  famous 

art. 
G.  AxG.     Sweet   Faustus,   leave   that   execrable 

art. 
Faust.     Contrition,    prayer,    repentance — what 

of  these? 
G.  AxG.     O,  they  are  means  to  bring  thee  unto 

heaven. 
E.  Ang.     Rather  illusions,  fruits  of  lunacy, 
That    make    men    foolish    that    do    use   them 
most. 
G.  AxG.     Sweet   Faustus,  think  of  heaven  and 
heavealy  things.  20 

E.  Ang.     No,  Faustus;  think  of  honour  and  of 
wealth.  \ Exeunt  Angels. 

Faust.     Wealth! 

Why,    the   signioryu    of    Embdenis   shall   be 

mine. 
When  Mephistophilis  shall  stand  by  me, 
Wh.it  power  can  hurt  me  ?     Faustus,  thou  art 

safe. 
Cast  no  more  doubts. — Mephistophilis,  come, 
And    bring    glad    tidings    from    great    Luci- 
fer ; — 
Is't  not  midnight? — come  Mephistophilis, 
7'e/it,i«  veni,  MephistophUe ! 

Enter  Mephistophilis. 
Now  tell  me  what  saith  Lucifer,  thy  lord?    30 
Meph.     That  I  shall  wait  on  Faustus  whilst  he 
lives, 
So  he  will  buy  my  service  with  his  soul. 
Faust.     Already   Faustus   hath    hazarded   that 

for  thee. 
Meph.     But   now    thou    must    bequeath    it    sol- 
emnly. 
And   write  a   deed   of   gift   with   thine   own 

blood ; 
For  that  security  craves  Lucifer. 
If  thou  deny  it,  I  must  back  to  hell. 
Faust.     Stay,  Mephistophilis,  and  tell  me,  what 

good  will  my  soul  do  thy  lord? 
Meph.     Enlarge  his  kingdom.  40 

Faust.     Is  that  the  reason  why  he  tempts  us 
thus? 

n  dominion 

15  A    town    of   Hanover,    Germany,    formerly    very 

prosperous. 
18  come 


156 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


Meph.     Solamen    miseris    socios    habuisse    do 

lorisA'! 
Faust.     Why,  have  you  any  pain  that  torture 

others? 

Meph.     As  great  as  have  the  human  souls  of 
men. 
But,  tell  me,  Faustus,  shall  I  have  thy  soul? 
And  1  will  be  thy  slave,  and  wait  on  thee. 
And  give  thee  more  than  thou  hast  wit  to  ask. 
Faust.     Ay,  Mephistophilis,  I'll  give  it  thee. 
Meph.     Then,   Faustus,   stab   thine   arm   cour- 
ageously, 
And  bind  thy  soul,  that  at  some  certain  day 
Great  Lucifer  may  claim  it  as  his  own;         r.l 
And  then  be  thou  as  great  as  Lucifer. 
Faust.     [Stabbing  his  anii  \  Lo,  MephistophilLs, 
for  love  of  thee, 
Faustus    hath    cut    his    arm,    and    with    his 

proper  blood 
Assures  his  soul  to  he  great  Lucifer's, 
Chief  lord  and  regent  of  perpetual  night! 
View  here  this  blood  that  trickles  from  mine 

arm. 
And  let  it  be  propitious  for  my  wish. 
Meph.     But,  Faustus, 

Write  it  in  manner  of  a  deed  of  gift.  CO 

Faust.     [Writing^  Ay,  so  I  do.     But,  Mephis 
tophilis, 
-My  blood  congeals,  and  T  can  write  no  more. 
Meph.     I'll     fetch     thee     fire     to     dissolve     it 
straight.  [Exit. 

Faust.     What  might  the  staying  of  my  blood 
portend? 
Is  it  unwilling  I  should  write  tliis  bill? 
Why  streams  it  not,  that  I  may  write  afresh? 
Faufttiis  (jives  to  thee  his  soul:     O,  there  it 

stay  'd ! 
Why  shouldst  thou  not?  is  not  thy  soul  thine 

own? 
Then  write  again,  Faitstvs  {lives  to  thee  his 
soul. 

Ee-enter  'Siephistoph'iViH  with  the  chafcr^^  of  fire. 
Meph.  See,  Faustus,  here  is  fire;  set  it  on.  70 
Faust.  So,  now  the  blood  begins  to  clear 
again ; 
Now  will  I  make  an  end  immediately.  [  Writes. 
Meph.     What  will  not  I  do  to  obtain  his  soul  F 

[Asiiie. 

Faust.     Consummatum  e.<<t  ;^^  this  bill  is  ended. 

And    Faustus    hath    bequeath  M    his    soul    to 

Lucifer. 
But  what  is  this  inscription  on  mine  arm? 
Homo,  fu(/e:2o  whither  should   I  fly? 

17  "It  is  a  comfort  to  the  mlaerahlo  to  have  asso- 

fiafcM  in   tholr  paiu." 

18  verael 

!»  "It  !■  done."  20  "Man,  flee!" 


If  unto  God,  he'll  throw  me  down  to  hell. 
My    senses    are     deceiv'd;     here's     nothing 

writ:  — 
O,  yes,  I  see  it  plain ;    even  here  is  writ,      80 
Homo,  fuge:  yet  shall  not  Faustus  fly. 
Meph.     I  '11  fetch  him  somewhat  to  delight  his 
mind.  [Aside,  and  then  exit. 

Enter  Devils,  giving  crotrns  and  rich  apparel  to 
Faustus.    They  dance,  and  then  depart. 

He-enter  Mephistophilis. 
Faust.     What  means  this  show?  speak,  Mephis- 
tophilis. 
Meph.     Nothing,   Faustus,   hut   to   delight    thy 
mind. 
And  let  thee  see  what  magic  can  perform. 
Faust.     But  may  I  raise  such  spirits  when   I 

please? 
Meph.     Ay,    Faustus,    and    do    greater    things 

than  these. 
Faust.    Then,  Mephistophilis,  receive  this  scroll, 
A  deed  of  gift  of  body  and  of  soul: 
But  yet  conditionally  that  thou  perform       90 
All  covenants  and  articles  between  us  both! 
Meph.     Faustus,  I  swear  by  hell  and  Lucifer 

To  effect  all  promises  between  us  both! 
Faust.     Then  hear  me  read  it,  Mephistophilis. 

[Beads. 

On  these  conditions  follomng.  First,  that 
Faustus  inaij  be  a  spirit  in  form  and  s^ib- 
stance.  Secondly,  that  Mephistophilis  shall  be 
his  servant,  and  be  by  Jiim  commanded. 
Thirdly,  that  Mephistophilis  shall  do  for  him, 
and  bring  him  whatsoever  he  desires. 
Fourthly,  that  he  shall  be  in  his  chamber  or 
honse  invisible.  La.'ttly,  that  he  shall  appear 
to  the  said  John  Fa.islus,  at  all  times,  in 
what  .thapc  and  form  soever  he  please.  I, 
John  Faiistus,  of  Wittenberg,  Doctor,  by 
these  presents,  do  give  both  body  and  soul  to 
Lucifer  prince  of  the  east,  and  his  minister 
Mephistophilis;  and  furthermore  grant  unto 
them,  thai,  four-andtuenty  years  being  ex- 
pired, and  these  articles  aboue-toritten  being 
inviolate,  full  power  to  fetch  or  carry  the 
said  John  Faustus,  body  and  soul,  flesh  and 
blood,  into  their  habitation  wheresoever.  By 
me,  John  Faustus. 

Meph.     Speak,  Faustus,  do  you  deliver  this  as 
your  deed?  110 

Faust.     Ay,   take   it.   and   the   devil   give   thee 
good  of  it! 

Meph.     So,   now,    Faustus,   ask   me   what   tiiou 
wilt, 

Faust.     First  I  will  question  with  thee  about 
hell. 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE 


157 


Tell   me,   where   is   the   place   that   men   eall 
hell? 
Meph.     Under  the  heavens. 
Faust.     Ay,  so  are  all  things  else;  but  where- 
abouts * 
Meph.     Within  the  bowels  of  these  elements, 
Where  we  are  tortur'd  and  remain  for  ever: 
Hell  hath  no  limits,  nor  is  eircumsorib 'd 
In  one  self -place;  but  where  we  are  is  hell, 
And  where  hell  is,  there  must  we  ever  be:  121 
And,  to  be  short,  when  all  the  world  dissolves, 
And  every  creature  shall  be  purified. 
All  places  shall  be  hell  that  are  not  heaven. 
Faust.     I  think  hell's  a  fable. 
Meph.     Ay,  think  so  still,  till  experience  change 

thy  mind. 
Faust.     Why,    dost    thou   think   that    Faustus 

shall  be  damn'df 
Meph.     Ay,  of  necessity,  for  here's  the  scroll 

In  which  thou  hast  given  thy  soul  to  Lucifer. 
Faust.     Ay,  and  body  too;  and  what  of  that? 
Think 'st    thou    that    Faustus   is    so    fond    to 
imagine  131 

That,  after  this  life,  there  is  any  pain? 
No,    these    are    trifles   and    mere    old   wives ' 
tales. 
Meph.    But  I  am  an  instance  to  prove  the  con 
trary, 
For  I  tell  thee  I  am  damn  'd  and  now  in  hell. 

Here,  take  this  book,  peruse  it  well: 
The  iterating  of  these  lines  brings  gold;      160 
The  framing  of  this  circle  on  the  ground 
Brings  thunder,  whirlwinds,  storm,  and  light- 
ning; 
Pronounce  this  thrice  devoutly  to  thyself, 
And  men  in  harness^i  shall  appear  to  thee. 
Ready  to  execute  what  thou  command  'st. 
Fau.st.     Thanks,  Mephistophilis,  for  this  sweet 
book: 
This  will  I  keep  as  chary  as  my  life.  [Exeunt. 

[Scene  YL] 

Enter  Faustus,  in  his  stiuh/,  and  Mephistophilis. 
Faust.     When   I   behold    the  heavens,   then   I 
repent. 
And  curse  thee,  wicked  Mephistophilis. 
Because  thou  hast  depriv  'd  me  of  those  joys. 
Meph.     'Twas    thine    own    seeking,    Faustus; 
thank  thyself. 
But  think 'st  thou  heaven  is  such  a  glorious 

thing? 
I  tell  thee,  Faustus,  it  is  not  half  so  fair 
As  thou,  or  any  man  that  breathes  on  earth. 
Faust.     How  prov'st  thou  that! 

21  armor 


Meph.     'Twaa  made  for  man;  then  he's  more 

excellent. 
Faust.     If  heaven   was  made   for   man,    'twas 
made  for  me:  10 

I  will  renounce  this  magic  and  repent. 

Enter  Good  Angel  and  Evil  Angel. 
G.  Ang.     Faustus,   repent;    yet   God   will   pity 

thee. 
E.  Ang.     Thou  art  a  spirit;    God  cannot  pity 

thee. 
Faust.     Who   buzzeth   in   mine   ears   I   am   a 
spirit  ? 
Be  I  a  devil,  yet  God  may  pity  me; 
Yea,  God  will  pity  me,  if  I  repent. 
E.  Ang.     Ay,  but  Faustus  never  shall  repent. 

[Exeunt  Angels. 
Faust.  My  heart  is  harden  'd,  I  cannot  repent ; 
Scarce  can  I  name  salvation,  faith,  or  heaven: 
Swords,  poisons,  halters,  and  envenom  'd  steel 
Are  laid  before  me  to  despatch  myself;  21 
And  long  ere  this   I  should  have  done  the 

deed, 
Had    not    sweet    pleasure    conquer 'd    deep 

despair. 
Have  not  1  made  blind  Homer  sing  to  me 
Of  Alexander  's22  love  and  (Enon  's-^  death  ? 
And  hath  not  he,  that    buUt    the    walls    of 

Thebes24 
With  ravishing  sound  of  his  melodious  harp, 
Made  music  with  my  Mephistophilis? 
Why  should  I  die,  then,  or  basely  despair? 
I  am  resolv'd;  Faustus  shall  not  repent. — 
Come  Mephistophilis,  let  us  dispute  again. 
And  reason  of  divine  astrology.  32 

Speak,    are    there    many    spheres    above   the 

moon? 
Are  all  celestial  bodies  but  one  globe, 
As  is  the  substance  of  this  centric25  earth? 
Meph.     As  are  the  elements,  such  are  the  heav- 
ens, 
Even  from  the  moon  unto  th '  empyreal  orb,2« 
Mutually  folded  in  each  other's  spheres. 
And  jointly  move  upon  one  axletroe, 
Whose  termine27  is  term'd  the  world's  wide 
pole;  40 

Nor   are   the  names    of    Saturn,    Mars,    or 

Jupiter 
Feign 'd,  but  are  erring2s  stars. 
Faust.     But   have   they   all   one  motion,  both 

situ  et  tempore?-^ 
Meph.     All  move  from  east  to  west   in   four- 
and-twenty    hours    upon    the    poles    of    the 

22  Another  name  for  Paris,  whose  love  for  Helen 

caused  the  Trojan  war. 

23  Wife  of  Paris,  who  took  her  own  life. 

24  Amphion.  27  terminal 

25  central  28  See  note.  p.   154 
28  the  sun                            29  in  place  and  time 


158 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


world;  but  differ  in  their  motions  upon  the 
poles  of  the  zodiac. 
Faust.     These  slender   questions   "Wagner   can 
decide: 
Hath  Mephistophilis  no  greater  skill? 
Who    knows   not    the    double   motion   of   the 
planets!  »0 

That  the  first  is  finish 'd  in  a  natural  day; 
The  second  thus:  Saturn  in  thirty  years; 
Jupiter  in  twelve;  Mars  in  four;  the  Sun, 
Venus,  and  Mercury  in  a  year;  the  Moon  in 
twenty-eight  days.  These  are  freshmen's 
questions.  But  tell  me,  hath  every  sphere  a 
dominion  or  intelligentia?^^ 
Meph.  Ay. 
Faust.     How    many    heavens    or    spheres    are 

there? 
Meph.     Nine;  the  seven  planets,  the  firmament, 
and  the  empyreal  heaven.*  •»<> 

Faust.     But  is  there  not  caelum  igneum  et  crya- 

tallinum? 
Meph.     No,  Faustus,  they  be  but  fables. 
Faust.     Resolve3i   me,  then,  in  this  one  ques- 
tion; why  are  not  conjunctions,  oppositions, 
aspects,  eclipses,  all  at  one  time,  but  in  some 
years  we  have  more,  in  some  less? 
Meph.     Fer  inwqualem  motum  respectu  totius.^- 
Faust.     Well,  T  am  answered.  Now  tell  me  who 
made  the  world!  '^ 

Meph.     I  will  not. 

Faust.     Sweet  Mephistophilis,  tell  me. 
Meph.     Move  me  not,  Faustus. 
Faust.     Villain,  have  not  I  bound  thee  to  tell 

me  anything? 
Meph.     Ay,  that  is  not  against  our  kingdom; 
this  is. 
Thou  art  damned ;  think  thou  of  hell. 
Faust.     Think,  Faustus,  upon  God  that  made 

the  world. 
Meph.     Remember  this.  [Exit, 

Faust.     Ay,  go,  accursed  spirit,  to  ugly  hell!  80 
'Tis   thou   hast   damn'd   distress^d    Faustus' 

soul. 
Is't  not  too  late? 

Beenter  Good  Angel  and  Evil  Angel. 
E.  Ang.     Too  late. 

G.  AxG.     Never  too  late,  if  Faustus  will  repent. 
E.  Ang.     If  thou  repent,  devils  will  tear  thee 

in  pieces. 
G.  AxG.     Repent,  and  they  shall  never  raze  thy 
skin.  [Exeunt  Angels. 

80  fiOvcrelRn  authorHy  and  Intellect 

31  fit'o  nif  from  doubt 

32  "He<aMKp  of  their  unequal  motion  with  respect 

to  the  whole." 
•  Actordlnjf  to  the  Ttolomalc  syHtom,  these  were 
Dlno  concentric  spheres,  with  thi'  earth  at  the 
ccntr<'.  A  tenth  sphere,  the  "flory  and  crys- 
talllno  honvon"  mentioned  In  the  next  ques- 
tion, was  ttometimes  added. 


Faust.     O  Christ,  my  Saviour,  my  Saviour, 
Help  to  save  distressed  Faustus'  soul! 

Enter  Lucifer,   Belzebub,   and  Mephistophilis, 

Luc.     Christ   cannot   save   thy   soul,    for   lie    ia 

just: 

There 's  none  but  I  have  interest  in  the  same. 

Faust.     O,    what    art    thou    that    look'st    so 

terribly?  ^^ 

Luc.     I  am  Lucifer. 

And  this  is  my  companion-prince  in  hell. 
Faust.     O  Faustus,  they  are  come  to  fetch  thy 

soul ! 
Belz.     We    are    come    to    tell    thee   thou    dost 
injure  us. 
Thou  call'st  on  Christ,  contrary  to  thy 


ll 


Luc. 

Belz. 
Luc. 
Belz. 
Faust. 


promise. 
Thou  shouldst  not  think  on  God. 
Think  on  the  devil. 
And  his  dam  too. 


pardon 
100 


110 


but 


Nor  will  Faustus  henceforth: 
him  for  this. 
And  Faustus  vows  never  to  look  to  heaven. 
Luc.     So  shalt  thou  show  thyself  an  obedient 
servant, 
And  we  will  highly  gratify  thee  for  it. 
Belz.     Faustus,  we  are  eoiiie  from  hell  in  person 
to  show  thee  some   pastime:     sit   down,  and 
thou    shalt    behold    the    Seven    Deadly    Sins 
appear   to   thee   in   their   own  proper   shajies 
and  likeness. 
Faust.     That  sight  will  be  as  pleasant  unto  me, 
As  Paradise  was  to  Adam  the  first  day 
Of  his  creation. 
Luc.     Talk  not   of  Paradise  or  creation; 
mark  the  show. — 
Go,  Mephistophilis,  and  fetch  them  in. 
Mephistophilis  brings  in  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins. 
Belz.     Now,   Faustus,   question   them   of   tiioir 

names  and  dispositions. 
Faust.     That  shall  I  soon. — What  art  thou,  the 
first?  ^'^ 

Pride.  I  am  Pride.  I  disdain  to  have  any 
parents.  .  .  .  But,  fie,  what  a  smell  is 
here?  I'll  not  speak  a  word  more  for  a 
king's  ransom,  unless  the  ground  be  per- 
fumed, and  covered  with  cloth  of  arras. 
Faust.  Thou  art  a  proud  knave,  indeed.— What 
art  thou,  the  second?  '-^ 

Covet.  I  am  Covetousness,  begotten  of  an  old 
churl,  in  a  leather  bag:  and,  might  I  now 
obtain  my  wish,  this  house,  you,  and  all, 
should  turn  to  gold,  that  I  might  lock  you 
safe  into  my  chest:  O  my  sweet  gold! 
Faust.     And  what  art  thou,  the  third?  1-'" 

Envy.  I  am  Envy,  begotten  of  a  chimney 
sweeper  and  an  oyster-wife.  I  cannot  read. 
and  therefore  wish  all  books  burned. 


I  am 


CHKJSTOPIIER  MAKLOWE 


159 


leau  with  seeing  others  eat.  O,  that  there 
would  come  a  famine  over  all  the  world,  that 
all  might  die,  and  I  live  alone!  then  thou 
shouldst  see  how  fat  I'd  be.  But  must  thou 
sit,  and  I  stand?  come  down  with  a 
vengeance ! 

l'\\UST.  Out,  envious  wretch! — But  what  art 
thou,  the  fourth?  145 

Wrath.  I  am  Wrath.  I  had  neither  father 
nor  mother:  I  leapt  out  of  a  lion's  mouth 
when  I  was  scarce  an  hour  old;  and  ever 
since  have  run  up  and  down  the  world  with 
this  ease  of  rapiers,  wounding  myself  when 
I  could  get  none  to  fight  withal.  I  was  born 
in  hell;  and  look  to  it,  for  some  of  you  shall 
be33  my  father. 

Faust..    And  what  art  thou,  the  fifth?  153 

Glut.  I  am  Gluttony.  My  parents  are  all  dead, 
and  the  devil  a  penny  have  they  left  me,  but 
a  small  pension,  and  that  buys  me  thirty 
meals  a  day  and  ten  bevers,3* — a  small  trifle 
to  suffice  nature.  I  come  of  a  royal  pedigree : 
my  father  was  a  Gammon  of  Bacon,  and  my 
mother  was  a  Hogshead  of  Claret-wine;  my 
godfathers  were  these,  Peter  Pickled-herring 
and  Martin  Martlemas-beef  ;35  and  my  god- 
mother, O,  she  was  an  ancient  gentlewoman; 
her  name  was  Margery  March-beer.36  Now, 
Faustus,  thou  hast  heard  all  my  progeny; 
wilt  thou  bid  me  to  supper?  165 

Faust.     Not  I. 

Glut.     Then  the  devil  choke  thee! 

Faust.  Choke  thyself,  glutton! — What  art 
thou,  the  sixth? 

Sloth.  Heigho!  I  am  Sloth.  I  was  begotten 
on  a  sunny  bank.  Heigho!  I'll  not  speak 
a  word  more  for  a  king's  ransom.     .     .     . 

Luc.     Away  to  hell,  away !    On,  piper ! 

[Exeunt  the  Sins. 

Faust.     O,    how    this    sight    doth    delight    my 
soul !  180 

Luc.     Tut,  Faustus,  in  hell  is  all  manner   of 
delight. 

Faust.     O,  might  I  see  hell,  and  return  again 
safe. 
How  happy  were  I  then! 

Luc.     Faustus,  thou  shalt;   at  midnight  I  will 
send  for  thee. 
Meanwhile  peruse  this  book  and  view  it  thor- 
oughly, 
And  thou  shalt  turn  thyself  into  what  shape 
thou  wilt. 

Faust.     Thanks,  mighty  Lucifer! 

This  will  I  keep  as  charyST  as  my  life. 

33  must  be  34  luncheons 

35  beef  cured  at  Martlemas   (Nov.  11) 

36  cholf-e  beer  brewed  in  March 

37  carefully 


Luc.     Now  Faustus,  farewell. 
Faust.     Farewell,  great  Lucifer. 

[Exeunt  Lucifer  and  Belzebub, 
Come.  Mophistophilis. .  [Exeunt.* 


[Scene  XIIL] 

Thunder  and  lightning.  Enter  Devils  icith 
covered  dishes;  Mephistophilis  leads  them 
into  Faustus'  study,  then  enter  Wagner. 

Wag.  I  think  my  master  means  to  die  shortly;' 
he  has  made  his  will,  and  given  me  his  wealth, 
his  house,  his  goods,  and  store  of  golden 
plate,  besides  two  thousand  ducats  ready- 
coined.  I  wonder  what  he  means:  if  death 
were  nigh,  he  would  not  frolic  thus.  He's 
now  at  supper  with  the  scholars,  where  there  'a 
Buc'h  belly-cheer  as  Wagner  in  his  life  ne'er 
saw  the  like:  and,  see  where  they  come!  be- 
like the  feast  is  ended.f  [Exit. 

Enter    Faustus,    Mephistophilis,    and    two    or 

three  Scholars. 
First  Schol.  Master  Doctor  Faustus,  since  our 
conference  about  fair  ladies,  which's  was  the 
ieautifulest  in  all  the  world,  we  have  deter- 
mined with  ourselves  that  Helen  of  Greece 
was  the  admirablest  lady  that  ever  lived: 
therefore.  Master  Doctor,  if  you  will  do  us 
so  much  favour  as  to  let  us  see  that  peerle.ss 
dame  of  Greece,  whom  all  the  world  admires 
for  majesty,  we  should  think  ourselves  much 
beholding  unto  you. 
Faust.     Gentlemen, 

For    that39    I   know   your   friendship    is   un- 
f  eign  'd,  20 

It  is  not  Faustus'  custom  to  deny 
The  just  request  of  those  that  wi.sh  him  well: 
You    shall    behold    that    peerless    dame    of 

Greece, 
No  otherwise  for  pomp  or  majesty 
Than  when  Sir  Paris  cross 'd  the  seas  with 

her, 
And  brought  the  spoils  to  rich  Dardania. 
Be  silent,  then,  for  danger  is  in  words. 
Music  sounds.    Mephistophilis  brings  in  Helen; 

she  passeth  over  the  stage. 
Sec.   Schol.     Was  this  fair  Helen,  whose  ad- 
mired worth 

3S  as  to  which  30  because 

*  In  the  succeeding  scenes  are  given,  partly  in 
relation  by  the  Chorus,  partly  in  action. 
FaustiTs'  further  adventures  in  the  enjoyment 
of  his  new  power,  including  a  chariot-journey 
through  the  stellar  heavens,  and  a  ride  on  the 
back  of  a  dragon  to  Rome,  where,  in  disguise, 
or  altogether  invisible,  he  takes  huge  delight 
in  playing  pranks  on  the  Pope  and  his 
Cardinals.  But  at  length  the  twenty-four 
years  of  the  compact  draw  to  an  end. 

t  This  speech  is  almost  regular  blank  verse  and 
was  probably  written  as  such. 


160 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


Made  Greece  with  teu  years'  war  aflSict  poor 
Troy? 
Thikd  Schol.     Too    simple    is   my    wit    to    tell 
her  worth,  ao 

Whom  all  the  world  admires  for  majesty. 
First  Schol.     Now  we  have  seen  the  jirido  of 
Nature's  work, 
We'll  take  our  leaves:  and,  for  this  blessed 

sight, 
Happy  and  blest  be  Faustus  evermore! 
'  Faust.     Gentlemen,  farewell:  the  same  wish  I 
to  you.  [Exeunt  Scholars. 

Enter  an  Old  Man. 
Old  Man.     O  gentle  Faustus,  leave  this  damned 
art, 
This  magic,  that  will  charm  thy  soul  to  hell. 
And  quite  bereave  thee  of  salvation! 
Though  thou  hast  now  offended  like  a  man, 
Do  not  persever  in  it  like  a  devil:  40 

Yet,  yet  thou  hast  an  amiable  soul, 
If  sin  by  custom  grow  not  into  nature; 
Then,  Faustus,  will  repentance  come  too  late ; 
Then  thou  art   banish 'd   from   the  sight   of 

heaven: 
No  mortal  can  express  the  pains  of  hell. 
It  may  be,  this  my  exhortation 
Seems  harsh  and  all  unpleasant:  let  it  not ; 
For,  gentle  son,  I  sp^ak  it  not  in  wrath, 
Or  envy  of  thee,  but  in  tender  love, 
And  pity  of  thy  future  misery;  50 

And  so  have  hope  that  this  my  kind  rebuke, 
Checking  thy  body,  may  amend  thy  soul. 
Faust.     Where  art  thou,  Faustus?  wretch,  what 
hast  thou  done? 
Hell  claims  his  right,  and  with  a  roaring  voice 
Says,  "Faustus,  come;  thine  hour  is  almost 

come ;  *  * 
And  Faustus  now  will  come  to  do  thee  right. 
[Mephistophilis  gives  him  a  dagger. 
Old  Man.     O  stay,  good  Faustus,  stay  thy  des- 
perate steps!  j 
I  see  an  angel  hover  o'er  thy  head,                I 
And,  with  a  vial  full  of  precious  grace. 
Offers  to  pour  the  same  into  thy  soul:         60 
Then  call  for  mercy,  and  avoid  despair. 
Faust.     O  friend,  I  feel 
Th/  words  to  comfort  my  distressed  soul! 
Leave  me  a  while  to  ponder  on  my  sins. 
Old   Man.     Faustus,   I   leave   thee;    but   with 
grief  of  heart, 
Fearing  the  enemy  of  thy  hapless  soul.    [Exit. 
Paust.     Accursed  Faustus,  wretch,  what   hast 
thou    done? 
I  do  repent;  and  yet  I  do  despair: 
Hell  strives  with  grace  for  conquest  in  my 
breast :                                                     C9 
What  shall  I  do  to  shun  the  snares  of  death  t 


Meph.     Thou  trkitor,  Faustus,  I  arrest  thy  sot 
For  disobedience  to  my  sovereij^n  lord: 
Kevolt,  or  I'll  in  piece-meal  tear  thy  flesh. 
Falst.     I  do  repent  I  e'er  offended  him. 
Sweet  Mephistophilis,  entreat   thy  lord 
To  pardon  my  unjust  presumption. 
And  with  my  blood  again  1  will  confirm 
The  former  vow  I  made  to  Lucifer. 
Meph.     Do  it,  then,  Faustus,   with  unfeigned 
heart. 
Lest  greater  dangers  do  attend  thy  drift.      80 
Faust.     Torment,  sweet  friend,  that  base  and 
aged  man. 
That  durst  dissuade  me  from  thy  Lucifer, 
With  greatest  torments  that  our  hell  affords. 
Meph.     His  faith  is  great;  I  cannot  touch  his 
soul ; 
But  what  I  may  afflict  his  body  with 
I  will  attempt,  which  is  but  little  worth. 
Faust.     One  thing,  good  sers'ant,  let  me  crave 
of  thee, 
To  glut  the  longing  of  my  heart's  desire, — 
That  I  may  have  unto  my  paramour 
That  heavenly  Helen  which  1  saw  of  late,      90 
AVhose  sweet  embraces  may  extinguish  clean 
Those  thoughts  that  do  dissuade  me  from  my 

vow, 
And  keep  my  oath  I  made  to  Lucifer. 
Meph.     This,   or  what   else   my  Faustus   shall 
desire, 
Shall  be  perform  'd  in  twinkling  of  an  eye. 

Reenter  Helen,  passing  over  the  stage  between 
two   Cupids. 

Faust.     Was   this    the    face    that    launch 'd    a 

thousand   ships. 
And  burnt  the  topless  towers  of  Iliumi? — 
Sweet    Helen,    make    me    immortal    with    a 

kiss. —  [Kisses  her. 

Her  lips  suck  forth  my  soul:    see,  where  it 

flies. 
Come,  Helen,  come,  give  me  my  soul  again.    100 
Here  will  I  dwell,  for  heaven  is  in  these  lips. 
And  all  is  dross  that  is  not  Helena. 
I  will  be  Paris,  and  for  love  of  thee. 
Instead  of  Troy,  shall  Wittenberg  be  sack  'd ; 
And  I  will  combat  with  weak  Menelaus, 
And  wear  thy  colours  on  my  plumed  crest; 
Yea,  I  will  wound  Achilles  in  the  heel. 
And  then  return  to  Helen  for  a  kiss. 
O,  thou  art  fairer  than  the  evening  air 
Clad  in  the  beauty  of  a  thousand  stars;       no 
Brighter  art  thou  than  flaming  Jupiter 
When  he  appear 'd  to  hapless  Semele; 
More  lovely  than  the  monarch  of  the  sky 
In  wanton  Arethusa's  azur'd  arms; 


I  1  unRurpassable  towers  of  Troy 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE 


161 


And  none  but  thou  shalt  be  my  paramour! 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene  XIV.] 

Thunder.  Enter  Lucifer,  Belzebub  and 
Mephistophilis. 

Luc.     Thus  from  infernal  Dis^  do  we  ascend 
To  view  the  subjects  of  our  monarchy, 
Those  souls  which  sin  seals  the  black  sons  of 

hell; 
'Mong  which,  as  chief,  Faustus,  we  come  to 

thee, 
Bringing  with  us  lasting  damnation 
To  wait  upon  thy  soul:   the  time  is  come 
Which  makes  it   forfeit. 
Meph.     And,  this  gloomy  night, 

Here,  in  this  room,  will  wretched  Faustus  be. 
Belz.     And  here  we'll  stay,  10 

To  mark  him  how  he  doth  demean  himself. 
Meph.     How  should  he  but  in  desperate  lunacy  f 
Fond    worldling,    now    his    heart-blood    dries 

with  grief; 
His   conscience   kills   it;    and    his   labouring 

brain 
Begets  a  world  of  idle  fantasies 
To  over-reach  the  devil;  but  all  in  vain; 
His  store  of  pleasures  must  be  sauc  'd  with 

pain. 
He  and  his  servant  W^agner  are  at  hand; 
Both  come  from  drawing  Faustus'  latest  will. 
See,  where  they  come!  20 

Enter  Faustus  and  Wagner. 
Faust.     Say,  Wagner, — thou  hast  perus'd  my 
will, 
How  dost  thou  like  it? 
Wag.     Sir,  so  wondrous  well. 

As  in  all  humble  duty  I  do  yield 
My  life  and  lasting  service  for  your  love. 
Faust.     Gramercy,3  Wagner. 

Enter  Scholars. 

Welcome,  gentlemen. 

[Exit  Wagner. 
First  Schol.     Now,  worthy  Faustus,  methinks 

your  looks  are  chang'd. 
Faust.    O  gentlemen! 
Sec.  Schol.     What  ails  Faustus? 
Faust.     Ah,  my  sweet   chamber- fellow,  had   I 
lived  with   thee,  then   had  I   lived   still!   but 
now  must  die  eternally.     Look,  sirs,  comes  he 
notf  comes  he  not?  31 

First  Schol.     O  my  dear  Faustus,  what  imports 

this  fear? 
Sec.    Schol.     Is    all    our    pleasure    turn'd    to 
melancholy? 

2  Another  name  for  Pluto  and  bis  kingdom. 

3  great   thanks 


Third  Schol.  He  is  not  well  with  being  over- 
solitary. 

Sec.  Schol.  If  it  be  so,  we'll  have  physicians, 
And  Faustus  shall  be  cur'd. 

Third  Schol.  'Tis  but  a  surfeit,  sir;  fear 
nothing. 

Faust.  A  surfeit  of  deadly  sin,  that  hath 
damned  both  body  and  soul. 

Sec.  Schol.  Yet,  Faustus,  look  up  to  heaven, 
and  remember  mercy  is  infinite.  41 

Faust.  But  Faustus '  offense  can  ne  'er  be  par- 
doned: the  serpent  that  tempted  Eve  may  be 
saved,  but  not  Faustus.  O  gentlemen,  hear 
me  with  patience,  and  tremble  not  at  my 
speeches!  Though  my  heart  pant  and  quiver 
to  remember  that  I  have  been  a  student  here 
these  thirty  years,  O,  would  I  had  never  seen 
Wittenberg,  never  read  book!  and  what  won- 
ders I  have  done,  all  Germany  can  witness, 
yea,  all  the  world;  for  which  Faustus  hath 
lost  both  Germany  and  the  world,  yea,  heaven 
itself,  heaven,  the  seat  of  God,  the  throne  of 
the  blessed,  the  kingdom  of  joy;  and  must 
remain  in  hell  for  ever,  hell,  O  hell,  for  ever! 
Sweet  friends,  what  shall  become  of  Faustus, 
being  in  hell  for  ever? 

Sec.  Schol.     Yet,  Faustus,  call  on  God.  58 

Faust.  On  God,  whom  Faustus  hath  abjured! 
on  God,  whom  Faustus  hath  blasphemed!  O 
my  God,  I  would  weep!  but  the  devil  draws 
in  my  tears.  Gush  forth  blood,  instead  of 
tears!  yea,  life  and  soul!  O,  he  stays  my 
tongue!  I  would  lift  up  my  hands;  but  see, 
they  hold    'em,  they  hold   'emf 

All.     Who,  Faustus? 

Faust.  Why,  Lucifer  and  Mephistophilis.  O 
gentlemen,  i  gave  them  my  soul  for  my  cun- 
ning! 70 

All.     O,  God  forbid! 

Faust.  God  forbade  it,  indeed;  but  Faustus 
hath  done  it:  for  the  vain  pleasure  of  four- 
and-twenty  years  hath  Faustus  lost  eternal 
joy  and  felicity.  I  writ  them  a  bill*  with 
mine  own  blood:  the  date  is  expired;  this  is 
the  time,  and  he  will  fetch  me. 

First  Schol.  W^hy  did  not  Faustus  tell  us  of 
this  before,  that  divines  might  have  prayed 
for  thee?  •  81 

Faust.  Oft  have  I  thought  to  have  done  so; 
but  the  devil  threatened  to  tear  me  in  pieces, 
if  I  named  God.  to  fetch  me  body  and  soul, 
if  I  once  gave  ear  to  divinity:  and  now  'tis 
too  late.  Gentlemen,  away,  lest  you  perish 
with  me. 

Sec.  Schol.  O,  what  may  we  do  to  save  Faus- 
tus? 

4  bond 


163 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


Faust.  Talk  uot  of  me,  but  save  yourselves, 
and  depart.  90 

Thikd  Schou  God  will  strengthen  me;  I  will 
stay  with  Faustus. 

First  Schol.  Tempt  uot  God,  sweet  friend; 
but  let  us  iuto  the  next  room,  and  pray  for 
him. 

Faust.  Ay,  pray  for  me,  pray  for  me;  and 
what  noise  soever  you  hear,  come  not  unto 
me,  for  nothing  can  rescue  me. 

8ec.  Schol.  Pray  thou,  and  we  will  pray  that 
God  may  have  mercy  upon  thee.  100 

Faust.  Gentlemen,  farewell:  if  I  live  till  morn- 
ing, I'll  visit  you;  if  not,  Faustus  is  gone 
to  bell. 

All.     Faustus,  farewell.  [ExciDtt  Scholars. 

Meph.     Ay,  Faustus,  now  thou  hast  no  hope  of 
heaven ; 
Therefore  despair;   think  only  u]n)n  hell, 
For    that    must    be    thy    nuinsion,    there    to 
dwell. 

Faust.     Oh   thou   bewitching  iieutl,    'twas    thy 
temptation 
Hath  robb'd  me  of  eternal  happiness  I 

Meph.     I    do    confess     it.     Faustus.     and     re- 


joice: 


110 


'Twas  1  that,  w hen  thou  w ert  i '  the  way  to 

heaven, 
DammVl  up  thy  passage;  when  thou  took'st 

the  book 
To   view    the   Scriptures,    then   I   turn  'd   the 

leaves, 
And  led  thine  eye. 
What,  weop'st  thou?      'tis  too  late;  despair! 

Farewell: 
Fools  that  will  laugh  on  earth  must  weep  in 
hell.  [Exit. 

Enter  Good  Angel  and  Evil  Angel 
at  several  doors. 
G.  Ang.     O  Faustus,  if  thou  hadst  given  ear 
to  me. 
Innumerable  joys  had  follow^ 'd  thee! 
But  thou   didst  love  the  world. 
E.  Ang.     Gave  ear  to  me,  119 

And   now   must   taste  hell-pains  perpetually. 
G.  Ang.     O,  what  will  all  thy  riches,  pleasures, 
pomps. 
Avail  thre  now? 
E.  Ang.     Nothing,  but  vex  thee  more. 

To  want  in  hell,  that  had  on  earth  such  store. 
G.  Ang.  O,  thou  hast  lost  celestial  happiness. 
Pleasures  unspeakable,  bliss  without  end. 
Hadst  thou  affected^  sweet  divinity. 
Hell  or  the  devil  had  had  no  power  on  thee: 
Hadst  thou  kept  on  that  way,  Fausttis.  be 
hold, 

[Mttsir,  while  a  throne  descends. 


Ju  what  resplentlent  glory  thou  hadst  sit 
lu   yonder   throne,   like    those   bright-shining 
saints,  130 

And    triumph 'd    over   hell!      That   hast   thou 

lost ; 
And    now,    poor   soul,    must    thy    good   angel 

leave  thee: 
The  jaws  of  hell  are  open  to  receive  thee. 

[Exit.     The  throne  ascends. 
E.    Ang.     Now,    Faustus,    let    thine   eyes   with 
horror  stare  [Hell  is  discovered. 

Into  that  vast  perpetual  torture-house: 
There  are  the  Furies  tossing  damned  souls 
On  burning  forks ;  there  bodies  boil  in  lead ; 
There  are  live  quarters  broiling  on  the  coals, 
That  ne  'er  can  <lie ;  this  ever-burning  chair 
Is  for  o  'er-tortur  'd  souls  to  rest  them  in ;  140 
These  that  are  fed  with  sops'*  of  flaming  fire, 
Were  gluttons,  and  lov  'd  only  delicates, 
i      And  laugh 'd  to  see  the  poor  starve  at  their 
I  gates: 

But  yet  all  these  are  nothing;  thou  shalt  see 
Ten  thousand  tortures  that  more  horrid  be. 
Faust.     O,  I  have  seen  enough  to  torture  me  I 
E.  Ang.     Nay,  thou  must  feel  them,  taste  the 
smart  of  all: 
He  that  loves  pleasure  must  for  pleasure  fall: 
And  so  I  leave  thee,  Faustus,  till  anon; 
Then  wilt  thou  tumble  in  confusion.  150 

[Exit.    Hell  disappears. — The   clock 
strikes  eleven. 

Faust.     O  Faustus! 

Now  hast  thou  but  one  bare  hour  to  live. 
And  then  thou  must  be  damn  'd  perpetually ! 
Stand     still,     you     ever-moving     spheres     of 

heaven, 
That    time    may   cease,    and    midnight    never 

come; 
Fair  Nature's  eye,  rise,  rise  again,  and  make 
Periietual  day;   or  let  this  hour  be  but 
A  year,  a  month,  a  week,  a  natural  day, 
That  Faustus  may  repent  and  save  his  soul! 
0  lente,  lente  currite,  noctis  eqtii!''  160 

The  stars  move  still,  time  runs,  the  clock  will 

strike, 
The  devil   will  come,  and   Faustus   nuist   be 

damn  'd. 
O,   I'll   leap   up   to  heaven! — Who  pulls  me 

dow  n  ? — 
See,    where    Christ's    blood    streams    in    the 

firmament ! 
One    drop    of    blood    will    save    me;    0    my 

Christ!  — 
Bend  not  my  heart  for  naming  of  my  Christ; 
Yet  will  I  call  on  him:  O spare  me,  Lucifer!  — 


ri  applied  .yourself  to 
«  morsels 


7  ••()  slowly,  slowly  run. 
yp  steods  of  nifcbt.' 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE 


163 


Where  is  it  now!    'tis  gone: 

And  see,  a  threatening  arm,  an  angry  bro\>  I 

Mountains    and    hills,    come,    come,    and    fall 

on  me,  170 

And  hide  me  from  the  heavy  wrath  of  heaven ! 
No! 

Then  will  I  headlong  run  into  the  earth: 
Gape,  earth!    O,  no,  it  will  not  harbour  me! 
You  stars  that  reign  'd  at  my  nativity. 
Whose  influence  hath  allotted  death  and  hell. 
Now  draw  up  Faustus,  like  a  foggy  mist, 
Into  the  entrails  of  yon  labouring  cloud, 
That,  when  you  vomit  forth  into  the  air. 
My    limbs    may     issue    from    your    smoky 
mouths;  ISO 

But  let  my  soul  mount  and  ascend  to  heaven! 
[The  clock  strikes  the  half-hour. 
O,  half  the  hour  is  past!    'twill  all  be  past 

anon. 
O,  if  my  soul  must  suffer  for  my  sin, 
Impose  some  end  to  my  incessant  pain; 
Let  Faustus  live  in  hell  a  thousand  years, 
A  hundred  thousand,  and  at  last  be  sav'dl 
No  end  is  limited  to  damned  souls. 
Why  wert  thou  not  a  creature  wanting  soul? 
Or  why  is  this  immortal  that  thou  hast? 
O,   Pythagoras'   metempsychosis,**    Avere  that 

true,  190 

This    soul    should    fly    from    me,    and    I    be 

chang  'd 
Into  some  brutish  beast!  all  beasts  are  happy. 
For,  when  they  die, 

Their  souls  are  soon  dissolv  'd  in  elements : 
But   mine  must   live,   still  to   be  plagu'd  in 

hell. 
Curs'd  be  the  parents  that  engendered  me! 
No.  Faustus,  curse  thyself,  curse  Lucifer 
That    hath    depriv  'd    thee    of    the    joys    of 

heaven. 

[The  clock  strikes  twelve. 
It  strikes,  it  strikes!    Now.  body,  turn  to  air. 
Or  Lucifer  will  bear  thee  quick  to  hell!       200 
O  soul,  be  chang 'd  into  small  water-drops. 
And  fall  into  the  ocean,  ne'er  be  found! 

Thunder.     Enter  Devils. 
0.  mercy,  heaven!  look  not  so  fierce  on  me! 
Adders  and  serpents,  let  me  breathe  a  while! 
Fgly  hell,  gape  not!   come  not,  Lucifer! 
I'll  burn  my  books! — O  Mephistophilis! 

[Ej-eidit  Devils   icifh   Faustus. 

f  Thp  theory  hold  by  Pythagoras,  the  Greek  philos- 
opher, that  the  soul,  at  death,  passes  into 
another  body. 


[Scene  XV.] 
Enter  Scholars. 

First  Schol.     Come,  gentlemen,  let  us  go  visit 

Faustus, 
For  such  a  dreadful  night  was  never  seen; 
Since  first  the  world's  creation  did  begin. 
Such    fearful   shrieks   and    cries   were   never 

heard: 
Pray    heaven    the    doctor    have   escap'd    the 

danger. 
Sec.  Schol.     O,  help  us,  heaven!    see,  here  are 

Faustus'  limbs. 
All  torn  asunder  by  the  hand  of  death! 
Third  Schol.     The  devils  whom  Faustus  serv  'd 

have   torn  him  thus; 
For,  twixt  the  hours  of  twelve  and  one,  me- 

thought 
I  heard  him  shriek  and  call  aloud  for  help; 
At  which  self  time  the  house  seem'd  all  on 

fire  11 

With  dreadful  horror  of  these  damned  fiends. 

Sec.  Schol.     W^ell,  gentlemen,  though  Faustus' 

end  be  such 
As  every  Christian  heart  laments  to  think  on, 
Yet,  for  he  was  a  scholar  once  admir  'd 
For    wondrous    knowledge    in    our    German 

schools. 
We  '11  give  his  mangled  limbs  due  burial ; 
And    all    the   students,    cloth  'd   in   mourning 

black. 
Shall  wait  upon  his  heavy9  funeral. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  Chorus. 

Chor.     Cut    is    the    branch    that    might  "have 
grown  full  straight,  20 

And  burn&d  is  Apollo's  laurel-bough,io 
That  sometime  grew  within  this  learned  man. 
Faustus  is  gone:  regard  his  hellish  fall, 
Whose  fiendful  fortune  may  exhort  the  wise 
Only  to  wonder  at  unlawful  things. 
Whose    deepness    doth    entice    such    forward 

wits 
To     practise     more     than     heavenly     power 
permits.  [Exeunt. 

Tcrininat  hora  diem;  terminat  auctor  opus.^^ 


9  sad 

10  The  lautfl  was  sacred  to  Apollo.     Symbolic  here 

for  distinction  in  science  or  poetry. 

11  "The   hour   ends   the  day,   the   author  ends  the 

work." 


164 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


Lords. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 
(1564-1616) 

THE  TEMPEST* 

Dramatis  Persons. 

Alonso,  King  of  Naples. 

Sebastian,  his  brother. 

Prospero,  the  right  Duke  of  INIilan, 

Antonio,   his   brother,   the    usurping    Duke   of 

Milan. 
Ferdinand,  son  to  the  King  of  Naples. 
GONZALO,  an  honest  old  Counsellor. 
Adrian,  ) 

Francisco,      ) 
Caliban,  a  savage  and  deformed  Slave. 
Trinculo,  a  Jester. 
Stephano,  a  drunken  Butler. 
Master  of  a  Ship.        Boatswain.    Mariners. 

*  The  Tempest  is  one  of  Shakespearo's  matureet 
productions,  and  is  tommonly  assigned  to  the 
year  1610  or  1611.  It  may  have  had  its 
origin  in  the  spur  given  to  the  imagination  by 
the  widespread  interest  in  the  newly  discovered 
Bermudas,  where  in  the  year  1609  the  vessei 
of  Sir  George  Somers  was  wrecked.  A  ro- 
mantic play,  with  elements  of  both  tragedy 
and  comedy,  and  an  included  masque  (if  that 
be  Shakespeare's),*  and  with  characters  rang- 
ing from  a  brutish  monster  through  the  low- 
est and  highest  ranks  of  men  to  a  creature 
of  the  spirit  world,  it  contains  perhaps  in 
itself  the  best  epitome  of  its  creator's  varied 
powers. 

"The  persons  in  this  play,"  writes  Edward 
Dowden,  "while  remaining  real  and  living, 
are  conceived  in  a  more  abstract  way,  more 
as  types,  than  those  in  any  other  work  of 
Shakespeare.  Prospero  is  the  highest  wisdom 
and  moral  attainment ;  Gonzalo  is  humorous 
common-sense  incarnated ;  all  that  is  meanest 
and  most  despicable  appears  In  the  wretched 
conspirators ;  Miranda,  whose  name  seems  to 
suggest  wonder,  is  almost  an  elemental  being, 
framed  In  the  purest  and  simplest  type  of 
womanhood,  yet  made  substantial  by  contrast 
with  Ariel,  who  is  an  unbodied  joy,  too  much 
a  creature  of  light  and  air  to  know  human 
affection  or  human  sorrow  :  Caliban  (the  name 
formed  from  cannibal)  stands  at  the  other 
extreme,  with  all  the  elements  in  him— appe- 
•  tites.  Intellect,  even  imagination — out  of  which 
man  emerges  into  early  civilization,  but  with 
a  moral  nature  that  is  still  gross  and  ma- 
lignant. Over  all  presides  Prospero  like  a 
providence.  And  the  spirit  of  reconciliation, 
of  forgiveness,  harmonizing  the  contentions 
of  men,  appears  in  The  Tempest  in  the  same 
noble  manner  that  it  appears  in  The  Winter's 
Tale,  CtmbcHne,  and  Henry  VTII." 

"Nowhere."  says  Sidney  Lee.  "did  Shake- 
speare give  rein  to  his  imagination  with  more 
Imposing  effect  than  In  The  Tempest.  As  in 
A  Ml(tsumm,er  Nipht's  Dream,  magical  or 
Riinrrnatural  agencies  are  the  mainspring?  of 
ihc  |)Io(.  Itiit  the  tone  is  marked  at  all  points 
by  n  solemnity  and  profundity  of  thought  and 
sentiment  which  are  lacking  In  the  early 
comedy.  ...  In  Prospero,  the  guiding 
providence  of  the  romance,  who  resigns  his 
magic  power  In  the  closing  scene,  traces  have 
l>een  sought  of  the  lineaments  of  the  dramatist 
himself,  who  In  this  play  probably  bade  fare- 
well to  the  enchanted  work  of  his  life." 


Miranda,  daughter  to  Prospero. 

Ariel,  an  airy  Spirit. 

Iris, 

Ceres, 

Juno,        ^  presented  by  Spirits. 

Nymphs, 

Eeapers, 

Other  Spirits  attending  on  Prospero. 

ACT  I. 
Scene  I. 
On  a  ship  at  sea:   a  tempestuous  noise  of  thun- 
der and  lightning  heard. 

Enter  a  Ship-Master  and  a  Boatswain. 

Mast.     Boats%vain ! 

Boats.     Here,  master:    what  cheer? 

Mast.  Good,i  speak  to  the  mariners:  fall 
to  't,  yarely,-  or  we  run  ourselves  aground: 
bestir,  bestir.  [Exit. 

Enter  Mariners. 

Boats.  Heigh,  my  hearts!  cheerly,  cheerly, 
my  hearts!  yare,  yare!  Take  in  the  topsail. 
Tends  to  the  master's  whistle.  Blow,  till  thou 
burst  thy  wind,*  if  room  enough  !5 

Enter  Alonso,  Sebastian,  Antonio,  Ferdi- 
nand, Gonzalo,  and  others. 

Alox.  Good  boatswain,  have  care.  Where's 
the  master?     Play  the  men.  11 

Boats.     I  pray  now,  keep  below. 

Ant.     Where  is  the  master,  boatswain? 

Boats.  Do  you  not  hear  him?  You  mar  our 
labour:  keep  your  cabins:  you  do  assist  the 
storm. 

GoN.    Nay,  good,  be  patient. 

Boats.  When  the  sea  is.  Hence!  What 
carest  these  roarers  for  the  name  of  king?  To 
cabin:    silence!    trouble  us  not.  19 

GoN.  Good,  yet  remember  whom  thou  hast 
aboard. 

Boats.  None  that  I  more  love  than  myself. 
You  are  a  counsellor;  if  you  can  command 
these  elements  to  silence,  and  work  the  peace  of 
the  present,"  we  Avill  not  hand^  a  rope  more; 
use  your  authority:  if  you  cannot,  give  thanks 
you  have  lived  so  long,  and  make  yourself 
ready  in  your  cabin  for  the  mischance  of  the 


5  so   long   as    we    have 

sea-room 
«  Supply   "moment." 
7  touch 


1  Good  fellow 

2  smartly 
8  attend 
4Cp.    Lear.    III.    II.    1  : 

Perifles.  111.  i.  14. 
t  Such  grammatical  freedom  Is  not  unusual  in 
Shakespeare  and  other  writers  of  his  time ; 
compare  the  second  line  of  Ariel's  song.  I.  ii. 
.'597,  and  Ihe  fourth  line  of  "Hark,  hark!" 
CumbcUne,  II.  ill.  24.  The  "roarers"  here  are 
of  course  the  waves,  but  as  the  term  was  also 
applied  to  "bullies"  we  get  a  lively  picture  of 
their  rudeness  as  well  as  their  noise. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEAKE 


165 


hour,  if  it  so  hap.     Cheerly,  good  hearts!     Out 
of  our  way,  I  say,  [Exit.  29 

tJoN.  I  have  great  comfort  from  this  fel- 
low :  methinks  he  hath  no  drowning  mark  upon 
him ;  his  complexion  is  perfect  gallows.  Stand 
fast,  good  Fate,  to  his  hanging:  make  the 
rope  of  his  destiny  our  cable,  for  our  own  doth 
little  advantage.8  If  ho  be  not  born  to  be 
hanged,  our  case  is  miserable.  [Exeunt. 

Be-e liter  Boatswain. 

Boats.  Down  with  the  topmast!  yare!  lower, 
lower!  Bring  her  to  try»  with  main-course.i" 
[A  cry  within.]  A  plague  upon  this  howling! 
they  are  louder  than  the  weather  or  our 
office.  40 

Re-enter  Sebastian,  Antonio,  and  Gonzalo. 

Yet  again!  what  ilo  you  here?  Shall  we 
give  o'er,  and  drown?  Have  you  a  mind  to 
sink? 

Seb.  a  pox  o'  your  throat,  you  bawling, 
blasphemous,  incharitable  dog! 

Boats.     Work  you,  then. 

Axt.  Hang,  cur!  hang,  you  iusoleut  uoisc- 
niakcr.  We  are  less  afraid  to  be  drown 'd  than 
thou  art. 

Gox.  I'll  warrant  him  forn  drowning; 
though  the  ship  were  no  stronger  than  a  nut- 
shell. 50 

Boats.     Lay  her  a-hold,9  ahold!    set  her  two 
courses  off  to  sea  again;    lay  her  off. 
Enter  Mariners,  wet. 

Mariners.  All  lost!  to  prayers,  to  prayers! 
all  lost! 

Boats.     What,  must  our  mouths  be  cold? 

(•ON.     The  king  and  prince  at  prayers!    let's 
assist  them, 
For  our  case  is  as  theirs. 

Seb.  I'm  out  of  patience. 

Ant.     We  are  merelyi2  cheated  of  our  lives 
by  drunkards: 
This  wide-chapped  rascal, — would  thou  mightst 
lie  drowning  60 

The  washing  of  ten  tides  !$ 

GoN.  He  '11  be  hang  'd  yet. 

Though  every  drop  of  water  swear  against  it, 
And  gape  at  widest  to  glut  him. 

[A  confused  noise  within:  'Mercy  on  us!' 

'We  split,  we  split! ' 'Farewell  my  wife  and 

children!  ' 

'Farewell,  brother!' 'We  split,  we  split,  we 

split!'] 

Ant.     Let's  all  sink  with  the  king. 

Seb.     Let's  take  leave  of  him. '3 


8  help   (verb)  ii  against 

•  close  to  the  wind  12  simply,  absolutely 

JO  main-sail  13  bid  him  farewell 

f  Pirates  were  hanged  at  low  water  mark  and  left 
during  the  washing  of  three  tides. 


[Exeunt  Ant.  and  Seb. 
Gox.     Now    would    I    give    a    thousand    fur- 
longs of  sea  for  an  acre  of  barren  ground,  long 
heath,  brown  furze,  any  thing.     The  wills  above 
be  done!    but  I  would  fain  die  a  dry  death. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene  II. 

The  island.    Before  Prospero's  cell. 

Enter  Prospero  and  Miranda. 

Mir.     If  by  your  art,i*  my  dearest   father, 

you  have 
Put  the  wild  waters  in  this  roar,  allay  them. 
The  sky,  it   seems,  would   pour   down   stinking 

pitch, 
But    that    the   sea,    mounting    to    the    welkin's 

cheek, 
Dashes  the  fire  out.     O,  I  have  suffer 'd 
With  those  that  I  saw  suffer!    a  braveis  vessel. 
Who  had,  no  doubt,  some  noble  creature  is  in 

her. 
Dash  'd  all  to  pieces.    O,  the  cry  did'  knock 
Againgt    ray    very    heart!      Poor    souls,    they 

perish  '<l ! 
Had  I  been  any  god  of  power,  I  would         10 
Have  sunk  the  sea  within  the  earth,  or  erei^ 
It  should  the  good  ship  so  have  swallowed  and 
The  fraughtingis  souls  within  her. 

Pros.  .  Be  collected : 

No  more  amazement:    tell  your  piteous  heart 
There's  no  harm  done. 
Mir.  O,  woe  the  day! 

Pros.  No  harm. 

I  have  done  nothing  but  in  care  of  thee. 
Of  thee,  my  dear  one,  thee,  my  daughter,  who 
Art  ignorant  of  what  thou  art,  nought  knowing 
Of  whence  I  am,  nor  that  I  am  more  better 
Than  Prospero,  master  of  a  full  poor  cell       20 
And  thy  no  greater  father. 

Mir.  More  to  know 

Did  never  meddleis  with  my  thoughts. 

Pros.  'Tis  time 

I  should  inform  thee  farther.     Lend  thy  hand, 
And  pluck  my  magic  garment  from  me. — So: 

[Tm}/s  down   his   mantle.* 
Lie  there,  my  art.    Wipe  thou  thine  eyes;  have 

comfort. 
The    direful    spectacle    of    the    wreck,    which 

touch  'd 
The  very  virtue  of  compassion  in  thee, 
I  have  with  such  provision-o  in  mine  art 


14  magic    (Note    the    re- 

spectful ••you"  in 
her  address,  the  fa- 
miliar "thou"  in 
her  father's.) 

15  splendid 


16  CoIIet'tive    for    "crea- 

tures." 

17  sooner  than 

18  freight-composing 

19  mingle 

20  foresight 


*  rrospero  wears  the  mantle  <Mily  in  his  capacity 
as  magician. 


166 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


So  safely  ordere«J,  that  there  is  no  soul, 

No,  not  so  much  perdition  as  an  hair  30 

Betitl  to  any  creature  in  the  vessel 

Which    thou   heard  'st    cry,    which    thou    saw  'st 

sink.    Sit  down; 
For  thou  must  now  know  farther. 

Mir.  You  have  often 

Begun  to  tell  me  what  I  am;  but  stopp'd, 
And  left  me  to  a  bootless  inquisition,^! 
Concluding  '  Stay :    not  yet. ' 

Pros.  The  hour 's  now  come ; 

The  very  minute  bids  thee  ope  thine  ear ; 
Obey,  and  be  attentive.     Canst  thou  remember 
A  time  before  we  came  unto  this  cellf 
1  do  not  think  thou  canst,  for  then  thou  wast 
not  40 

Out2-'  three  years  old. 

Mir.  Certainly,  sir,  I  can. 

Pros.     By    what?     by    any    other    house    or 
person  ? 
Of  any  thing  the  image  tell  me,  that 
Hath  kept  with  thy  remembrance. 

Mir.  'Tis  far  off, 

And  rather  like  a  dream  than  an  assurance 
That  my  remembrance  warrants.     Had  1  not 
Four  or  five  women  once  that  tended  me? 

Pros.     Thou  hadst,  and  more,  Miranda.    But 
how  is  it 
That  this  lives  in  thy  mind  ?     What  seest  thou 

else 
1  n  the  dark  backward  and  abysm  of  time .'       5U 
If    thou    remember 'st    aught   ere    thou    camest 

here, 
How  thou  camest  here  thou  mayst. 

Mir.  But  that  I  do  not. 

Pros.     Twelve   year    since,    Miranda,   twelve 
year  since, 
Thy  father  was  the  Duke  of  Milan,  and 
A  prince  of  power. 

Mir.  Sir,  are  not  you  my  father  ? 

Pros.     Thy  mother  was  a  piece  of  virtue,  and 
She    said    thou    wast    my    daughter;     and    thy 

father 
Was  Duke  of  ^lilan;    and  his  only  heir 
A  princess,  no  worse  issued. -3 

Mir.  O  the  heavens! 

What   foul   play  had  we,   that  we  came   from 

thence! 
Or  blessed  was't  we  did! 

Pros.  Both,  both,  my  girl :     Gl 

By  foul  play,  as  thou  say'st,  were  we  heaved 

thence ; 
But  blessedly  holp  thither. 

Mir.  O.  my  heart   bleeds 

To  think  o'  the  fpen-*  that  I  have  turn'd  von  to. 


21  vain  iii<|iiirv 

22  fully 


2.T  flr>scf>ndp(l 
24  grief 


Which  is  from-'-  my  remembrance!     Please  you, 

farther. 
Pros.     My    brotlier,    and    thy    undo,    call  "d 

Antonio. — 
I  pray   thee,  mark  me, — that  a  brother  sliould 
Be  so  perfidious! — he  whom,  next  thyself. 
Of  all  the  world  I  Joved,  and  to  him  put 
The  manage  of  my  state;    as  at  that  time        70 
Through  all  tlie  signories-'o  it  was  the  first, 
And  Prospero  the  prime  duke,  being  so  reputed 
In  dignity,  and  for  the  liberal  arts 
Without  a  parallel;    those  being  all  my  study. 
The  government  1  cast  upon  my  brother. 
And  to  my  state  grew  stranger,  being  trans- 
ported 
And  rapt  in  secret  studies.     Thy  false  uncle — 
Dost  thou  attend  me? 

Mir.  Sir,  most  heedfuUy. 

Pros.     Being   once  perfected   how   to   grant 

suits, 
H  j\v  to  deny  them,  who  to  advance.  an<l  who       SO 
To  trash-7  for  over-topping,28  new  created 
The    creatures29    that    were    mine,    I    say,    or 

changed    'em, 
Or  else  new  form  'd   'em;  having  both  the  key 
Of  officer  and  office,  set  all  hearts  i '  the  state 
To  what  tune  jileased  his  ear ;  that  now  he  was 
The  ivy  which  had  hid  my  princely  trunk. 
And    suck'd    my    verdure    out    on't.:*"      Thou 

attend  'st  not. 
yiui.     O,  good  sir,  I  do. 

Pros.  I  pray  thee,  mark  me. 

I,   tiuis   neglecting   worldly   ends,   all   dedicate<l 
To  closeness-'-i  and  the  bettering  of  my  mind       1*0 
With  tliat  which,  but^s^  my  being  so  retired. 
O 'er-pri/ed    all    popular    rate,;'-''    in    my    false 

brotlier 
Awaked  an  evil  nature;    and  my  trust. 
Like  a  good  j)arent,  di<l  beget  of  him 
A  falsehood  in  its  contrary,  as  great 
As  my  trust  was;  which  had  indeed  no  limit, 
A    confidence    sans"*    bound.      He    being    thus 

lorded, 
>.'ot  only  with  what  my  revenue-'"-  yielded, 
But  what  my  power  might  else  exact,  like  one 
Who  having  into  truth,  by  telling  of  it,  100 

Made  such  a  sinner  of  his  nu^mory. 
To  credit  his  own  lie,30  he  did  believe 


2B  out  of 

SI 

sncliisloii 

26  selgnorics.  lordships 

32 

except 

27  chock      (said 

of 

;i;t 

out-valued    all    popu- 

hounds :   or   It 

may 

lar      esteem       (was 

he     ii     Hkih-c 

from 

hotter      than      any 

j;  a  r  d  i-  n  In;;  - 

—  to 

popularity,      except 

"top,"    lop) 

that      It      enforced 

I'K  outrunning 
20  followers,  lords 

seclusion) 

3« 

without 

30  out   of  It 

.■}.-> 

Pronounce  tnvii'iiv. 

like  one  who  has  told  an  untruth  tmtil  Ills  false 
memory  makes  it  seem  truth  (perhaps  into 
should   he   unto.) 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEABB 


167 


He  was  indeed  the  duke;    out  o'  tliest  substitu- 
tion. 
And  executing  tlie  outward  face  of  royalty, 
With      all     prerogative — hence     his     ambition 

growing,— 
Dost  thou  hear? 

^IiK.  Your  tale,  sir,  would  cure  deafness. 

Pros.     To  have  no  screen  between  this  part 

he  play'd 

And  him  he  play'd  it  for,  he  needs  will  be 

Absolute   Milan.38     Me,   poor  man,  my  library 

Was     dukedom     large     enough :     of     temporal 

royalties 
He  thinks  me  now  incapable ;   confederates.     111 
So  dry  he  was  for  sway,  wl '  the  King  of  Naples 
To  give  him  annual  tribute,  ilo  him  homage, 
Subject  liis  coronet  to  his  crown,  and  bend 
The  dukedom,  yet  unbow  'd, — alas,  poor  Milan  I  — 
To  most  ignoble  stooping. 

Mil!.  O  the  heavens! 

Pros.     Mark  his  condition.^y  and  the  event;*" 
then  tell  me 
If  this  might  be  a  brother. 

Mir.  I  should  sin 

To  think  but^i  nobly  of  my  grandmother: 
Good  wombs  have  borne  bad  sons. 

Pros.  Now  the  condition.     120 

This  King  of  Naples,  being  an  enemy 
To  nie  inveterate,  hearkens  my  brother's  suit; 
Which  was,  that  he,  in  lieu  o'  the  premises*- 
Of  homage  and  I  know  not  how  much  tribute. 
Should  present]y*3  extirpate  me  and  mine 
Out  of  the  tlukedom,  and  confer  fair  Milan, 
With  all  tlie  honours,  on  my  brother:    whereon, 
A  treacherous  army  levied,  one  midnight 
Fated  to  the  purpose,  did  Antonio  open 
The    gates    of    Milan;     and,    i'    the    dead    of 
darkness,  130 

The  ministers  for  the  purpose  hurried  thence 
Me  and  thy  crying  self. 

iliR.  Alack,   for  pity! 

I,  not  remembering  how  I  cried  out  then, 
W' ill  cry  it  o  'er  again :    it  is  a  hint 
That  wrings  mine  eyes  to 't. 

Pros.  Hear  a  little  further. 

And  then  I'll  bring  thee  to  the  present  business 
Which  now  's  upon 's ;    w  ithout  the  which,  this 

story 
Were  most  impertinent.** 

Mir.  Wherefore  did  they  not 

That  hour  destroy  us? 
Pros.  Well  demanded,  wench  :*j 


37  in  ronsequpncp  of  tho 
38l)ukf  of   Milan.      (So 

Cleopatra   is   calleil 

Egypt,  etc.) 

39  terms    of    confedera- 

tion 

40  outcome 


41  otherwise  than 
4-'  in      return     for     the 
guarantees 

43  at  once 

44  not  pertinent 
43  girl     (with    none    of 

the      modern      con- 
tomptnous    sens<') 


My   tale   provokes    that    question.     Dear,    they 

durst   not. 
So  dear  the  love  my  people  bore  me ;  nor  set     141 
A  mark  so  bloody  on  the  business;    but 
With  colours  fairer  painted  their  foul  ends. 
In  few,4c  they  hurried  us  aboard  a  bark. 
Bore    us    some    leagues    to    sea;     where    they 

prepared 
A  rotten  carcass  of  a  butt,  not  rigg'd, 
Nor  tackle,  sail,  nor  mast;    the  very  rats 
Instinctively  have  quit  it:    there  they  hoist  us, 
To  cry  to  the  sea  that  roar'd  to  us;    to  sigh 
To  the  winds,  whose  pity,  sighing  back  again,  150 
Did  us  but  loving  wrong. 

iliR.  Alack,    what    trouble 

Was  I  then  to  you! 

Pros.  O,  a  cherubin 

Thou  wast  that  did  preserve  me.     Thou  tlidst 

smile. 
Infused  with  a  fortitude  from  heaven, 
When  I  have  deck'd*^  the  sea  with  drops  full 

salt. 
Under  my  burthen  groan  'd ;    which  raised  in  me 
An  undergoing  stomach,48  to  bear  up 
Against  what  should  ensue. 

Mir.  How  came  we  ashore? 

Pros.     By  Providence  divine. 
Some  food  we  had,  and  some  fresh  water,  that 
A  noble  Neapolitan,  Gonzalo,  161 

Out  of  his  charity,  who  being  then  appointed 
Master  of  this  design,  did  give  us,  with 
Rich  garments,  linens,  stuffs  and  necessaries. 
Which    since    have   steaded    much;     so,    of   his 

gentleness, 
Knowing  I  loved  my  books,  he  furnish 'd  me 
From  mine  own  library  with  volumes  that 
I  prize  above  my  dukedom. 

:Mir.  Would  I  might 

But  ever  see  that  man ! 

Pros.  Now  I  arise:     [Eesumes  his  mantle. 

Sit  still,  and  hear  the  last  of  our  sea-sorrow. 
Here  in  this  island  we  arrived;  and  here  171 
Have  I,  thy  schoolmaster,  made  thee  more  profit 
Than  other  princess '**»  can,  that  have  more  time 
For  vainer  hours,  and  tutors  not  so  careful. 
I  MlH.  Heavens  thank  you  for't!  And  now, 
I  pray  you,  sir. 
For  still  'tis  beating  in  my  mind,  your  reason 
For  raising  this  sea-storm? 

Pros.  Know  thus  far  forth. 

By  accident  most  strange,  bountiful  Fortune, 
Now  my  dear  lady,  hath  mine  enemies 
Brought  to  this  shore ;  and  by  my  prescience    180 
I  find  my  zenith  doth  depend  upon 
A  most  auspicious  star,  whose  influence 
If  now  I  court  not,  but  omit,  my  fortunes 


46  in  brief 
4  7  covered 


48  an  enduring  courage 

49  princesses 


168 


THE  ELIZABETHAN'  AGE 


Will  ever  after  droop.     Here  cease  more  ques- 
tions: 
Thou  art  inclined  to  sleep;     'tis  a  good  dulness, 
And  give  it  way:    I  know  thou  canst  not  choose. 

[Miranda  sleeps. 
Come  away,  servant,  come.    I  am  ready  now. 
Approach,  my  Ariel,  come. 

Enter  Ariel. 
Ari.     All  hail,  great  master!    grave  sir,  hail! 

I  come 
To  answer  thy  best  pleasure;    be't  to  fly,      190 
To  swim,  to  dive  into  the  fire,  to  ride 
On  the  curl  'd  clouds,  to  thy  strong  bidding  task 
Ariel  and  all  his  quality.so 

Pros.  Hast  thou,  spirit, 

Perform  'd   to   point  the  tempest  that  I   bade 

thee? 
Ari.     To  every  article, 
I  boarded  the  king's  ship;    now  on  the  beak. 
Now  in  the  waist,  the  deck,  in  every  cabin, 
I  flamed  amazement:    sometime  I 'Id  divide, 
And  burn  in  many  places;    on  the  topmast, 
The   yards   and    bowsprit,   would   I    flame   dis- 

tinctly,5i  200 

Then   meet   and   join.     Jove's  lightnings,   the 

precursors 
O'  the  dreadful  thunder-claps,  more  momentary 
And  sight-outrunning  were  not:     the  fire   and 

cracks 
Of  sulphurous  roaring  the  most  mighty  Neptune 
Seem    to    besiege,    and    make    his    bold    waves 

tremble, 
Yea,  his  dread  trident  shake. 

Pros.  My  brave  spirit! 

^Vho  was  so  firm,  so  constant,  that  this  coil^'Z 
Would  not  infect  his  reason? 

Ari.  Not  a  soul 

But  felt  a  fever  of  the  mad,  and  play'd 
Some  tricks  of  desperation.  All  but  mariners   210 
Plunged   in   the   foaming   brine,   and   quit   the 

vessel, 
Then    all    afire    with    me:      the    king's    son, 

Ferdinand, 
With    hair    up-staring, — then    like    reeds,    not 

hair, — 
Was  the  first  man  that  leap'd;  cried,  'Hel!  is 

empty, 
And  all  the  devils  are  here. ' 

I'ros.  Why,  that 's  my  spirit ! 

But  was  not  this  nigh  shore? 

Ari.  ("lose  by,  my  master. 

Pros.     But  are  they,  Ariel,  safe? 
Art.  Not  a  hair  perish  'd ; 

On  their  sustaining  garments  not  a  bleniish, 
But  fresher  than  before:    and,  as  thou  badest 

me, 


in  troops  I  have  dispersed  them    'bout  the  isle. 
The  king's  son  have  I  landed  by  himself;      221 
Wiiom  I  left  cooling  of  the  air  with  sighs 
In  an  odd  angle  of  the  isle,  and  sitting, 
His  arms  in  this  sad  knot. 

Pros.  Of  the  king's  ship, 

The  mariners,  say  how  thou  hast  disposed, 
And  all  the  rest  o '  the  fleet. 

Ari.  Safely  in  harbour 

Is  the  king 's  ship ;  in  the  deep  nook,  where  once 
Thou  call'dst  me  up  at  midnight  to  fetch  dew 
From  the  still-vex 'd  Bermoothes,53  there  she's 

hid : 
The  mariners  all  under  hatches  stow  'd ;  230 

Who,    with    a    charm    join  'd    to    their    suffer  'd 

labour, 
I  have  left  asleep :    and  for  the  rest  o '  the  fleet, 
Which  I  dispersed,  they  all  have  met  again. 
And  are  upon  the  Mediterranean  flote,54 
Bound  sadly  home  for  Naples; 
Supposing     that     they     saw     the    king 's     shij) 

wreck  'd, 
And  his  great  person  perish. 

Pros.  Ariel,   thy   charge 

Exactly  is  perform 'd:    but  there's  more  work. 
What  is  the  time  o'  the  day? 

Ari.  Past  the  mid  season. 

Pros.     At  least  two  glasses.    The  time  'twixt 
six  and  now  240 

Must  by  us  both  be  spent  most  preciously. 

Ari.     Is   there   more   toil?     Since   thou   dost 
give  1110  pains, 
Let  me  remember  thee  what  thou  hast  promised, 
Which  is  not  yet  perform  'd  me. 

Pros.  How  now  ?  moody  ? 

What  is't  thou  canst  demand? 

Ari.  My  liberty. 

Pros.     Before  the  time  be  out?   no  more! 

Ari.  I  prithee, 

Remember  I  have  done  thee  worthy  service; 
Told    thee   no   lies,   made   thee   no    mistakings. 

served 
Without  or  grudge  or  grumblings:    thou  didst 

promise 
To  bate  me  a  full  year. 

Pros.  Dost  thou  forget      2.")i) 

From  what  a  torment  I  did  free  thee? 

Ari.  No. 

Pros.     Thou    dost,  and   think 'st  it  much   to 
treail  the  ooze 
Of  the  salt  <leop, 

To  run  upon  the  sharp  wind  of  the  north. 
To  do  me  business  in  llic  veins  o'  the  earth 
Whc'ii  it  is  baked  with  frost. 

Aim.  I   do  not,  sir. 


BO  aHftociatcB 
Bi  separately 


■OS  turmoil 


53  the  ov<>r  tomppstuous 
Hornmdns  (see  In- 
troductor.v   notr) 


54  flood,  sea 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


169 


Pros.     Thou   liest,   malignant    thing!      Hast 
thou  forgot 
The  foul  witch  Sycorax,  who  with  age  and  envy 
Was  grown  into  a  hoop?  hast  thou  forgot  her? 
Ari.     Xo,  sir. 

Pros.  Thou  hast.    Where  was  she  born  ? 

speak;   tell  me.  260 

Aki.     Sir,  in  Argier.^s 

Pros.  O,  was  she  so!    I  must 

Once  in  a  month  recount  what  thou  hast  been, 
Which    thou    forget 'st.      This    damn'd    witch 

Sycorax, 
For  mischiefs  manifold,  and  sorceries  terrible 
To  enter  human  hearing,  from  Argier, 
Tbou  know  'st,  was  banish  'd :    for  one  thing  she 

did 
They  would  not  take  her  life.    Is  not  this  true! 
Ari.     Ay,  sir. 

Pros.     This     blue-eyed^c     hag     was     hither 
brought  with  child,  269 

And  here  was  left  by  the  sailors.    Thou,  my  slave. 
As  thou  report  'st  thyself,  wast  then  her  servant ; 
And.  for^"  thou  wast  a  spirit  too  delicate 
To  act  her  earthy  and  abhorr'd  commands. 
Refusing  her  grand  bests,  she  did  confine  thee. 
By  help  of  her  more  potent  ministers, 
And  in  her  most  unmitigable  rage, 
Into  a  cloven  pine;    within  which  rift 
Imprison 'd  thou  didst  painfully  remain 
A  dozen  years;   within  which  space  she  died,    279 
And  left  thee  there;    where  thou  didst  vent  thy 

groans 
A.S  fast  as  mill-wheels  strike.     Then  was  this 

island — 
Save  for  the  son  that  she  did  litter  here, 
A  freckled  whelp  hag-born — not  honour 'd  with 
A  human  shape. 

Aki.  Yes,  Caliban,  her  son. 

Pros.     Dull  thing,  I  say  so;  he,  that  Caliban. 
Whom    now    I    keep    in    service.      Thou    best 

know  'st 
What  torment  I  did  find  thee  in;    thy  groans 
Did    make    wolves    howl,    and    penetrate    the 

breasts 
Of  ever-angry  bears:    it  was  a  torment 
To  lay  upon  the  damn'd,  which  Sycorax        290 
Could  not  again  undo:    it  was  mine  art. 
When  I  arrived  and  heard  thee,  that  made  gape 
The  pine,  and  let  thee  out. 

Ari,  I  thank  thee,  master. 

Pros.     If  thou  more  murmur 'st,  I  will  rend 
an  oak. 
And  peg  thee  in  his  knotty  entrails,  till 
Thou  hast  howl  'd  away  twelve  winters. 

Ari.  Pardon,  master : 

I  will  be  correspondent  to  command, 

55  Algiers  57  because 

6«  with  biue-clrcled  eyes 


And  do  my  spiriting  gently. 

Pros.  Do  so ;  and  after  two  days 

I  will  discharge  thee. 

Ari.  That 's  my  noble  master ! 

What  shall  I  do?    say  what;    what  shall  I  dot 

Pros.     Go  make  thyself  like  a  nymph  o'  the 
sea:    be  subject  301 

To  no  sight  but  thine  and  mine;  invisible 
To  every  eyeball  else.  Go  take  this  shape. 
And  hither  come  in't:   go  hence  with  diligence! 

[Exit  Ariel. 
Awake,  dear  heart,  awake!  thou  hast  slept  well; 
Awake ! 

;Mir.     The  strangeness  of  your  story  put 
Heaviness  in  me. 

Pros.  Shake  it  off.    Come  on; 

We'll  visit  Caliban  my  slave,  who  never 
Yields  us  kind  answer. 

Mir.  'Tis  a  villain,  sir, 

I  do  not  love  to  look  on. 

Pros.  But,  as   'tis,  310 

We  cannot  misses  him:    he  does  make  our  fire, 
Fetch  in  our  wood,  and  serves  in  offices 
That  profit  us.    What,  hoi    slave!    Caliban! 
Thou  earth,  thou !  speak. 

Cal.       [Withini  There 's  wood  enough  within. 

Pros.     Come    forth,    I    say!     there's    other 
business  for  thee: 
Come,  thou  tortoise!    whent 

'Re-enter  Ariel  like  a  water-nymph. 
Fine  apparition!     My  quaint^^  Ariel, 
Hark  in  thine  ear. 

Ari.  My  lord,  it  shall  be  done.    [Exit. 

Pros.     Thou  poisonous  slave,  got  by  the  devil 
himself 
L^pon  thy  wicked  dam,  come  forth!  320 

Enter  Calibax. 

Cal-     As    wicked    dew    as    e'er    my    mother 

brush  'd 
With  raven 's  feather  from  unwholesome  fen 
Drop  on  you  both!    a  south-west  blow  on  ye 
And  blister  you  all  o'er! 

Pros.     For  this,  be  sure,  to-night  thoa  shalt 

have  cramps. 
Side-stitches    that    shall   pen    thy    breath    up; 

urchins*" 
Shall,  for  that  vast  of  night  that«i  they  may 

work. 
All  exercise  on  thee;    thou  shalt  be  pinch 'd 
As    thick    as    honeycomb,     each    pinch    more 

stinging 
Than  bees  that  made  'em. 

Cal.  I  must  eat  my  dinner.     330 

This  island  *s  mine,  by  Sycorax  my  mother. 


58  do  without 

59  dainty 
CO  gobiins 


61  that   waste  and   void 
of  night  wherein 


170 


THE  ELIZAliHTllAX   A(iK 


Which  thou  takest  from  me.    When  thou  earnest 

first, 
Thou  strokedst  me,  and  madest  much  of  me; 

wouldst  give  me 
Water  with  berries  in  't;*  and  teach  me  how 
To  name  the  bigger  light,  and  how  the  less, 
That  burn  by  day  and  night:    and  then  I  loved 

thee. 
And  show'd  thee  all  the  qualities  o'  th'  isle. 
The  fresh  springs,  brine-pits,  barren  places  and 

fertile : 
Cursed  be  I  that  did  so!     All  the  charms 
Of  Sycorax,  toads,  beetles,  bats,  light  on  you! 
For  I  am  all  the  subjects  thct  you  have,        341 
Which62   first   was  mine   own  king:     and  here 

you  sty  me 
In  this  hard  rock,  whiles  you  do  keep  from  me 
The  rest  o '  th '  island. 

Pros.  Thou  most  lying  slave, 

Whom  stripes  may  move,  not  kindness!     I  have 

used  thee. 
Filth  as  thou  art,  with  human  care;  and  lodged 

thee 
In  mine  own  cell,  till  thou  didst  seek  to  violate 
The  honour  of  my  child. 

Cal.     O  ho,  O  ho !    would 't  had  been  done ! 
Thou  didst  prevent  me ;  I  had  peopled  else       350 
This  isle  with  Calibans. 

Pros.  Abhorred  slave, 

Which  any  print  of  goodness  wilt  not  take, 
Being  capable  of  all  ill!     I  pitied  thee. 
Took  pains   to   make  thee   speak,   taught   thee 

each  hour 
One    thing    or    other:     when    thou    didst    not, 

savage, 
Know  thine  own  meaning,  but  wouldst  gabble 

Uke 
A  thing  most  brutish,  I  endow 'd  thy  purposes 
With  words  that  made  them  known.     But  thy 

vile  race,63 
Though  thou  didst  learn,  had  that  in't  which 

good  natures 
Could   not   abide    to   be   with;    therefore   wast 

thou  360 

Deservedly  confined  into  this  rock, 
Who  hadst  deserved  more  than  a  prison. 

Cal,     You    taught    me    language;     and    my 

profit  on't 
Is,  1  know  how  to  curse.     The  red  plague  rid«* 

you 
For  learning  me  your  language ! 

Pros.  Hag-seed,  hence ! 

«2  who  (antecedent/)  64  destroy 

08  nature 

•Coffee  was  at  this  time  hardly  known  In  Eng- 
land. In  William  Strachey  s  account  of  tho 
shipwreck  of  Sir  OeorKe  SomerH,  the  men  are 
Bald  to  have  made  a  plpanant  drink  of  an  In- 
fusion of  berries  of  the  cedar. 


Fetch  us  in  fuel;    and  be  quicV,  thourt  best, 
To    answeros    other    business.      Shrug 'st    thou, 

malice? 
If  thou  neglect 'st,  or  dost  unwillingly 
What    I    command,    I'll    rack    thee    with    old 

cramps, 
Fill  all  thy  bones  with  aches,t  make  thee  roar. 
That  beasts  shall  tremble  at  thy  din,  371 

Cal.  No,  pray  thoe, 

[Aside]  I  must  obey:    his  art  is  of  such  power, 
It  would  control  my  dam 's  god,  Setebos,8« 
And  make  a  vassal  of  him. 

Pros.  So,  slave,  hence !    [Exit  Caliban. 

Be-enter  Arikl,  invisible,  playing  and  singing; 
Ferdinand   following. 

Ariel's  song. 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands. 

And  then  take  hands: 
Courtsied  when  you  have  and  kiss'd 

The  wild  waves  whist: 67 
Foot  it  featly  here  and   there;  380 

And,  sweet  sprites,  the  burthen  bear.es 
Hark,  hark! 
Burthen  [dispersedly].  Bow-wow. 
Ari.     The  watch  dogs  bark: 

Burthen  [dispersedly'].  Bow-wow. 
Am.     Hark,  hark!     I  hear 

The  strain  of  strutting  chanticleer 
Cry,  Cock-a-diddle-dow. 

Fer.     Where  should  this  music  be?   i'  th'  air 
or  th'  earth? 
It  sounds  no  more:    and,  sure,  it  waits  upon 
Some  god  o'  th'  island.     Sitting  on  a  bank, 
Weeping  again  the  king  my  father 's  wreck,      390 
This  music  crept  by  me  upon  the  waters. 
Allaying  both  their  fury  and  my  passioneo 
With  its  sweet  air:    thence  I  have  follow 'd  it, 
Or  it  hath  drawn  me  rather.    But  'tis  gone. 
No,  it  begins  again. 

Ariel  sings. 
Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies; 

Of  his  bones  are  coral'o  made; 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes: 
Nothing   of  him  that    doth    fade, 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change  400 

Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell: 

Burthen.     Ding-dong, 


60  sufferInK  (from  Latin 

potior) 
70  Perhaps    used    coUeo- 
tlvoly  (l>«t  see  note 
on  I.  I.  17). 

t  Pronounced  aiichea  or  atchcs.  The  ch  was  pro- 
nounced like  k  only  In  the  verb ;  compare 
bake,  batch,  break,  breach. 


65  perform 

66  A  Patagonian  doltj 

67  Into  silence 

68  take  up  the  refrain 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


171 


Ari.     Hark !     now  I  hear  them, — Ding-dong, 

bell. 
Fer.     The  ditty  does  remember" i  my  drown 'd 
father. 
Tliis  is  no  mortal  business,  nor  no  sound 
That  the  earth  owes:''^ — I  hear  it  now  above  me, 
Pros.     The    fringed    curtains    of    thine    eye 
advance,^3 

And  say  what  thou  seest  yond. 

Miu.  What  is  't?  a  spirit? 

Lord,  how  it  looks  about  I      Believe  me,  sir,      410 
It  carries  a  brave'*  form.     But    'tis  a  spirit. 

Pros.     Xo,   wench ;     it   eats   and   sleeps  and 
hath    such    senses 
•As   we   have,   such.      This    gallant    which    thou 

seest 
Was   in   the   wreck;     and,   but   he's   something 

stain  'd 
With     grief,     that's     beauty's     canker,     thou 

mightst  call  him 
A  goodly  person:    he  hath  lost  his  fellows, 
And  strays  about  to  find  'em. 

Min,  I  might  call  him 

A  thing  divine;    for  nothing  natural 
I  ever  saw  so  noble. 

Pros.  [Aside]  It  goes  on,  I  see,        419 

As  my  soul  prompts  it.    Spirit,  fine  spirit!     I'll 

free  thee 
Within  two  days  for  this. 

Fer.  Most  sure  the  goddess 

Oil    whom    these    airs    attend!      Vouchsafe   my 

prayer 
!\Iay  know  if  you  remain  upon  this  island ; 
And  that  you   will  some  good  instruction  give 
How  I  may  bear  me  here ;    my  prime  request, 
Which  I  do  last  pronounce,  is,  O  you  wonder! 
If  you  be  maid  or  no? 

Mir.  No  wonder,  sir; 

But  certainly  a  maid. 

Fer.  ^ly  language!     heavens! 

I  am  the  best  of  them  that  speak  this  speech, 
\Vere  I  but  where  'tis  spoken. 

Pros.  How?  the  best?    430 

What  wert  thou,  if  the  King  of   Naples  heard 
thee? 

Fer.     A   single^'-   thing,   as    I   am   now,   that 
wonders 
To  hear  thee  speak  of  Naples.""     He  does  hear 

me; 
And  that  he  does  T  weep:    myself  am  Naples, 
Who  with  mine  eyes,  never  since  at  ebb,  beheld 
The  king  my  father  wreck  'd. 

Mir.  Alack,  for  menv! 


"1  commemorate 

72  owns 

73  raise 

74  fine 


solitary  ;  also,  miser- 
able 
See  note  38. 


Fer.     Yes,  faith,  and  all  his  lords;    the  Duke 
of  Milan 
And  his  brave  son*  being  twain. 

Pros.  [Asidr]  The  Duke  of  Milan 

And  his  more  braver  daughter  could  control77 

thee, 
If  now  'twere  fit  to  do  it.    At  the  first  sight      440 
They  have  changed  eyes.     Delicate  Ariel, 
I'll  set  thee  free  for  this.     [To  Fer.]    A  word, 

good  sir; 
I  fear  you  have   done  yourself  some  wrong :"« 
a  word. 
MiR.     Why    speaks   my   father   so   ungentlyl 
This 
Is  the  third  man  that  e  'er  I  saw  ;    the  first 
That  e  'er  I  sigh  'd  for :    pity  move  my  father 
To  be  inclined  my  way! 

Fer.  O,  if  a  virgin, 

.\n<l  your  affection   not   gone  forth,   I  '11  make 

you 
The  queen  of  Naples. 

Pros.  Soft,  sir!  one  word  more. 

[Aside]    They  are  both  in  cither's  powers:    but 

this  swift  business  450 

I  must  uneasy"9  make,  lest  too  light  winning 

^lake   the   prize   light.      [To   Fer. J     One  word 

more;    I  charge  thee 
That  thou  attend  me:    thou  dost  here  usurp 
The    name    thou    owest^"    not;     and    hast    put 

thyself 
Upon  this  island  as  a  spy,  to  win  it 
From  me,  the  lord  on  't. 

Fer.  No,  as  I  am  a  man. 

Mir.     There's  nothing  ill  can  dwell  in  su<-h 
a  temple: 
If  the  ill  spirit  have  so  fair  a  house, 
Good  things  will  strive  to  dwell  with  't. 

Pros.  Follow  me. 

Speak  not  you  for  him  ;  he  's  a  traitor.  Come ; 
1  '11  manacle  thy  neck  and  feet  together :  461 
Sea-water  shalt  thou  drink;  thy  food  shall  be 
The    fresh-brook   muscles,    wither 'd    roots,    and 

husks 
Wherein  the  acorn  cradled.     Follow. 

Fer.  No  ; 

I  will  resist  such  entertainment  till 
Mine  enemy  has  more  power. 

[Draws,  and  is  charmed  from  moving. 
Mir.  O  dear  father, 

Make  not  too  rash  a  trial  of  him,  for 
He's  gentle,  and  not  fearful.si 

Pros.  What!      I    say, 


'7  confute  81  mild     and     harmless 

"s  made  a  mistake  (or   possibly,   high- 

■0  difficult  spirited     and      not 

80  ownest  afraid) 

*  Possibly    an    oversight,  for    no    such    character 
appears. 


172 


THE  ELIZj^BETHAN  AGE 


My  foot  my  tutor?    Put  thy  sword  up,  traitor; 
Who  makest  a  sh  nv,  but  <larest  not  strike,  thy 

conscience 
Is   so   possess M    with    guilt:     come    from    tliy 
ward;  82  471 

For  I  can  here  disarm  thee  with  this  stick 
And  make  thy  weapon  drop. 

;\liR,  Beseech  you,  father. 

Pros.     Hence!  hang  not  on  my  garments. 
MiR.  Sir,  have  pity ; 

I  '11  be  his  surety. 

Pros.  Silence!    one  word  more 

Shall   make   me  chide   thee,   if   not   hate   thee. 

What! 
An  advocate  for  an  impostor!    hush! 
Thou   think 'st   there  is   no   more   such    shapes 

as  he, 
Having    seen    but    him    and    Caliban:     foolish 

wench ! 
To83  the  most  of  men  this  is  a  Caliban,        480 
And  they  to  him  are  angels. 

MiR_  My  affections 

Are,  then,  most  humble;  1  have  no  ambition 
To  see  a  goodlier  man. 

Pros.  Come  on;    obey: 

Thy  nerves^*  are  in  their  infancy  again, 
And  have  no  vigour  in  them. 

Fer.  So  they  are: 

My  spirits,  as  in  a  dream,  are  all  bound  up. 
My  father's  loss,  the  weakness  which  I  feel. 
The  wreck  of  all  my  friends,  nors''  this  man's 

threats, 
To  whom  I  am  subdued,  are  but  light  to  me. 
Might  1  but  through  my  prison  once  a  day    490 
Behold  this  maid:    all  corners  else  o'  th'  earth 
Let  liberty  make  use  of ;    space  enough 
Have  I  in  such  a  prison. 
Pros.  [Aside]  It  works.  [To  Fer.]  Come 

on. 
Thou   hast   done  well,  fine   Ariel!      [To   Fer.] 

Follow  me. 
[To  Ari.1  Hark  what  thou  else  shalt  do  me. 

Mir,  Be  of  comfort; 

My  father's  of  a  better  nature,  sir, 
Than  he  appears  by  speech:    this  is  unwonted 
Which  now  came  from  him. 

Pros.  Thou  shalt  be  as  free 

As  mountain  winds:    but  then  exactly  do 
All  points  of  my  command. 

Ari.  To  the  syllable.   500 

Pkos.    Come,  follow.     Speak  not  for  him. 

[Exeunt. 


Act  II. 
Scene  I. 
Another  part  of   the  island. 
Enter  Alonso,  Sebastian,  Antonio,  Gonzalo, 
Adrian,  Francisco,  and  others. 
GoN.     Beseech  you,  sir,  be  merry;  you  have 
cause. 
So  have  we  all,  of  joy;    for  our  escape 
Is  much  beyond  our  loss.     Our  hinti  of  woe 
Is  common;    every  day,  some  sailor's  wife, 
The  masters  of  some  merchant,2  and  the  mer-: 

chant. 
Have    just    our    theme    of    woe;     but    for    th< 

miracle, 
I  mean  our  preservation,  few  in  millions 
Can  speak  like  us :    then  wisely,  good  sir,  weigl 
Our  sorrow  with  our  comfort. 

Alon.  Prithee,  peace. 

Seb.*     He  receives  comfort  like  cold  porridge 
Ant.     The  visitors  will  not  give  him  o'er.soj 
Seb.     Look,  he's  winding  up  the  watch  of  hjf 
wit ;  by  and  by  it  will  strike. 
GON.     Sir, — 
Skb.     One:    tell.* 

GON.     When  every  grief  is  entertain 'd  that'^ 
offer  'd, 
Comes  to  the  entertainer — 
Seb.    a  dollar. 

GoN.     Dolour  comes  to  him,  indeed :  you  ha^ 
spoken  truer  than  you  purposed. 

Seb.     You  have  taken  it  wiselier  than  I  meal 
you  should. 

GoN.     Therefore,  my  lord, — 

Fie,  what  a  spendthrift  is  he  of  hilf 


82  posture  of  defence 
H.i  compared  to 
8«  KinewH 


8R  TTsed,  by  confuRlon  of 
tonsrnutlon,  for 
••and." 


Ant. 

tongue ! 

Alon 

GON. 

Seb. 

Ant 
wager, 

Sm. 

Ant. 

Seb. 

Ant. 

Seb. 

Adr. 

Seb. 

Adr. 
sible. — 

Seb. 

Adr. 


good 


30 


I  prithee,  spare. 

Well,  I  have  done:    but  yet, — 
He  will  be  talking. 

Which,  of   he   or  Adrian,   for 
first  begins  to  crow  I 
The  old  cock. 

The  cockerel. 
Done.     The  wager? 

A  laughter. 
A  match! 

Though  this  island  seem  to  be  desert,— 
Ha,  ha,  ha!— So,  you're  paid. 

Uninhabitable,     and     almost     inacces- 

Yet,— 
Yet,— 


1  occasion 

I  comforter  (Gonzalo :  the  word  was  used  of  parish 

visitors  of  the  sick) 

•  Th»i  .•onversatlon  of  Sebastian  and  Antonio  takes 
placp  usldc. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


173 


Ant.     He  could  not  miss  't.'-  40 

Adr.  It  must  needs  be  of  siil)tle,  tentier  and 
delicate  temperance." 

Ant.     Temperanee^  was  a  delicate  wench. 

Seb.  Ay,  and  a  subtle;  aa  he  most  learnedly 
delivered. 

Adr.  The  air  breathes  upon  us  here  most 
sweetly. 

Seb.     As  if  it  had  lungs,  and  rotten  ones, 

Akt.     Or  as  'twere  perfumed  by  a  fen. 

(»ox.  Here  is  everything  advantageous  to 
life. 

Ant.     True ;    save  means  to  live.  50 

Seb.     Of  that  there's  none,  or  little. 

GON.  How  lush  and  lusty  the  grass  looks! 
how  green! 

Ant.     The  ground,  indeed,  is  tawny. 

Seb.     With  an  eyes  of  green  in  't. 

Ant.     He  misses  not  much. 

Seb.  No;  he  doth  but  mistake  the  truth 
totally. 

GON.  But  the  rarity  of  it  is, — which  is  in- 
deed almost  beyond  credit, — 

Seb.     As  many  vouched  rarities  are.  GO 

GoN.  That  our  garments,  being,  as  they 
were,  drenched  in  the  sea,  hold,  notwithstand- 
ing, their  freshness  and  glosses,  being  rather 
new-dyed  than  stained  with  salt  water. 

Ant.  If  but  one  of  his  pockets  could  speak, 
would  it  not  say  he  lies? 

Seb.  Ay,  or  very  falsely  pocket  up  his 
report. 

GoN.  Methinks  our  garments  are  now  as 
fresh  as  when  we  put  them  on  first  in  Afric, 
at  the  marriage  of  the  king's  fair  daughter 
Claribel  to  the  King  of  Tunis.  71 

Seb.  'Twas  a  sweet  marriage,  and  we  pros- 
per well  in  our  return. 

Adr.  Tunis  was  never  graced  before  with 
such  a  paragon  to^  their  queen. 

GON.     Not  since  widow  Dido's  time. 

Ant.  Widow!  a  pox  o'  that!  How  came 
that  widow  in?   widow  Dido! 

Seb.  What  if  he  had  said  'widower  .Eneas' 
too?     Good  Lord,  how  you  take  it!  80 

Adr.  'Widow  Dido'  said  you!  you  make  me 
study  of  that:  she  was  of  Carthage,  not  of 
Tunis. 

GoN,     This  Tunis,  sir,  was  Carthage. 

Adr.     Carthage? 

GoN.     I  assure  you,  Carthage. 

Ant.  His  word  is  more  than  the  miraculous 
harp.io 


5  1.  e.,  could  not  fail  to 
say  just  what  you 
anticipated 

« temperature 

T  A  proper  name  among 
the   Puritans. 


8  tinge 

n  for 

10  Amp  h  i  o  n  '  s  harp, 
which  raised  the 
walls  of  Thebes 


Seb.     He  hath  raised  the  wall,  and  houses  too. 

Ant.     What   impossible  matter  will  he  make 
I  easy  next  ?  89 

Seb.  1  think  he  will  carry  this  island  home 
in  his  pocket,  and  give  it  his  son  for  an  apple. 

Ant.  And,  sowing  the  kernels  of  it  in  the 
sea,  bring  forth  more  islands. 

GON.     Ay. 

Ant.     Why,  in  good  time. 

GON.  Sir,  we  were  talking  that  our  garments 
seem  now  as  fresh  as 'when  we  were  at  Tunis 
at  the  marriage  of  your  daughter,  who  is  now 
queen. 

Ant.     And  the  rarest  that  e'er  came  there. 

See.     Bate,ii  I  beseech  you,  widow  Dido.  100 

Ant.     O,  widow  Dido!    ay,  widow  Dido. 

GON.  Is  not,  sir,  my  doublet  as  fresh  as  the 
first  day  I  wore  it?     I  mean,  in  a  sort. 

Ant.     That  sort  was  well  fished  for. 

GoN.  When  I  wore  it  at  your  daughter's 
marriage  ? 

Alon.     You  cram  these  words  into  mine  ears 
against 
The  stomach  of  my  sense.     Would  I  had  never 
Married  my  daughter  there!  for,  coming  thence, 
My  son  is  lost,  and,  in  my  rate,i2  she  too. 
Who  is  so  far  from  Italy  removed  110 

I  ne'er  again  shall  see  her.     0  thou  mine  heir 
Of  Naples  and  of  Milan,  what  strange  fish 
Hath  made  his  meal  on  thee? 
Fran.  Sir,  he  may  live: 

I  saw  him  beat  the  surges  under  him, 
And  ride  upon  their  backs;    he  trod  the  water. 
Whose  enmity  he  flung  aside,  and  breasted 
The  surge  most  swoln  that  met  him;    his  bold 

head 
'Bove  the  contentious  waves  he  kept,  and  oar'd 
Himself  with  his  good  arms  in  lusty  stroke 
To  the  shore,  that  o'er  hisis  wave-worn   basis 
bow'd,  120 

As  stooping  to  relieve  him:    I  not  doubt 
He  came  alive  to  land : 

Alon.  No,  no,  he 's  gone. 

Seb.     Sir,   you   may  thank  yourself   for   this 
great  loss, 
That   would   not   bless   our   Europe   with   your 

daughter, 
But  rather  lose  her  to  an  African; 
Where  she,  at  least,  is  banish 'd  from  your  eye, 
Whoi*  hath  cause  to  wet  the  grief  on  't.is 

Alon.  Prithee,  peace. 

Seb.     You  were  kneel 'd  to,  and  importuned 
otherwise, 
By  all  of  us;    and  the  fair  soul  herself 
Weigh  'd  16  between  loathness  and  obedience,  at 


11  except 

1 2  opinion 

13  its 


14  which 

15  to  weep  over  It 

16  balanced 


174 


THE  ELIZAHHTUAX   A(JE 


Which  end  o'  the  beam  should »7  bow.    We  have 
lost  your  son,  131 

I  fear,  for  ever:    Milan  and  Naples  have 
Mo  widows  in  them  of  this  business'  making 
Than  we  bring  men  to  comfort  them : 
The  fault  's  your  own. 

Alon.  So  is  the  dear  'stis  o '  the  loss. 

GoN.     My  lord  Sebastian, 
The  truth  you  speak  doth  lack  some  gentleness, 
And  time'9  to  speak  it  in:    you  rub  the  sore, 
When  you  should  bring  Hie  plaster. 

Seb.  Very  well. 

Ant.     And  most  chirurgeonly.20  140 

GON.     It  is  foul  weather  in  us  all,  good  sir. 
When  you  are  cloudy. 

Seb.  Foul  weather? 

Ant.  Very  foul. 

GoN.     Had   I   plantationsi   of   this  isle,  my 
lord, — 

Ant.     He 'Id  sow't  with  nettle-seed. 

Seb.  Or  docks,  or  mallows. 

GON.     And  were  the  king  on't,  what  would 
I  do? 

Seb.     'Scape  being  drunk  for  want  of  wine. 

GoN.     I'  the  commonwealth  I  would  by  con- 
traries 
Execute  all  things;    for  no  kind  of  traffic 
Would  I  admit;    no  name  of  magistrate; 
Letter822  should  not  be  known ;    riches,  poverty, 
And    use    of    service,23    none;     contract,    suc- 
cession, 151 
Bourn,  bound  of  land,  tilth,  vineyard,  none; 
No  use  of  metal,  corn,  or  wine,  or  oil; 
No  occupation;    all  men  idle,  all; 
And  women  too,  but  innocent  and  pure; 
No  sovereignty; — 

Seb.  Yet  he  would  be  king  on   't. 

Ant.     The   latter   end   of   his   commonwealth 
forgets  the  beginning. 

GoN.     All   things   in  common   nature  should 
produce  l-'jO 

Without  sweat  or  endeavour:  treason,  felony, 
Sword,   pike,  knife,   gun,   or  need   of  any   en- 

gine,24 
Would    1    not  have;     but   nature  should   bring 

forth. 
Of  it  own  kind, 2'  all  foi8on,20  all  abundance. 
To  feed  my  innocent  people. 

I  would  with  such  perfection  govern,  sir, 
To  excel  the  golden  age. 

Seb.  'Save  his  majesty! 

Ant.    Long  live  Gonzalo! 


17  Supply   "she." 

18  heaviext 

i»  Supply    "proper." 

20  HurRoon-likp 

21  colonlzntlon 


32  literature 

28  practice  of  servitude 

24  of  war 

2n  RDontanoou^ly 

28  plenty 


GoN.  And, — do  you  mark  me,  sir? 

Alon,  Prithee,  no  more:  thou  dost  talk 
nothing  to  me.  171 

GON.  I  do  well  believe  your  highness ;  ami 
did  it  to  minister  occasion  to  these  gentlemen, 
who  are  of  such  sensible-^  and  nimble  lungs 
that  they  always  use  to  laugh  at  nothing. 

Ant.      'Twas  you  we  laughed  at. 

GON.  Who  in  this  kind  of  merry  fooling  am 
nothing  to  you:  so  you  may  continue,  and  laugh 
at  nothing  still. 

Ant.     What  a  blow  was  there  given!        180 

Seb.     An28  it  had  not  fallen  flat-long.2!» 

GON.     You   are  gentlemen   of   brave   mettle; 
you  would  lift  the  moon  out  of  her  sphere,  if 
she   would    continue   in    it    five   weeks   without 
changing. 
Enter  Ariel  (invisible),  plai/ing  solemn  music. 

Seb.  We  would  so,  and  then  go  a  bat-fowl- 
ing.30 

Ant.     Nay,  good  my  lord,  be  not  angry. 

GoN.  No,  I  warrant  you ;  I  will  not  adven- 
ture my  iliscretion  so  weakly.  Will  you  laugh 
me  asleep,  for  I  am  very  heavy? 

Ant.     Go  sleep,  and  hear  us.*  190 

[All  sleep  except  Alon.,  Seb.,  and  Ant. 

Alon.     What,    all    so   soon   asleep!      I    wish 
mine  eyes 
WouM,  with  themselves,  shut  up  my  thoughts: 

I  find 
They  are  inclined  to  do  so. 

Seb.  Please  you,  sir, 

Do  not  omitsi  the  heavy  offer  of  it: 
It  seldom  visits  sorrow;    when  it  doth, 
it  is  a  comforter. 

Ant.  We  two,  my  lord, 

Will   guard   your  person  while  you  take  your 

rest, 
.\nd  watch  your  safety. 

Alon.  Thank  you. — Wondrous  heavy. 

[Alonso  sleeps.    Exit  Ariel. 

Seb.  What  a  strange  drowsiness  possesses 
them ! 

Ant.     It  is  the  quality  o'  the  climate. 

Seb.  "  Why     200 

Doth  it  not  then  our  eyelids  sink!     I  find  not 
Myself  disposed  to  sleep. 

Ant.  Nor  I ;   my  spirits  are  nimble. 

They  fell  together  all,  as  by  consent ; 
They  dropp'd,  as  by  a  thunder-stroke.     What 
might, 


27  sensitive  s"  catchlnR      birds      at 

28  if  niKht     l)y     beating 
20  flatwise  the  bushes 

31  let  pass 
♦  This  passage  is  obscure.     Perhaps  it  is  a  eoilo- 
qulal    invprsion    for    "Flenr    us,    nnd    go    to 
sleep." 


WILLTAM  SHAKESPEARE 


176 


Worthy  Sebastian?— 0,  what  might? — No 

more: — 
And  yet  methinks  I  see  it  in  thy  face, 
What  thou  shouldst  be:    the  occasion  8peaks32 

thee;  and 
My  strong  imagination  sees  a  crown 
Dropjung  upon  thy  head. 

Seb.  What,  art  thou  waking? 

AxT.     Do  you  not  hear  me  speak? 

Skb.  I  do;    and  surely  210 

It  is  a  sleepy  language,  and  thou  speak 'st 
Out  of  thy  sleep.     What  is  it  thou  didst  say? 
This  is  a  strange  repose,  to  be  asleep 
With  eyes  wide  open;    standing,  speaking,  mov- 
ing, 
And  yet  so  fast  asleep. 

Ant.  Noble  Sebastian, 

Thou    let'st    thy    fortune    sleep — die,    rather; 

wink  'st 
Whiles  thou  art  waking. 

Seb.  Thou  dost  snore  distinctly  ;33 

There's  meaning  in  thy  snores. 

Ant.     I  am  more  serious  than  my  custom: 
you 
Must  be  so  too,  if  heed  me;    which  to  do      220 
Trebles  thee  o 'er.34 

Seb.  Well,  I  am  standing  water. 

Ant.     I  '11  teach  you  how  to  flow. 

See.  Do  so:    to  ebb 

Hereditary  sloth  instructs  me. 

Ant.  O, 

If  you  but  knew  how  you  the  purpose  cherish 
Whiles  thus  you  mock  it!    how,  in  stripping  it. 
You  more  invest  itl'^-''    Ebbing  men,  indeed. 
Most  often  do  so  near  the  bottom  run 
By  their  own  fear  or  sloth. 

Seb.  Prithee,  say  on: 

The  setting  of  thine  eye  and  cheek  proclaim 
A  matter  from  thee;    and  a  birth,  indeed,     230 
Which  throes  36  thee  much  to  yield.37 

Ant.  Thus,  sir: 

Although  this  lord  of  weak  remembrance,  this, 
Who  shall  be  of  as  little  memory 
When    he    is    earth 'd,    hath    here    almost    per- 
suaded,— 
For  he's  a  spirit  of  persuasion,  only 
Prof  esses38    to    persuade, — the    king    his    son 's 

alive, 
'Tis  as  impossible  that  he 's  undrown  'd 
As  he  that  sleeps  here  swims. 

Seb.  I  have  no  hope 

That  he's  undrown 'd. 

Ant.  O,  out  of  that  '  no  hope ' 


32  invites 
•"■"  sisniticantly 
34  will    treble    thy    for- 
tunes 


3r>  more  alluringly  clothe 

it 
se  pains 
S7  bring  forth 
3x  his  sole  profession  is 


What    great    hope    have    you!     no    hope    that 
way  is  240 

Another  way  so  high  a  hope  that  even 
Ambition  cannot  pierce  a  wink  beyond, 
But  doubt39  discovery  there.     Will  you  grant 

with  me 
That  Ferdinand  is  drown 'd? 
Seb.  He's  gone. 

Ant.  Then,  tell  me, 

Who's  the  next  heir  of  Naples? 
Seb.  Claribel. 

Ant.     She  that  is  queen  of  Tunis;    she  that 
dwells 
Ten  leagues  beyond  man's  life;    she  that  from 

Naples 
Can  have  no  note,  unless  the  sun  were  post, — 
The  man  i'  the  moon's  too  slow, — till  new-born 
chins  249 

Be  rough  and  razorable;    she  that  from  whom^o 
We  all  were  sea-swallow  'd,  though   some  cast 

again. 
And  by  that  destiny,  to  perform  an  act 
Whereof    what's    past    is    prologue;     what    to 

come, 
In  yours  and  my  discharge. 

Seb.  What  stuff  is  this!    how  say  you? 

'Tis  true,   my   brother's   daughter's   queen   of 

Tunis ; 
So  is  she  heir  of  Naples;    'twixt  which  regions 
There  is  some  space. 

Ant.  a  space  whose  every  cubit 

Seems  to  cry  out.  '  How  shall  that  Claribel 
Measure  us^i  back  to  Naples?     Keep  in  Tunis, 
And    let    Sebastian    wake.'      Say,    this    were 
death  260 

That  now  hath  seized  them ;    why,  they  were  no 

worse 
Than  now  they  are.     There  be  that  can  rule 

Naples 
As  well  as  he  that  sleeps;    lords  that  can  prate 
As  amply  and  unnecessarily 
As  this  Gonzalo ;    I  myself  could  make 
A  chough  of  as  deep  chat.*2     O,  that  you  bore 
The  mind  that  I  do!    what  a  sleep  were  this 
i-'or  your  advancement!    Do  you  understand  me? 
Seb.     Methinks  I  do. 

Ant.  And  how  does  your  content 

Tender^s  your  own  good  fortune? 

Seb.  I  remember  270 

You  did  supplant  your  brother  Prospero. 

Ant.  True : 

And  look  how  well  my  garments  sit  upon  me; 
Much  f eater  than  before :  my  brother 's  servants 


3!)  but  must  doubt   (the 

possibility  of) 
*o  Supply   "coming." 
41  traverse  us    (the   cu- 
bits) 


42  a     jackdaw 

deeply 

43  regard 


talk    as 


176 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


Were  then  my  fellows:   now  they  axe  my  men. 
Seb.     But,  for  your  conscience! 
Ant.     Ay,  sir;    where  lies  that?   if  'twere  a 
Mhe,** 
'Twould  put  me  to  my  slipper:    but  I  feel  not 
This  deity  in  my  bosom :    twenty  consciences, 
That  stand    'twixt  me  and   Milan,  candied  be 

they, 
And   melt,   ere   they   molest!      Here  lies   your 
brother,  280 

No  better  than  the  earth  he  lies  upon, 
If   he  were   that  which  now  he's   like,   that's 

dead; 
Whom  I,  with  this  obedient  steel,  three  inches 

of  it. 
Can   lay  to  bed   for  ever;    whiles  you,   doing 

thus, 
To  the  perpetual  wink  for  aye  might  put 
This  ancient  morsel,  this  Sir  Prudence,  who 
Should   not   upbraid   our   course.     For  all   the 

rest. 
They'll  take  suggestion  as  a  cat  laps  milk; 
They  '11  tell  the  clock^s  to  any  business  that 
We  say  befits  the  hour. 

Seb,  Thy  case,  dear  friend,  290 

Shall  be  my  precedent;    as  thou  got 'st  Milan, 
I  '11   come   by   Naples.     Draw   thy   sword :     one 

stroke 
Shall   free  thee   from   the  tribute  which   thou 

pay  est ; 
And  I  the  king  shall  love  thee. 

Ant.  Draw  together; 

And  when  I  rear  my  hand,  do  you  the  like. 
To  fall  it  on  Gonzalo. 
Seb.  O,  but  one  word. 

[They  talk  apart. 
He-enter  Ariel  (invisible). 
Ari,     My  master  through  his  art  foresees  the 
danger 
That  you,   his  friend,  are  in;     and   sends   me 

forth, — 
For  else  his  project  dies, — to  keep  them  living. 
[Sings  in  Gonzalo 's  ear. 
While  you  here  do  snoring  lie. 
Open-eyed  conspiracy 

His  time  doth  take. 
If  of  life  you  keep  a  care, 
Shake  oflf  slumber,  and  beware: 
Awake,  awake! 

Ant.     Then  let  us  both  be  sudden. 

GoN.  Now,  good  angels 

Preserve  the  king!  [They  awake. 

Alon.     Why,    how    now?    ho,   awake! — Why 
are  you  drawn! 
Wherefore  this  ghastly  looking? 


44  hofl-sorp 


4S  count  time  (make  the 
hotir  fit) 


Gon.  What's  the  mattei^ 

See.      Whiles  we   stood   here   securing   yotiB 

repose,  ^\ 

Even  now,  we  heard  a  hollow  burst  of  bellowit.^^ 

Like  bulls,  or  rather  lions :    did 't  not  wake  yoiwl 

It  struck  mine  ear  most  terribly. 

Alon.  I  heard  nothing 

Ant.     O,   'twas  a  din  to  fright  a  iiionstcr| 
ear, 
To  make  an  earthquake!    sure,  it  was  the  rofl 
Of  a  whole  herd  of  lions. 

Alon.  Heard  you  this,  Gonzalo 

Gon.     Upon  mine  honour,  sir,  I  heard  a  hun 
ming. 
And  that  a  strange  one  too,  which  did  awal 

me: 
T   shaked   you,   sir,   and   cried:     as   mine,  cy^ 
open  'd,  3] 

I  saw  their  weapons  drawn: — there  was  a  noisj 
That's  verily.      'Tis  best   we  stand   upon   ot 

guard, 
Or   that   we   quit   this   place:     let's   draw   o^ 
weapons. 
Alon.     Lead    off    this    ground;     and    let| 
make  further  search 
For  my  poor  son. 

Gon.       Heavens  keep  him  from  these  beasts! 
For  he  is,  sure,  i'  th'  island. 
Alon.  Lead  away. 

Ari.     Prospero  my  lord  shall  know   what    I 
have  done: 
So,  king,  go  safely  on  to  seek  thy  son.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  II. 

Another  part  of  the  island. 

Enter  Caliban  with  a  hurden  of  wood.    A  noise 
of  thunder  heard. 

Cal.     All  the  infections  that  the  sun  sucks  up 
From   bogs,   fens,   flats,   on   Prosper   fall,   and 

make  him 
By  inch-meal4«  a  disease!     His  spirits  hear  me. 
And  yet  I  needs  must  curse.     But  they'll  nor 

pinch. 
Fright  me  with  urchin-shows,  pitch  me  i'  the 

mire, 
Nor  lead  me,  like  a  firebrand,  in  the  dark 
Out  of  my  way,  unless  he  bid  'em:    but 
For  every  trifle  are  they  set  upon  me; 
Sometime  like  apes,  that  mow  and  chatter  :if 

me, 
And  after  bite  me;    then  like  hedgehogs,  which 
Lie  tumbling  in  my  barefoot  way.  and  mount  1 1 
Their  pricks  at  my  footfall;    sometime  am  I 
All  wound  with  adders,  who  with  cloven  tongii.  -; 
Do  hiss  me  into  madness. 

4«  piece-meal 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


177 


Enter  Trixculo. 

Lo,  now,  lo! 
Here  comes  a  spirit  of  his,  and  to  torment  me 
For  bringing  wood  in  slowly.    I  '11  fall  flat ; 
Perchance  he  will  not  mind  me.  17 

Trin.  Here 's  neither  bush  nor  shrub,  to  bear 
oflf  any  weather  at  all,  and  anotlier  storm  brew- 
ing; I  hear  it  sing  i'  the  wind:  yond  same 
black  cloud,  yond  huge  one,  looks  like  a  foul 
bombard*^  that  would  shed  his  liquor.  If  it 
should  thunder  as  it  did  before,  I  know  not 
where  to  hitle  my  head:  yond  same  cloud  can- 
not choose  but  fall  by  pailfuls.  What  have  we 
here?  a  man  or  a  fish?  dead  or  alive?  A  fish: 
he  smells  like  a  fish;  a  very  ancient  and  fish- 
like smell;  a  kind  of  not  of  the  newest  Poor- 
John.*8  A  strange  fish!  Were  I  in  England 
now,  as  once  I  was,  and  had  but  this  fish 
painted,  not  a  holiday  fool  there  but  would  give 
a  piece  of  silver:  there  would  this  monster 
makers  a  man;  any  strange  beast  there  makes 
a  man:  when  they  will  not  give  a  doit^o  to  re- 
lieve a  lame  beggar,  they  will  lay  out  ten  to 
see  a  dead  Indian.  Legged  like  a  man!  and 
his  fins  like  arms!  Warm  o'  my  troth!  I  do 
now  let  loose  my  opinion;  hold  it  no  longer: 
this  is  no  fish,  but  an  islander,  that  hath  lately 
suffered  by  a  thunderbolt.  [^Ihunder.^  Alas, 
the  storm  is  come  again!  my  best  way  is  to 
creep  under  his  gaberdine  ;i>i  there  is  no  other 
shelter  hereabout :  misery  acquaints  a  man  with 
strange  bed-fellows.  I  will  here  shroud  till  the 
dregs  of  the  storm  be  past.  43 

Enter  Stephako,  singing:   a  bottle  in  his  hand. 

Ste.         1  shall  no  more  to  sea.  to  sea. 
Here  shall  I  die  ashore — 
This  is  a  very  scurvy  tune  to  sing  at  a  man 's 
funeral:    well,  here's  my  comfort.  [Drinks. 

[Sings. 

The  master,  the  swabber,  the  boatswain  and  I, 

The  gunner,  and  his  mate, 
Loved  Moll,  Meg,  and  Marian,  and  Margery,  50 

But  none  of  us  cared  for  Kate : 

For  she  had  a  tongue  with  a  tang. 

Would  cry  to  a  sailor,  Go  hang! 
She  loved  not  the  savour  of  tar  nor  of  pitch ; — 

Then,  to  sea,  boys,  and  let  her  go  hang! 

This  is  a  scurvy  tune  too:    but  here's  ray  com- 
fort. [Drinks. 
Cal.     Do  not  torment  me: — O!  58 
Ste.     What's  the   matter?     Have  we  devils 
here?    Do  you  put  tricks  upon   's  with  salvages 


47  large  leathern  liquor- 

vessel 

48  salted  hake 

40  Used    pimnlngly,    "to 


make    the    fortune 
of." 

50  A   small   Dutch  coin. 

51  long  cloali 


and  men  of  Ind,  ha?  I  have  not  escaped  drown- 
ing, to  be  afeard  now  of  your  four  legs ;  for  it 
hath  been  said,  As  proper  a  man  as  ever  went 
on  four  legs  cannot  make  him  give  ground; 
and  it  shall  be  said  so  again,  while  Stephano 
breathes  at  nostrils. 

Cal.     The  spirit  torments  me: — O! 

Ste.  This  is  some  monster  of  the  isle  with 
four  legs,  who  hath  got,  as  I  take  it,  an  ague. 
Where  the  devil  should  he  learn''^  our  language? 
I  will  give  him  some  relief,  if  it  be  but  for 
that.  If  I  can  recover  him,  and  keep  him  tame, 
and  get  to  Naples  with  him,  he's  a  present  for 
any  emperor  that  ever  trod  on  neat  's-leather. 

Cal.  Do  not  torment  me.  prithee;  I'll  bring 
my  wood  home  faster.  75 

Ste.  He's  in  his  fit  now,  and  does  not  talk 
after  the  wisest.  He  shall  taste  of  my  bottle: 
if  he  have  never  drunk  wine  afore,  it  will  go 
near  to  remove  his  fit.  If  I  can  recover  him, 
and  keep  him  tame,  I  will  not  takers  too  much 
for  him;  he  shall  pay  for  him  that  hath  him, 
and  that  soundly. 

Cal.  Thou  dost  me  yet  but  little  hurt ;  thou 
wilt  anon,  I  know  it  by  thy  trembling:  now 
Prosper  works  upon  thee.  84 

Ste.  Come  on  your  ways :  open  your  mouth ; 
here  is  that  which  will  give  language  to  you, 
cat: 54  open  your  mouth;  this  will  shake  your 
shaking,  I  can  tell  you,  and  that  soundly:  you 
cannot  tell  who 's  your  friend :  open  your  chaps 
again. 

Trin,  I  should  know  that  voice:  it  should 
be — but  he  is  drowned;  and  these  are  devils: — 
O  defend  me!  92 

Ste.  Four  legs  and  two  voices, — a  most  deli- 
cate monster!  His  forward  voice,  now,  is  to 
speak  well  of  his  friend;  his  backward  voice 
is  to  utter  foul  speeches  and  to  detract.  If  all 
the  wine  in  my  bottle  will  recover  him,  I  will 
help  his  ague.  Come: — Amen!  I  will  pour 
some  in  thy  other  mouth. 

Trin.     Stephano!  100 

Ste.  Doth  thy  other  mouth  call  me?  Mercy, 
mercy!  This  is  a  devil,  and  no  monster:  1 
will  leave  him ;    I  have  no  long  spoon. ^j 

Trin.  Stephano!  If  thou  beest  Stephano, 
touch  me,  and  speak  to  me;  for  I  am  Trinculo, 
— be  not  afeard, — thy  good  friend  Trinculo. 

Ste.  If  thou  beest  Trinculo,  come  forth: 
I'll  pull  thee  by  the  lesser  legs:  if  any  be 
Trinculo  's  legs,  these  are  they.  Thou  art  very 
Trinculo  indeed!     How  camest  thou  to  be  the 


52  can  he  have  learned 

53  cannot  asls 

54  Proverb  :     "Good   liq- 

uor will  make  a  cat 
speak." 


55  Proverb  :  "He  must 
have  a  long  .spoon 
that  would  eat  with 
the  devil." 


178 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


siege  of  this  moon-calf 561   can  he  vent'^  Trin- 
culos?  Ill 

Trix.  I  took  him  to  be  killed  with  a  thun- 
der-stroke. But  art  thou  not  drowned,  Ste- 
phano?  I  hope,  now,  thou  art  not  drowned. 
Is  the  storm  overblown?  1  hid  me  under  the 
dead  moon-calf's  gaberdine  for  fear  of  the 
storm.  And  art  thou  living,  Stephano?  0  Ste- 
phano,  two  Neapolitans  scaped! 

Ste.  Prithee,  do  not  turn  me  about;  my 
stomach  is  not  constant. 

Cal.    [Aside]    These  be  fine  things,  an  if  they 
be  not  sprites.  121 

That's  a  brave  god,  and  bears  celestial  liquor: 
I  will  kneel  to  him. 

Ste.  How  didst  thou  scape?  How  camest 
thou  hither?  swear,  by  this  bottle,  how  thou 
camest  hither.  I  escaped  upon  a  butt  of  sack, 
w  hich  the  sailors  heaved  o  'erboard,  by  this  bot- 
tle! which  I  made  of  the  bark  of  a  tree  with 
mine  own  hands,  since  I  was  cast  ashore. 

Cal.  I  '11  swear,  upon  that  bottle,  to  be  thy 
true  subject;    for  the  liquor  is  not  earthly.        130 

Ste.     Here;    swear,  then,  how  thou  escapedst. 

Trin.  Swum  ashore,  man,  like  a  duck:  1 
can  swim  like  a  duck,  I'll  be  sworn. 

Ste.  Here,  kiss  the  book.  Though  thou  canst 
swim  like  a  duck,  thou  art  made  like  a  goose. 

Trin.     O  Stephano,  hast  any  more  of  this? 

Ste.  The  whole  butt,  man:  my  cellar  is  in 
a  rock  by  the  sea-side,  where  my  wine  is  hid. 
How  now,  moon-calf!    how  does  thine  ague? 

Cal.     Hast  thou  not  dropp'd  from  heaven? 

Ste.  Out  o'  the  moon,  I  do  assure  thee:  1 
was  the  man  i'  the  moon  when  time  was.       142 

Cal.  I  have  seen  thee  in  her,  and  I  do  adore 
thee :  my  mistress  show  'd  me  thee,  and  thy  dog. 
and  thy  bush. 

Ste.  Come,  swear  to  that;  kiss  the  book:  I 
will  furnish  it  anon  with  new  contents:    swear. 

Trix.  By  this  good  light,  this  is  a  very  shal- 
low monster !  I  af eard  of  him !  A  very  weak 
monster!  The  man  i'  the  moon!  A  most  poor 
credulous  monster!  Well  drawn,>'>8  monster,  in 
good  sooth!  151 

Cal.  I  will  show  thee  every  fertile  inch  o' 
th'  island;  and  I  will  kiss  thy  foot:  I  prithee, 
be  my  god. 

Trin.  By  this  light,  a  most  perfidious  and 
drunken  monster!  when's  god's  asleep,  he'll 
rob  his  bottle. 

Cal.  I'll  kiss  thy  foot;  I'll  swear  myself 
thy  subject. 

Stk.     Come  on,  then;    down,  and  swear. 

Trin.    I  shall  laugh  myself  to  death  at  this 

B«  the    offRonm    of   this      57  spawn 

muDMtrosltjr  5N  wpII      (Inink.     well 

drained 


puppy-headed  monster.   A  most  scurvy  monster 
I  could  find  it  in  my  heart  to  beat  him, —     16l 
Ste.     Come,  kiss. 

Trin.     But  that  the  poor  monster's  in  drink 
An  abominable  monster! 

Cal.     I'll  show   thee  the  best  springs;   I'l 
pluck  thee  berries; 
I'll  fish  for  thee,  and  get  thee  wood  enough. 
A  plague  upon  the  tyrant  that  I  serve! 
I  '11  bear  him  no  more  sticks,  but  follow  thee, 
Thou  wondrous  man. 

Trin.    A  most  ridiculous  monster,  to  make 
wonder  of  a  poor  drunkard!  17( 

Cal.     I    prithee,    let    me    bring    thee   when 
crabs'o  grow; 
And  I  with  my  long  nails  will  dig  thee  pij 

nuts;«o 
Show  thee  a  jay 's  nest,  and  instruct  thee  how 
To  snare  the  nimble  marmoset ;    I  '11  bring  thep^ 
To  clustering  filberts,  and  sometimes  I  '11  get 

thee 
Young  scamelsoi  from  the  rock.     Wilt  thou  go 
with  me? 
Ste.     I  prithee  now,  lead  the  way,  without 
any  more  talking.     Trinculo,  the  king  and  all 
our  company   else   being   drowned,   we   will   in- 
herit here:    here;    bear  my  bottle:    fellow  Trin- 
culo, we  '11  fill  him  by  and  by  again.  181 
Cal.    [sings  drunletily] 

Farewell,  master;    farewell,  farewell! 
Trin.     A  howling  monster;    a  drunken  mon- 
ster. 

Cal.     No  more  dams  I  '11  make  for  fish ; 
Nor  fetch  in  firing 
At  requiring; 
Nor  scrape  trencher,  nor  wash  dish: 

'Ban,  'Ban,  Cacaliban 
Has  a  new  master: — get  a  new  man. 
Freedom,    hey-day!     hey-day,     freedom!     free- 
dom, hey-day,  freedom!  191 
Ste.     O  brave  monster!    Lead  the  way. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  IIL 

Scene  I. 

Before  Prosperous  cell. 

Enter  Ferdinand,  hearing  a  log. 

Feu.     There  be  some  sports  are  painful,  and 

their  labour 

Delight  in  them  sets  off:*    some  kinds  of  base- 

nessi 
.to  crab  apples  6i  Moanintc     unkn  own 

II"  «'<lll)l«'  roots  ( possibly    for    soa- 

mell,   sea-mpw). 


1  menial  work 

•  ThiH  sentence  yields  various  meanings,  accordine 
as  "labour"  is  subject  or  objoot,  and  arcord- 
Ihr  as  "sots  off"  moans  "liclghtons"  or  "off- 
sets." 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


179 


Are  nobly  undergone,  and  most  poor  matters 
Point  to  rii'h  ends.    This  my  mean  task 
Would  be  as  heavy  to  me  as  odious,  but 
The   mistress    which    I    serve    quickens   what's 

dead. 
And  makes  my  labours  pleasures:    O,  she  is 
Ten  times  more  gentle  than  her  father's 

crabbed, 
And  he  's  composed  of  harshness.   I  must  remove 
Some  thousands  of  these  logs,  and   pile  them 

up,  10 

Upon  a  sore  injunction:-    my  sweet  mistress 
Weeps  when  she  sees  me  work,  and  says,  such 

baseness 
Had  never  like  executor.     I  forget : 
But  these  sweet  thoughts  do  even  refresh  my 

labours. 
Most  busy  lest,t  when  I  do  it. 

Enter  ^Iiraxda;    and  Pkospero,  at  a  distance, 
unseen. 
MiPw  Alas,  now,  pray  you. 

Work  not  so  hard:    I  would  the  lightning  had 
Burnt  up  those  logs  that  you  are  enjoin  "d  to 

pile! 
Pray,   set   it   down,   and   rest   you :     when    this 

burns, 
'Twill  weep  for  having  wearied  you.   My  father 
Is  hard  at  study;    pray,  now,  rest  yourself;     20 
He's  safe  for  these  three  hours. 

Fer.  O  most  dear  mistress, 

The  sun  will  set  before  I  shall  discharge 
What  1  must  strive  to  do. 

Mir.  If  you'll  sit  down. 

1  '11  bear  your  logs  the  while :     pray,  give  me 

that; 
1  '11  carry  it  to  the  pile. 
Fer.  No,  precious  creature ; 

1  had  rather  crack  my  sinews,  break  my  back, 
Than  you  should  such  dishonour  undergo, 
While  1  sit  lazy  by. 

Mir.  It  would  become  me 

As  well  as  it  does  you:    and  I  should  do  it 
With   much   more   ease;     for   my   good   will    is 
to  it,  30 

And  yours  it  is  against. 

Pros.  Poor  worm,  thou  art  infected! 

This  visitations  shows  it. 

Mir.  You  look  wearily. 

Fer.     No,  noble  mistress;     'tis  fresh  morn- 
ing with  me 
When  you  are  by  at  night.     I  do  beseech  you, — 
Chiefly  that  I  might  set  it  in  my  prayers. — 
What  is  your  name? 

Mir.  :Mirand:i.— O  my  fathoj, 

2  liehest  3  visit 

-'■  Another  very  obscure  passage.  The  later  Folios 
r  -ad  hast.  Theobald  oonjoctures  bustfless.  Holt 
hiishgt. 


have  broke  your  best  to  say  so! 

Fer.  Admired  Miranda! 


I  Indeed  the  top  of  admiration !    worth 
What's  dearest  to  the  world!     Full  many  a  lady 
I    have   eyed    with    best    regard,   and    many    a 
time  40 

The  harmony  of  their  tongues  hath  into  bond- 
age 
Brought  my  too  diligent  ear:    for  several  vir- 
tues 
Have  1  liked  several  women;    never  any 
With  so  full  soul,  but  some  defect  in  her 
Did  quarrel  with  the  noblest  grace  she  owed, 
And  put  it  to  the  foil:*  but  you,  O  you, 
So  perfect  and  so  peerless,  are  created 
Of  every  ceature  's  best ! 

Mir.  I  do  not  know 

One  of  my  sex ;    no  woman  's  face  remember. 
Save,   from  my  glass,   mine  own;     nor  have    I 
seen  50 

More    that    I    may    call    men    than   you,    good 

friend, 
And  my  dear  father:    how  features  are  abroad, 
I  am  skilless^  of;    but,  by  my  modesty. 
The  jewel  in  my  dower.  I  would  not  wish 
Any  companion  in  the  world  but  you; 
Nor  can  imagination  form  a  shape. 
Besides  yourself,  to  like  of.     But  I  prattle 
Something  too  wildly,  and  my  father 's  precepts 
1  therein  do  forget. 

Fer.  I  am,  in  my  condition, 

A  prince,  Miranda  ;    I  do  think,  a  king ;         60 
I  would,  not  so! — and  would  no  more  endure 
This  wooden  slavery  than  to  suffer 
The   flesh-fly   blow   my   mouth.      Hear  my   soul 

speak : 
The  very  instant  that  I  saw  you,  did 
My  heart  fly  to  your  service;    there  resides. 
To  make  me  slave  to  it ;    and  for  your  sake 
Am  I  this  patient  log-man. 

Mir.  Do  you  love  mef 

Fer.     O  heaven,  O  earth,  bear  witness  to  this 
sound. 
And  crown  what  I  profess  with  kind  event,« 
If  I  speak  true!    if  hollowly,  invert  70 

What  best  is  boded  me  to  mischief!     I, 
Beyond  all  limit  of  what  else  i'  the  world, 
Do  love,  prize,  honour  you. 

Mir.  T  am  a  fool 

To  weep  at  what  I  am  glad  of. 

Pros.  Fair  encounter 

Of    two   most    rare   affections!      Heavens    rain 

grace 
On  that  which  breeds  between  'cm! 

Fer. 


Wherefore  weep  you? 


4  disadvantage 
'•  ignoriint 


6  outcome 


180 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


Mir.     At   iiiiue   iiu«orthiiio>s,   tliat   dare   not 
offer 
What  I  desire  to  give;    and  iiiiK-h  less  take 
What  1  shall  die  to  want  J     But  this  is  trifling; 
And  all  the  more  it  seeks  to  hide  itself,  80 

The  bigger  bulk  it  shows.    Hence,  bashful  cun- 
ning! 
And  prompt  me,  plain  and  holy  innocence! 
I  am  your  wife,  if  you  will  marry  me; 
If  not,  I'll  die  your  maid:    to  be  your  fellow 
You  may  deny  me ;    but  1  '11  be  your  servant, 
Whetlier  you  Avill  or  no. 

Fer.  My  mistress,  dearest; 

And  I  thus  humble  ever. 

Mir.  ;\ly  husband,  then? 

Fer.     Ay,  with  a  heart  as  willing 
As  bondage  e'er  of  freedom:    here's  my  hand. 

Mir.     And  mine,  with  my  heart  in    't:    and 
now  farewell 
Till  half  an  hour  hence. 

Fer.  a  thousand  thousand!   91 

[Exeunt  Fer.  and  Mik.  severally. 

Pros.     So  glad  of  this  as  they  I  cannot  be, 
Who  are  surprised  withal;    but  my  rejoicing 
At  nothing  can  be  more.    I  '11  to  my  book ; 
For  yet,  ere  supper-time,  must  I  perform 
Much  business  appertaining.  [Exit. 

Scene  II. 
Another  part  of  the  Island. 

Enter  Caliban,  Stephano,  and  Trinculo. 

Ste.  Tell  not  me ; — when  the  butt  is  out,  we 
will  drink  water;  not  a  drop  before:  therefore 
bear  up,  and  board  'em.**  Servant-monster, 
drink  to  me. 

Trin.  Servant-monster!  the  folly  of  this 
island!  They  say  there's  but  five  upon  this 
isle:  we  are  three  of  them;  if  th'  other  two 
be  brained  like  us,  the  state  totters. 

Ste.  Drink,  servant-monster,  when  I  bid 
thee:    thy  eyes  are  almost  seto  in  thy  head.    10 

Trin.  Where  should  they  be  set  else?  he 
were  a  brave  monster  indeed,  if  they  were  set 
in  his  tail. 

Ste.  My  man-monster  hath  drowned  hia 
tongue  in  sack :  for  my  part,  the  sea  cannot 
drown  me;  I  swam,  ere  I  could  recover  the 
shore,  five-and-thirty  leagues  ofif  and  on.  By 
this  light,  thou  shalt  be  my  lieutenant,  monster, 
or  my  standard.io 

Trin.  Your  lieutenant,  if  you  list;  he's  no 
standard.  .  20 

Ste.     We'll  nol^  run.  Monsieur  Monster. 


7  lack 

8  fixed 

8  sail     up 

and     attack 

10  standard-bearer 

lllCIII 

Mil'  cnpH) 

Trin.  Nor  go  neither;  but  you'll  lie,  like 
dogs,  and  yet  say  nothing  neither. 

Ste.  Moon-calf,  speak  once  in  thy  life,  if 
thou  beest  a  good  moon-calf. 

Cal.  How  does  thy  honour?  Let  me  lick  thy 
shoe.    I  'II  not  serve  him,  he  is  not  valiant. 

Tkix.  Thou  liest,  most  ignorant  monster:  J 
am  in  case  to  justlen  a  constable.  Why,  thou 
deboshed'-  fish,  thou,  was  there  ev(;r  man  a 
coward  that  hath  drunk  so  much  sack  as  I 
to-day?  Wilt  thou  tell  a  monstrous  lie,  being 
but  half  a  fish  and  half  a  monster?  33 

Cal.  Lo,  how  ho  mocks  me!  wilt  thou  let 
him,  my  lord? 

Trin.  'Lord,'  quoth  he!  That  a  nioust<  r 
should  be  such  a  natural  !i'i 

Cal.  Lo,  lo,  again!  bite  him  to  death,  I 
prithee. 

Ste.  Trinculo,  keep  a  good  tongue  in  your 
head:  if  you  prove  a  mutineer, — the  next  tree! 
The  poor  monster's  my  subject,  and  he  shall 
not  suffer  indignity.  42 

Cal.  I  thank  my  noble  lord.  AVilt  thou  be 
pleased  to  hearken  once  again  to  the  suit  I 
made  to  thee? 

Ste.  ]Marry,  will  1 :  kneel  and  rei)eat  it ;  I 
will  stand,  and  so  shall  Trinculo. 

Enter  Ariel   (invisible) 

Cal.  As  I  told  thee  before,  1  am  subject  to 
a  tyrant,  a  sorcerer,  that  by  his  cunning  hath 
cheated  me  of  the  island. 

Ari.     Thou  liest.  50 

Cal.  Thou  liest,  thou  jesting  monkey,  thou: 
I  would  my  valiant  master  would  destroy  thee! 
I  do  not  lie. 

Ste.  Trinculo,  if  you  trouble  him  any  more 
in  's  tale,  by  this  hantl,  I  will  supplant  some  of 
your  teeth. 

Trin.     Why,  I  said  nothing. 

Ste.     Mum,  then,  and  no  m»re.    Proceed. 

Cal.     I  say,  by  sorcery  he  got  this  isle;       60 
From  me  he  got  it.    If  thy  greatness  will 
Kevenge  it  on  him, — for  I  know  thou  darest. 
But  this  thing  dare  not, — 

Ste.     That's  most  certain. 

Cal.  Thou  shalt  be  lord  of  it,  and  I'll  serve 
thee. 

Ste.  How  now  shall  this  be  compassed  f 
Canst  thou  bring  me  to  the  party? 

Cal.    Yea,  yea,  my  lord:    I'll  yield  him  thee 
asleep, 
Where  thou  mayst  knock  a  nail  into  his  head. 

Ari.     Thou  Uest;    thon  canst  not.  70 

Cal.     What    a    pied    ninny 's'^    this!      Thru 
scurvy  patch  !••'• 


11  in  trim  to  Joetle 

12  debaiichod 

13  simpleton 


I*  motlev-coated  fool 
15  fool 


WILLIAM  SHAKESFEABE 


181 


1  do  beseech  thy  greatness,  give  him  blows. 
And   take   his   bottle   from   him:     when    that's 

gone, 
He  shall  drink  nought  but  brine ;    for  1  '11  not 

show  him 
Where  the  quick  freshes  are. 

8te.  Trinculo,  run  into  no  further  danger: 
interrupt  the  monster  one  word  further,  and, 
by  this  hand,  I'll  turn  my  mercy  out  o'  doors, 
and  make  a  stock-fishie  of  thee. 

Trix.    Why,  what  did  If   I  did  nothing.    I'll 
go  farther  off.  81 

Ste.     Didst  thou  not  say  he  liedt 

Ari.     Thou  liest. 

Ste.  Do  I  so?  take  thou  that.  [Beats  hiin.] 
As  you  like  this,  give  me  the  lie  another  time. 

Trix.  1  did  not  give  the  lie.  Out  o'  your 
wits,  and  hearing  tool  A  pox  o'  your  bottle! 
this  can  sack  and  drinking  do.  A  murrain  on 
your  monster,  and  the  devil  take  your  fingers! 

Cal,     Ha,  ha,  ha!  90 

Ste.  Now.  forward  with  your  tale. — Prithee, 
^tand  farther  off. 

Cal.  Beat  him  enough:  after  a  little  time, 
1  '11  beat  him  too. 

Ste.  Stand  farther. — Come,  proceed. 

Cal.     Why,  as  I  told  thee,   'tis  a  custom  with 
him 
I '   th '   afternoon   to   sleep :     there   thou   mayst 

brain  him, 
Having  first  seized  his  books;    or  with  a  log 
Matter  his  skuU,  or  paunch  him  with  a  stake. 
Or  cut  his  wezandi^  with  thy  knife.    Remember 
First  to  possess  his  books;    for  without  them 
He's  but  a  sot,  as  I  jim,  nor  hath  not  101 

One  spirit  to  command:    they  all  do  hate  him 
As  rootedly  as  I.     Bum  but  his  books. 
He  has  brave  utensils, — for  so  he  calls  them. — 
Which,  when  he  has  a  house,  he'll  deck  withal. 
.\nd  thatis  most  deeply  to  consider  is 
The  beauty  of  his  daughter;    he  himself 
falls  her  a  nonpareil:    I  never  saw  a  woman. 
But  only  Sycorax  my  dam  and  she; 
But  she  as  far  surpasseth  Sycorax  110 

As  great  'st  does  least. 

Ste.  Is  it  so  brave  a  lass? 

Cal.     Ay,  lord;    she  will  become  thy  bed,  1 
warrant, 
And  bring  thee  forth  brave  brood. 

Ste.     Monster.    I    will    kill    this    man :     his 

daughter  and  I  will  be  king  and  queen, — save 

our  graces! — and  Trinculo  and  thyself  shall  be 

viceroys.     Dost  thou  like  the  plot,  Trinculo? 

Trix.    Excellent. 

Ste.     Give    me    thy    hand:     I    am    sorry    I 


16  dried  cod  (which  is 
beaten  bef  ore 
boiled) 


17  wind-pioe 

18  that  which 


•jeat  thee;    but.  while  thou  livcst,  keep  a  good 
tongue  in  thy  head.  121 

Cal.     Within    this    half    hour    will    he    be 
asleep : 
Wilt  thou  destroy  him  thenf 

Ste.  Ay,  on  mine  honour. 

Ari.     This  will  I  tell  my  master. 
Cal.     Thou  makest  me  merry;    I  am  full  of 
pleasure: 
Let  us  be  jocund;   will  you  troll  the  catchi^ 
You  taught  me  but  while-ere? 

Ste.  At  thy  request,  monster,  I  will  do  rea- 
son, any  reason.— Come  on,  Trinculo,  let  us 
sing.  [ISings. 

Flout  'em  and  scout  'em.  130 

And  scout    'em  and  flout    'em ; 
Thought  is  free. 
Cal.     That's  not  the  tune. 

[Ariel  plays  the  lune  on  a  tabor  and  pipe. 
Stb.     What  is  this  same? 
Trix.     This  is  the  tune  of  our  catch,  played 
by  the  picture  of  Xubody."" 

Ste.  If  thou  beest  a  man,  show  thyself  in 
thy  likeness:  if  thou  beest  a  devil,  take  't  as 
thou  list. 

Trix.     O.  forgive  me  my  sins! 
Ste.     He  that  dies  pays  all  debts:     I   defy 
thee.    Mercy  upon  us!  141 

Cal.     Art  thou  afeard? 
Ste.     Xo,  monster,  not  I. 
Cal.     Be    not    afeard;     the    isle   is    full    of 
noises. 
Sounds  and  sweet  airs,  that  give  delight,  and 

hurt  not. 
Sometimes  a  thousand  twangling  instruments 
Will  hum  about  mine  ears ;  and  sometime  voices. 
That,  if  I  then  had  waked  after  long  sleep. 
Will  make  me  sleep  again :    and  then,  in  dream- 
ing, 
The   clouds   methought  would  oj>en,   and  show 

riches 
Ready  to  drop  upon  me;    that,  when  I  wakeil. 
I  cried  to  dream  again.  152 

Ste.     This   will   prove   a   brave  kingdom   to 
me.  where 
I  shall  have  my  music  for  nothing. 
Cal.     When  Prospero  is  destroyed. 
Ste.     That  shall  be  by  and  by:    I  remember 
the  story. 

Tbix.  The  sound  is  going  away ;  let 's  fol- 
low it,  and  after  do  our  work. 

Ste.    Lead,  monster;    we'll  follow.    I  woul<l 
I  could  see  this  taborer:    he  lays  it  on.        160 
Trin.    Wilt  comet    1 11  follow,  Stephano. 

[Exeunt. 


19  part-song 
;  20  Alluding   to    a    print 
'  (of     merely     head. 


less,  and  arms) 
prefixed  to  an  old 
comedy. 


183 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


Scene  III. 

Another  part  of  the  island. 

Enter  Alonso,  Sebastian,  Antonio,  Gonzalo, 
Adrian,  Francisco,  and  others. 

GON.  By  'r  lakin,2i  i  can  go  no  further,  sir ; 
My  old  bones  ache:  here's  a  maze  trod,  indeed, 
Through  forth-rights  and  meanders!     By  your 

patience, 
I  needs  must  rest  me. 

Alon.  Old  lord,  I  cannot  blame  thee, 

Who  am  myself  attach  'd-2  with  weariness. 
To   the   dulling  of  my  spirits:     sit   down,   and 

rest. 
Even  here  I  will  put  off  my  hope,  and  keep  it 
No  longer  for-'s  my  flatterer:    he  is  drown 'd 
Whom    thus    we   stray    to    find;     and    the    sea 
mocks  9 

Our  frustrate  search  on  land.   Well,  let  him  go. 

Ant.    [Aside  to  Seb.]    I  am  right  glad  that 
he's  so  out  of  hope. 
Do  not,  for  one  repulse,  forego  the  purpose 
That  you  resolved  to  effect. 

Seb.    [Aside  to  Ant.]    The  next  advantage 
Will  we  take  thoroughly. 

Ant.    [Aside  to  Seb.]    Let  it  be  to-night; 
For,  now  they  are  oppress  'd  with  travel,  they 
Will  not,  nor  cannot,  use  such  vigilance 
As  when  they  are  fresh. 

Seb.  [Aside  to  Ant.]  I  say,  to-night:  no 
more.  [Solemn  and  strange  music. 

Alon.  What  harmony  is  this? — My  good 
friends,  hark! 

GoN.     Marvellous  sweet  music! 

Enter  Prospero  ahove  (invisible).  Enter  sev- 
eral strange  Shapes,  bringing  in  a  ban- 
quet: they  dance  about  it  with  gentle  ac- 
tions of  salutations;  and,  inviting  the 
King,  etc.,  to  eat,  they  depart. 

Alon.  Give  us  kind  keepers,  heavens! — 
What  were  these? 

Seb.     a   living   drollery.24     Now   I   will   be- 
lieve 21 
That  there  are  unicorns;    that  in  Arabia 
There   is    one   tree,   the   phcenix'    throne;     one 

phoenix 
At  this  hour  reigning  there. 

Ant.  1  '11  believe  both  ; 

And  what  does  else  want  credit,'-.">  come  to  me. 
And   I'll   be  sworn    'tis  true:     travellers  ne'er 

did  lie, 
Though  fools  at  home  condemn  'em. 


21  ladvkin    (little    lady. 

the  Virgin  Mary) 
'J2  attacked 
28  88 


24  puppet  show 
23  whatever  else   is   in- 
credible 


GON.  If  in  Naples 

I   should  report  this  now,  would   they  believe 
me? 

If  I  should  say,  I  saw  such  islanders, — 

For,  certes,  these  are  people  of  the  island, —   30 

Who,  though  they  are  of  monstrous  shape,  yet, 
note, 

Their  manners  are  more  gentle-kind  than  of 

Our  human  generation  you  shall  find 

Many,  nay,  almost  any. 

Pros.  [Aside]  Honest  lord, 

Thou  has  said  well;  for  some  of  you  there 
present 

Are  worse  than  devils. 

Alon.  I  cannot  too  much  muse28 

Such  shapes,  such  gesture,  and  such  sound,  ex- 
pressing— 

Although  they  want  the  use  of  tongue — a  kind 

Of  excellent  dumb  discourse. 

Pros.  [Aside.^  Praise  in  departing.27 

Fran.     They  vanish 'd  strangely. 

Seb.  No  matter,  since  40 

They  have  left  their  viands  behind ;  for  we  have 
stomachs. — 

Will  't  please  you  taste  of  what  is  here? 
Alon.  Not  I. 

GON.     Faith,  sir,  you  need  not  fear.     When 
we  were  boys, 

Who  would  believe  that  there  were  mountain- 
eers 

Dew-lapp  'd  like  bulls,  whose  throats  had  hang- 
ing at   'em 

Wallets  of  flesh?    or  that  there  were  such  men 

Whose  heads  stood  in  their  breasts?  which 
now  we  find 

Each  putter-out  of  five  for  one*  will  bring  us 

Good  warrant  of. 

Alon.  I  will  stand  to,  and  feed, 

Although  my  last:    no  matter,  since  I  feel      50 

The  best  is  past.    Brother,  my  lord  the  duke. 

Stand  to,  and  do  as  we. 

Thunder  and  lightning.  Enter  Ariel,  like  a 
harpy;  claps  his  wings  upon  the  tabic; 
and,  with  a  quaint  device,  the  banquet  van- 
ishes. 
Ari,  You  are  three  men  of  sin,  whom  Des- 
tiny,— 

That  hath  to28  instrument  this  lower  world 

And  what  is  in   't, — the  never-surfeited  sea 

Ilath  caused  to  belch  up  you;  and  on  this 
island. 

Where  man  doth  not  inhabit, — you  'mongst  men 

26  wonder  at 

27  Proverb  :   "Save  your  praises  till  you  go." 
38  for 

•  Referring  to  travellers  going  on  a  perilous  jour- 
ney, who  sometimos  made  over  their  property 
on  condition  that  If  they  returned  safe  it 
should  be  restored  to  them  two,  three,  or 
even  five  fold. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


183 


Being  most  unfit  to  live.  I  have  made  you  mad ; 
Aud  even  with  sut-h-like  valour  men  hang  and 

drown 
Their  proper  selves. 

[Alox..  Seb.,  etc.,  draw  their  swards. 
You  fools!    I  and  my  fellows  60 
Are  ministers  of  Fate:    the  elements, 
Of  whom  your   swords  are  temper 'd,  may  as 

well 
Wound   the   loud   winds,   or  with   bemock'd-at 

stabs 
Kill  the  stiJl-closing  waters,  as  diminish 
One  dowle29  that's  in  my  plume:    my  fellow- 
ministers 
Are  like  invulnerable.     If  you  could  hurt, 
Your  swords  are  now  too  massy  for  your 

strengths, 
And  will  not  be  uplifted.    But  remember, — 
For  that 's  my  business  to  you, — that  you  three 
From  Milan  did  supplant  good  Prospero ; .       70 
Exposed  unto  the  sea,  which  hath  requit  it. 
Him   and   his   innocent   child:     for  which   foul 

deed 
The  powers,  delaying,  not  forgetting,  have 
Incensed  the  seas  and  shores,  yea,  all  the  crea- 
tures, 
Against  your  peace.    Thee  of  thy  son,  Alonso, 
They  have  bereft ;    and  do  pronounce  by  me : 
Lingering  perdition — worse  than  any  death 
Can  be  at  once — shall  step  by  step  attend 
You   and  your   ways;     whose  wraths  to   guard 

you  from, — 
Which    here,    in    this   most    desolate   isle,    else 
falls  80 

Upon  your  heads, — is  nothing  but30  heart-sor- 
row 
And  a  clear  life  ensuing. 

He  vanishes  in   thunder;    then,  to  soft  music, 
enter  the   Sh.vpes  again   and  dance,  uith 
mods   and   motes,   and    carrying    out    the 
table. 
Pros.     Bravely  the  figure  of  this  harpy  hast 
thou 
Perform 'd,  my  Ariel;  a  grace  it  had,  devour- 
ing: 
Of  my  instruction  hast  thou  nothing  bated 
In  what  thou  hadst  to  say :    so,  with  good  life 
And  observation  8trange,3i  my  meaner  minis- 
ters 
Their    several    kinds32    have    done.      My    high 

charms  work, 
And  these  mine  enemies  are  all  knit  up 
In   their   distractions:     they   now   are   in   my 
power;  90 

And  in  these  fits  I  leave  them,  while  I  visit 


Young    Ferdinand, — whomaa    they    suppose    is 

drown  'd, — 
And  his  and  mine  loved  darling.     [Exit  above. 

GON.     I '  the  name  of   something  holy,  sir, 
why  stand  you 
In  this  strange  stare? 

Alox.  O,  it  is  monstrous,  monstrous! 

Methought  the  billows  spoke,  and  told  me  of  it ; 
The  winds  did  sing  it  to  me;  and  the  thunder. 
That  deep  and  dreadful  organ-pipe,  pronounced 
The  name  of  Prosper:  it  did  bass  my  trespass. 
Therefore  my  son  i '  th '  ooze  is  bedded ;  and  100 
1  '11  seek  him  deeper  than  e  'er  plummet  sounded. 
And  with  him  there  lie  mudded.  [Exit. 

Seb.  But  one  fiend  at  a  time, 

1*11  fight  their  legions  o'er. 

AxT.  ni  be  thy  second. 

[Exeunt  Seb.  and  Axt. 

Gox.     All  three  of  them  are  desperate:    their 
great  guilt, 
Like  poison  given  to  work  a  great  time  after, 
Now  'gins  to  bite  the  spirits.    I  do  beseech  you, 
That  are  of  suppler  joints.  foUow  them  swiftly. 
And  hinder  them  from  what  this  ecstasy^* 
May  now  provoke  them  to. 

Adk.  Follow,  I  pray  you.   [Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 

Scexe  I. 

Before  Prosperous  cell. 

Enter  Pkospero,  Ferdixaxd  and  Miraxda. 

Pros.     If  I  have  too  austerely  punish 'd  you, 
Y'our  compensation  makes  amends;    for  I 
Have  given  you  here  a  thirds  of  mine  own  life, 
Or  that  for  which  I  live;    who  once  again 
I  tender  to  thy  hand:    aU  thy  vexations 
Were  but  my  trials  of  thy  love,  and  thou 
Hast  strangely  stood  the  test:    here,  afore 

Heaven, 
I  ratify  this  my  rich  gift.    O  Ferdinand, 
Do  not  smile  at  me  that  I  boast  her  off. 
For  thou  shalt  find  she  will  outstrip  all  praise  10 
And  make  it  halt  behind  her. 

Fer.  I  do  believe  its 

Against  an  oracle. 

Pros.     Then,  as  my  gift,  and  thine  own  ac- 
quisition 
W^orthily  purchased,  take  my  daughter:    but 
If  thou  dost  break  her  virgin-knot3  before 


33  FV)r  "who." 


34  madness 


29  eiament  of  down 

30  nothing  will  avail  but 


31  rare  observance 

32  appropriate  functions 


1  Commonly   taken   to  mean    that   he   himself  and 

his  dukedom  (or  his  wife)   are  the  two  other 
thirds :  but  some  editors  read  tkread. 

2  Supply  "and  should."        3  girdle   worn    as    mark 

of  maidenhood 


184 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


All  sanctimonious  ceremonies  may       ^ 

With  full  and  holy  rite  be  minister 'd. 

No  sweet  aspersion^  shall  the  heavens  let  fall 

To  make  this  contract  grow;    but  barren  hate. 

Sour-eyed  disdain  and  discord  shall  bestrew  20 

The  union  of  your  bed  with  weeds  so  loathly 

That   you   shall    hate    it    both:     therefore    take 

heed, 
As  Hymen's  lani{»s  sliall  light  you.* 

Fer.  As  I  hope 

For  quiet  days,  fair  issue  and  long  life, 
With  such  love  as  'tis  now,  the  murkiest  den. 
The   most   opportune   j)lace,   the   strong  'st   sug- 
gestion 
Our  worser  genius  can,  shall  never  melt 
Mine  honour  into  lust,  to  take  away 
The  edge  of  that  day  's  celebration 
When    I    shall    think,    or"'    Phoebus'   steeds    are 

founder  'd, 
Or  Night  kept  chain 'd  below. 

Pros.  Fairly  spoke.     31 

Sit,  then,  and  talk  with  her;  she  is  thine  own. 
What,  Ariel!    my  industrious  servant,  Ariel  I 
Enter  Ariel. 
Ari.     What   would   my  potent   master  f    here 

I  am. 
Pros.     Thou    and    thy    meaner    fellows    your 
last  service 
Did  worthily  perform ;    and  1   must  use  you 
In  such  another  trick.     Go  bring  the  rabble. 
O  'er    whom    I    give    thee    power,    here    to    this 

place : 
Incite  them  to  quick  motion;    for  I  must 
Bestow  upon  the  eyes  of  this  young  couple     40 
Some  vanity"  of  mine  art:    it  is  my  promise. 
And  they  expect  it  from  me. 
Ari.  Presently  ?7 

Pros.     Ay,  with  a  twink. 

Ari.     Before  you  can  say  'come.'  and  'go,' 
And  breathe  twice,  and  cry,  'so,  so,' 
Each  one,  tripping  on  his  toe, 
Will  be  here  with  mops  and  mow. 
Do  you  love  me,  master?   no? 
Pros.     Dearly,   my   delicate   Ariel.     Do   not 
approach 
Till  thou  dost  hear  me  call. 

Ari.  Well,  I  conceive.  [Exit.     50 

Pros.     Look  thou  be  true ;    do  not  give  dal- 
liance 
Too    much    the   rein:     the   strongest   oaths   are 

straw 
To  the  fire  i '  the  blood :    be  more  abstemious. 
Or  else,  good  night  your  vow ! 


3  Kprlnkling 

4  as    you     hope    to    be 

l)l(!88ed  by   the  god 
of  marriage 
c  either 


•!  illuHion 

7  at  once 

8  grimace      (about     the 

same  as  "mow") 


Fer.  I  warrant  you,  sir ; 

The  white  cold  virgin  snow  upon  my  heart 
Abates  the  ardour  of  my  liver." 

Pros.  Well. 

Now  come,  my  Ariel !    bring  a  corollary, lo 
Rather  than  want  a  spirit*    appear,  and 

pertly  111 
No  tongue!    all  eyes!    be  silent.        [Soft  music. 
Enter  Iris. 
Iris,     teres,   most   bounteous   lady,   thy   rich 

leas  60 

Of  wheat,  rye,  barley,  vetches,  oats,  and  pease; 
Thy  turfy  mountains,  where  live  nibbling  sheep. 
And  flat  meads  thatch 'd  with  stover,i-  them  to 

keep ; 
Thy  banks  with  pioned  and  twilledi'!  brims. 
Which  spongy  April  at  thy  best  betrims. 
To  make  cold  nymphs  chaste  crowns;    and  thy 

broom -groves, 
Whose  sliadow  the  dismissed  bachelor  loves, 
Being  lass-lorn;    thy   pole-clipti*  vineyard; 
And  ti)y  sea-marge,  sterile  and  rocky-hard, 
Where    thou    thyself    dost    air; — the    queen    o' 

the  sky.i-' 
Whose  watery  arch  and  messenger  am  I,         71 
Bids  thee  leave  these;    and  with  her  sovereign 

grace. 
Here,  on  this  grass-plot,  in  this  very  pUu-e. 
To  come  and  sport: — her   peacocks  tiy  amain: 
Approach,  rich  Ceres,  her  to  entertain. 
Enter  Ceres. 
Ceu.     Hail,    many-colour 'd    messenger,    that 

ne  'er 
Dost  disobey  the  wife  of  Jupiter; 
Who,  with  thy  saffron  wings,  upon  my  flowers 
Diffusest  honey-drops,  refreshing  showers;       7ii 
And  with  each  end  of  thy  blue  bow  dost  crown 
My  boskyi"  acres  and   my  unshrubb'd   down.'^ 
Eich  scarf  to  my  proud  earth; — why  hath  tin- 
queen 
Summon 'd     me    hither,    to    this    short-grass 'd 

gieen  ? 
Iris.     A  contract  of  true  love  to  celebrate; 
And  some  donation   freely  to  estatei* 
On  the  blest  lovers. 

Cer.  Tell  me.  heavenly  Ik)w. 

If  Venus  or  her  son,  as  thou  <lost  know. 
Do  now  attend  the  queen!     Since  they  did  plot 
The  means  that  dusky  Disi"  niy  daughter  got. 
Her  and  her  blind  boy's  scandal 'd  company     90 
I  have  forsworn. 

Iris.  Of  her  society 


»  Then   regarded  as  tbc 

soat  of  passion. 
io  surphisage 
1 1  nlm!)ly 
1 1'  coarse  hay 
1.3  pconlod  and  reedy  (  V) 
14  polc-cntwIned 


1 '  .Tiino 
Ml  woody 
17  cleared  slopes 
1  s  bestow 

ii>  riuto     (who    carried 
off  Proserpina) 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


185 


Be   not  afraid:  1   met   her  deity 

(Jutting  the  clouds  towards  Paphos,  and  her  son 

Dove-drawn  with   her.     Here  thought   they   to 

have  done 
Some  wanton  charm  upon  this  man  and  mai<l. 
Whose  vows  are,  that  no  bed-right  shall  be  paid 
Till  Hymen 's  torch  be  lighted :    but  in  vain  ; 
Mar 's  hot  minionso  is  return  'd  again ; 
Her  waspish-headed  son  has  broke  his  arrows.    99 
Swears  he  will  shoot   no   more,   but   play   with 

sparrows, 
And  be  a  boy  right  out. 

Cer.  High'st  queen  of  state. 

Great  Juno,  comes;    I  know  her  by  her  gait. 
Enter  Juxo. 
Juno.     How  does  my  bounteous  sister?     Go 

with  me 
T>(  bless  this  twain,  that  they  may  prosperous  be. 
And  honour 'd  in  their  issue.  [They  sing: 

Jrxo.     Honour,  riches,  marriage-blessing. 

Long  continuance,  and  increasing, 

Hourly  joys  be  still  upon  you! 

.funo  sings  her  blessings  on  you. 

Cer.     Earth's  increase,  foison^i  plenty,      110 
Barns  and  garners  never  empty ; 
Amines  with  clustering  bunches  growing; 
Plants  with  goodly  burthen  bowing; 
Spring  come  to  you  at  the  farthest 
In  the  very  end  of  harvest! 
Scarcity  and  want  shall  shun  you ; 
Ceres'  blessing  so  is  on  you. 

Fer.     This  is  a  most  majestic  vision,  and 
Harmonious  charmingly.    May  I  be  boM 
To  think  these  spirits? 

Pros.  Spirits,  which  by  mine  art  120 

1  have  from  their  confines  call'd  to  enact 
-My  present  fancies. 

Fer.  Let  me  live  here  ever; 

So  rare  a  wonder  'd  father  and  a  wise 
.Makes  this  place  Paradise. 

[Juno  and  Ceres  whisper,  and  send 
Iris  on  employment. 
Pros.  Sweet,  now,  silence! 

Juno  and  Ceres  whisper  seriously; 
There's   something   else   to   do:     hush,   and   be 

mute. 
Or  else  our  spell  is  marr'd. 

Iris.     You    nymphs,    call  'd    Naiads,    of    the 
winding  brooks, 
With    your    sedged    crowns    and    ever-harmless 

looks, 
I^ave  your  crisp22  channels,  and  on  this  green 
land  130 

Answer  your  summons ;    Juno  does  command : 


Come,  temperate  nymphs,  and  help  to  celebrate 
A  contract  of  true  love;    be  not  too  late. 

Enter  certain  Nymphs. 
You  sunburn 'd  sicklemen,  of  August  weary. 
Come  hither  from  the  furrow,  and  be  merry: 
Make  holiday;    your  rye-straw  hats  put  on, 
And  these  fresh  nymphs  encounter  every  one 
In  country  footing.23 

Enter  certain  Reapers,  properly  habited:  they 
join  with  the  Nymphs  in  a  graceful  dance; 
towards  the  end  whereof  Prosper©  starts 
suddenly,  and  speaks;    after  which,  to  a 
strange,   hollow,  and  confused   noise,   they 
heavily  vanish. 
Pros.     [Aside]   I  had  forgot  that  foul  con- 
spiracy 
Of  the  beast  Caliban  and  liis  confederates      140 
Against  my  life:    the  minute  of  their  plot 
Is  almost  come.     [To  the  Spirits.]     Well  done! 
avoid; 2*  no  more! 
Fer.     This  is  strange:    your  father's  in  some 
passion 
That  works  him  strongly. 

MiR.  Never  till  this  day 

Saw  I  hira  touch 'd  with  anger  so  distemper 'd. 
Pros.     You  do  look,  my  son,  in  a  moved  sort. 
As  if  you  were  dismay 'd:    be  cheerful,  sir. 
Our  revels  now  are  ended.     These  our  actors. 
As  I  foretold  you,  were  all  spirits,  and 
-Are  melted  into  air,  into  thin  air:  150 

And,  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this  vision, 
The  cloud-capp'd  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces. 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself, 
Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve. 
And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded. 
Leave  not  a  rack^s  behind.    We  are  such  stuff 
.\s  dreams  are  made  on; 26  and  our  little  life 
Is  roundetl  with  a  sleep.    Sir,  I  am  vex  'd ; 
Bear    with    my    weakness;     my    old    brain    is 

troubled : 
Be  not  disturbed  with  my  infirmity:  100 

If  you  be  pleased,  retire  into  my  cell. 
And  there  repose:    a  turn  or  two  I  '11  walk. 
To  still  my  beating  mind. 

Fer.  Mir.  We  wish  you  peace.     [Exeunt. 

Pros.     Come  with  a  thought.2<     I  thank  thee, 
Ariel :    come. 

Enter  Ariel. 
Ari.     Thy  thoughts  I  cleave  to.     What 's  thy 

pleasure  ? 
Pros.  Spirit, 

We  must  prepare  to  meet  withzs  Caliban, 

Ari.     Ay,  my  commander:    when  I  presented 
Ceres, 


20  darling  (Venus) 

21  abundance 


22  waveleted 


23  dancing 

24  depart 

25  shred  of  vapor 


26  of 

27  quick  as  thought 

28  meet,  frustrate 


186 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


1  thought  to  have  told  thee  of  it ;    but  I  fear  'd 
Lest  I  might  anger  thee. 

Pros.     Say   again,    where    didst   thou    leave 

these  varlets?  170 

Ari.     1  told  you,  sir,  they  were  red-hot  with 

drinking; 
So  full  of  valour  that  they  smote  the  air 
For  breathing  in  their  faces;    beat  the  ground 
For  kissing  of  their  feet;    yet  always  bending 
Towards  their  project.     Then  I  boat  my  tabor; 
At  which,  like  unbaek'd29  colts,  they  prick 'd 

their  ears, 
Advanced  their  eyelids,  lifted  up  their  noses 
As  they  smelt  music:    so  I  charm 'd  their  ears, 
That,     calf -like,     they     my     lowing     follow 'd 

through 
Tooth 'd  briers,   sharp   furzes,  pricking  goss,3o 

and  thorns,  180 

Which  enter 'd  their  frail  shins:    at  last  I  left 

them 
I'  the  filthy-mantled  pool  beyond  your  cell, 
There  dancing  up  to  the  chins,  that  the  foul  lake 

0  'erstunk  their  feet. 

Pros.  This  was  well  done,  my  bird. 

Thy  shape  invisible  retain  thou  still: 
The  trumpery  in  my  house,  go  bring  it  hither, 
For  stales  1  to  catch  these  thieves. 

Ari.  I  go,  I  go.     [Exit. 

Pros.     A  devil,  a  born  devil,  on  whose  nature 
Nurture  can  never  stick ;    on  whom  my  pains. 
Humanely  taken,  all,  all  lost,  quite  lost;        190 
And  as  with  age  his  body  uglier  grows, 
So  his  mind  cankers.    I  will  plague  them  all, 
Even  to  roaring. 

Be-enter  Ariel,  loadcn  with  glistering 
apparel,  etc. 
Come,  hang  them  on  this  line.32 
Prospero  and  Ariel  remain,  invisible. 
Enter  Caliban,  Stephano,  and  Trinculo,  aU 
wet. 
Cal.     Pray  you,  tread  softly,  that  the  blind 
mole  may  not  hear  a  foot  fall :   we  now  are  near 
his  cell. 

Ste.  Monster,  your  fairy,  which  you  say  is  a 
harmless  fairy,  has  done  little  better  than 
played  the  Jack  with  us. 

Trin.     Monster,  my  nose  is  in  great  indigna- 
tion. 200 
Ste.     So  is  mine.    Do  you  hear,  monster?    If 

1  should   take  a   displeasure  against  you,  look 
you,— 

Trin.     Thou  wert  but  a  lost  monster. 
Cal.     Good  my  lord,  give  me  thy  favour  still. 
Be  patient,  for  the  prize  I'll  bring  thee  to 


2»  nnrldden 
80  fforse 


81  decoy 

S2  lime-tree,  linden 


Shall    hoodwinkss    this    mischance:     therefore 

speak  softly. 
All's  hush'd  as  midnight  yet. 

Trin.  Ay,  but  to  lose  our  bottles  in  the 
pool, — 

Ste.  There  is  not  only  disgrace  and  dis- 
honour in  that,  monster,  but  an  infinite  loss.     210 

Trin.  That's  more  to  me  than  my  wetting: 
yet  this  is  your  harmless  fairy,  monster. 

Ste.  I  will  fetch  oif  my  bottle,  though  I  be 
o'er  ears  for  my  labour. 

Cal.     Prithee,  my  king,  be  quiet.    See  'st  thou 
here, 
This  is  the  mouth  o'  the  cell:    no  noise,  and 

enter. 
Do   that   good  mischief  which  may  make  this 

island 
Thine  own  for  ever,  and  I,  thy  Caliban, 
For  aye  thy  foot-licker. 

Ste.  Give  me  thy  hand.  I  do  begin  to  have 
bloody  thoughts.  220 

Trin.  O  King  Stephano !  O  peer !  O  worthy 
Stephano!  look  what  a  wardrobe  here  is  for 
thee! 

Cal.     Let  it  alone,  thou  fool;    it  is  but  trash. 

Trin.  O,  ho,  monster!  we  know  what  be- 
longs to  a  frippery.34    o  King  Stephano! 

Ste.  Put  off  that  gown,  Trinculo;  by  this 
hand,  I'll  have  that  gown. 

Trin.     Thy  grace  shall  have  it. 

Cal.     The  dropsy  drown  this  fool!    what  do 

you  mean  230 

To  dote  thus  on  such  luggage?     Let's  alone,35 

And  do  the  murder  first:    if  he  awake, 

From   toe   to    crown    he'll   fill   our   skins   with 

pinches. 
Make  us  strange  stuif. 

Ste.  Be  you  quiet,  monster.  Mistress  line, 
is  not  this  my  jerkin?  Now  is  the  jerkin 
under  the  line:  now,  jerkin,  you  are  like  to 
lose  your  hair,  and  prove  a  bald  jerkin.* 

Trin.  Do,  do:  we  steal  by  line  and  level,3fl 
an  't  like  your  grace.  240 

Ste.  I  thank  thee  for  that  jest;  here's  a 
garment  for  't:  wit  shall  not  go  unrewarded 
while  I  am  king  of  this  country.  'Steal  by 
line  and  level'  is  an  excellent  pass  of  pate;37 
there's  another  garment  for  't. 

Trin.  IMonster,  come,  put  some  limeys  upon 
your  fingers,  and  away  with  the  rest. 


33  111  Ind  you  to  editors,      "left 

84  dd-clothos  shop  nlone.") 

85  Supply  "go;"    (alone       ae  by  rule 

inny  bo  un  orror  for        .^"  thiMist  of  wit 
along ;  or  read,  with        88  blrd-llmt! 
Rowe      nnd      otlier 
*  rerliaps    nlluding    to    the    frequent    loss   of    hair 
from   fevers  contrnoted   in   crossing  the   line, 
or  equator. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


187 


Gal.     I  will  have  none  on  't:    we  shall  lose 
our  time, 
And  all  be  turnM  to  barnacles,  or  to  aj>es 
With  foreheads  villanous  low.  250 

Ste.  Monster,  lay-to  your  fingers:  help  to 
bear  this  away  where  ray  hogshead  of  wine  is, 
or  I  '11  turn  you  out  of  my  kingdom :  go  to, 
carry  this. 

Trin.     And  this. 
Ste.     Ay,  and  this. 
A  noise  of  hunters  heard.    Enter  divers  Spirits, 
in  shape  of  dogs  and  hounds,  hunting  them 
about;    Prospero  and  Ariel  setting  them 
on. 
Pros.     Hey,  Mountain,  hey! 
Ar.     Silver!    there  it  goes,  Silver! 
Pros.     Fury,    Fury!     there,    Tyrant,    there! 
hark,  hark! 

[Cal.,  Ste.,  and  Trin.  are  driven  out. 
Go'  charge    my    goblins    that    they   grind    their 

joints 
With  dry  convulsions;    shorten  up  their  sinews 
With    aged    cramps;     and    more    pinch-spotted 
make  them  261 

Than  pard  or  eat  o '  mountain. 
Ari.  Hark,  they  roar ! 

Pros.     Let  them  be  hunted  soundly.    At  this 
hour 
Lie  at  my  mercy  all  mine  enemies: 
Shortly  shall  all  my  labours  end,  and  thou 
Shalt  have  the  air  at  freedom:    for  a  little 
Follow,  and  do  me  service.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  V. 

SCEXE   I. 

Before  the  cell  of  Prospero. 
Enter  Prospero  in  his  magic  robes,  and  Ariel. 

Pros.  Now  does  my  project  gather  to  a  head : 
My  charms  craeki  not;    my  spirits  obey;    and 

time 
Goes   upright  with   his   carriage.s     How's   the 
day? 
Ari.     On  the  sixth  hour;    at  which  time,  my 
lord, 
You  said  our  work  should  cease. 

Pros.  I  did  say  so, 

When    first    I    raised    the    tempest.      Say,    my 

spirit. 
How  fares  the  king  and  *s  followers? 

Ari.  Confined  together 

In  the  same  fashion  as  you  gave  in  charge. 
Just  as  you  left  them ;    all  prisoners,  sir, 
In  the  line-grove  which  weather-fends  your  cell ; 
They  cannot  budge  till  your  release.  The  king,  1 1 


1  break,  fall 


2  carries     all     tbrougb 
well 


His   brother,    and   yours,    abide   all    three    dis- 
tracted, 
Antl  the  remainder  mourning  over  them, 
Brimful  of  sorrow  and  dismay;    but  chiefly 
Him  that  you  term  'd,  sir,  *  The  good  old  lord, 

Gonzalo ' ; 
His   tears   run   down   his   beard,   like   winter's 

drops 
From  eaves  of  reeds.     Your  charm  so  strongly 

works   'em. 
That  if  you  now  beheld  them,  your  affections 
Would  become  tender. 

Pros.  Dost  thou  think  so,  spirit  ? 

Ari.     Mine  would,  sir,  were  I  human. 
Pros.  And  mine  shall.     20 

Hast  thou,  which  art  but  air.  a  touch,  a  feeling 
Of  their  afflictions,  and  shall  not  myself, 
One  of  their  kind,  that  relish  all  as  sharply,^ 
Passion*  as  they,  be  kindlier  moved  than  thou 

art? 
Though  with  their  high  wrongs"'  I  am  struck  to 

the  quick. 
Yet  with  my  nobler  reason   'gainst  my  fury 
Do  I  take  part :    the  rarer  action  is 
In  virtue  than  in  vengeance:    they  being  peni- 
tent. 
The  sole  drift  of  my  purpose  doth  extend 
Not  a  frown  further.    Go  release  them,  Ariel :    30 
My  charms  1 11  break,  their  senses  I  '11  restore, 
And  they  shall  be  themselves. 
Ari.  I  'II  fetch  them,  sir,     [Exit. 

Pros.     Ye   elves   of   hills,    brooks,   standing 
lakes,  and  groves; 
And  ye  that  on  the  sands  with  printless  foot 
Do  chase  the  ebbing  Neptune,  and  do  fly  him 
When  he  comes  back;    you  demi-puppets  that 
By  moonshine  do  the  green  sour  ringletss  make. 
Whereof  the  ewe  not   bites;     and  you   whose 

pastime 
Is  to  make  midnight  mushrooms,  that  rejoice 
To  hear  the  solemn  curfew ;  by  whose  aid —       40 
Weak  masters  though  ye  be — I  have  bedimm  'd 
The   noontide   sun,   call'd   forth   the   mutinous 

winds. 
And  'twixt  the  green  sea  and  the  azured  vault 
Set  roaring  war:    to  the  dread  rattling  thunder 
Have  T  given  fire,  and  rifted  Jove 's  stout  oak 
W^ith  his  own  bolt;    the  strong-based  promon- 
tory 
Have  I  made  shake,  and  by  the  spurs  pluck  'd  up 
The  pine  and  cedar:    graves  at  my  command 
Have  waked  their  sleepers,  oped,  ami  let    'em 

forth 
By  my  so  potent  art.    But  this  rough  magic    50 
I  here  abjure;    and,  when  I  have  require<l 


3  feel  quite  as  keenly 

4  have  passions 
"i  crimes 


6  of     grass 
rings") 


("fairy 


188 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


Some  heavenly  music. — whieh  even  now  I  do, — 
To  work  mine  end  upon  their  senses,  that 
This  airy  charm  is  for,  I'll  break  my  staff, 
Bury  it  certain  fathoms  in  the  earth. 
And  deeper  than  did  ever  plummet  sound 
I'll  drown  my  book.  [Solemn  music. 

He  enter  Ariel  hefore:    Ihen  Alonso,  viih   o 

frantic    gesture,    attended    hy    CiONZAt.o; 

Sebastian   and   Axtonio   in   like    manner, 

attended  by  Adrian  and  Francisco:    the>i 

all   enter   the   circle  which   Prospero   had 

made,    and    there    stand   charmed;     which 

Prospero  observing,  speaks: 
A  solemn  air,  and  the  best  comforter 
To  an  unsettled  fancy,  cure  thy  brains, 
Now  useless,  boil'd   within   thy  skull!      There 

stand, 
For  you  are  spell-stopp 'd.  61 

Holy  Gonzalo,  honourable  man, 
I\line  eyes,  even  sociable  to^  the  show  of  thine, 
Fall     fellowly     drops.       The     charm     dissolves 

apace ; 
And  as  the  morning  steals  upon  the  night 
Melting  the  darkness,  so  their  rising  senses 
Begin  to  chase  the  ignorant  fumes  that  mantle 
Their  clearer  reason.     O  good  Gonzalo, 
My  true  preserver,  and  a  loyal  sir  69 

To  him  thou  follow 'st!     I  will  pay  thy  graces 
Home*  both  in  word  and  deed.     Most  cruelly 
Didst  thou,  Alonso,  use  me  and  my  daughter: 
Thy  brother  was  a  furtherer  in  the  act. 
Thou  art  pinch  'd  for  't  now,  Sebastian.     Flesh 

and  blood, 
You,  brother  mine,  that  entertain 'd  ambition, 
Expell'd     remorse     and     nature;      who,     with 

Sebastian, — 
Whose    inward     pinches    therefore     are    most 

strong, — 
Would  here  have  kill  'd  your  king ;    I  do  forgive 

theo. 
Unnatural  though  thou  art.    Their  understanding 
Begins  to  swell;    and  the  approaching  tide      80 
Will  shortly  fill  the  reasonable  shore," 
That  now  lies  foul  and  muddy.     Not  one  of 

them 
That   yet    looks    on   me,    or   would    know    me: 

Ariel, 
Fetch  me  the  hat  and  rapier  in  my  cell : 
T  will  disease  me,  and  myself  present 
As  1  was  sometime  Milan:    quickly,  spirit; 
Thou  shalt  ere  long  be  free. 

Ariel  sings  and  helps  to  attire  him. 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  T : 
In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie; 

T  «ympnthotlf'  with  ;•  shore  of  reason 

H  fiillv 


There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry.  90 

On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 

After  summer  merrily. 
Merrily,  merrily  shall  I  live  now 
Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 

Pros.     Why,  that's  my  dainty  Ariel!     I  shall 
miss  thee; 
But  yet  thou  shalt  have  freedom:    so,  so,  so. 
To  the  king's  ship,  invisible  as  thou  art: 
There  shalt  thou  find  the  mariners  asleep 
Under     the     hatches;      the     master     and     tlic 

boatswain 
Being  awake,  enforce  them  to  this  place,       100 
And  presently,  I  prithee. 

Ari.     I  drink  the  air  before  me,  and  return 
Or  ere  your  pulse  twice  beat.  [Exit. 

GON.     All     torment,     trouble,     wonder     and 
amazement 
Inhabits  here:    some  heavenly  power  guide  us 
Out  of  this  fearful  country ! 

Pros.  Behold,  sir  king. 

The  wronged  Duke  of  ^lilan,  Prospero: 
For  more  assurance  that  a  living  prince 
Does  now  speak  to  thee,  I  embrace  thy  body; 
And  to  thee  and  thy  company  I  bid  110 

A  hearty  welcome. 

Alon.  Whether  thou  be  'st  he  or  no, 

Or  some  enchanted  trifle  to  abusei"  me, 
As  late  I  have  been,  I  not  know:    thy  pulse 
Beats,  as  of  flesh  and  blood;    and,  since  I  saw 

thee, 
The  affliction  of  my  mind  amends,  with  which, 
1  fear,  a  madness  held  me:    this  must  crave — 
An  if  this  be  at  all — a  most  strange  story. 
Thy  dukedom  I  resign,  and  do  entreat 
Thou  pardon  me  my  wrongs. — But  how  should 

Prospero 
Be  living  and  be  here? 

Pros.  First,  noble  friend,      120 

Let  me  embrace  thine  age,  whose  honour  cannot 
Be  measured  or  confined, 

Gon.  Whether  this  be 

Or  be  not,  I  '11  not  swear. 

Pros.  You  do  yet  taste 

Some  subtiltiesii  o'  the  isle,  that  will  not  let 

you 
Believe  things  certain.    Welcome,  my  friends  all ! 
[Aside  to  Seb.  and  Ant.]    But  you,  my  brace 

of  lords,  were  I  so  minded, 
I   here   could   pluck  his   highness'   frown   upon 

you, 
And  ju8tifyi2  you  traitors:    at  this  time 
I  will  tell  no  tales. 

See.         [Aside]  The  devil  speaks  in  him. 

Pros.  No. 


lO  decPlve 

iiBtranKf  concootlnns 


1 2  i)rovc 


WILLIAM  SHAKESFEABE 


189 


For  you,  most  wicked  sir,  whom  to  call  brother  j 
Would  even  infect  ray  mouth,  I  do  forgive     131  i 
Thy  rankest  fault, — all  of  them;     and  require  j 
My  dukedom  of  thee,  which  perforce,  I  know, 
Thou  must  restore. 

Alon.  If  thou  be'st  Prospero, 

Give  us  particulars  of  thy  preservation; 
How   thou  hast  met  us  here,  who  three  hours 

since 
Were  wreck 'd  upon  this  shore;    where  I  have 

lost- 
How  sharp  the  {joint  of  this  remembrance  is! — 
My  dear  son  Ferdinand. 
Pkos.  I  am  woe  for  't,  sir. 

Alox.     Irreparable  is  the  loss,    and  patience 
Says  it  is  past  her  cure. 

Pkos.  I  rather  think  141 

You  have  not  sought  her  help,  of  whose  soft 

grace 
For  the  like  loss  I  have  her  sovereign  aid. 
And  rest  myself  content. 

Alon.  You  the  like  loss! 

Pros.     As   great   to   me   as  late;     and,  sup- 
portable 
To   make  the   dear   loss,   have   I   means  much 

weaker 
Than  you  may  call  to  comfort  you,  for  I 
Have  lost  my  daughter. 

Alon.  a  daughter? 

O  heavens,  that  they  were  living  both  in  Naples, 
The  king  and  queen  there!     that  they  were,  I 

wish 
Myself  were  mudded  in  that  oozy  bed  151 

Where  my  son  lies.     When  did  yon  lose  your 
daughter? 
Pros.     In  this  last  tempest.    T  perceive,  these 
lords 
At  this  encounter  do  so  much  admire,i3 
That  they  devour  their  reason,  and  scarce  think 
Their  eyes  do  offices  of  truth,  their  words 
Are  natural  breath:    but,  howsoe'er  you  have 
Been  justled  from  your  senses,  know  for  certain 
That  I  am  Prospero,  and  that  very  duke 
Which  was  thrust  forth  of  Milan;    who  most 
strangely  160 

Upon  this  shore,  where  you  were  wreck 'd,  was 

landed. 
To  be  the  lord  on  't.    No  more  yet  of  this ; 
For  'tis  a  chronicle  of  day  by  day, 
Not  a  relation  for  a  breakfast,  nor 
Befitting  this  first  meeting.    Welcome,  sir; 
This     cell's     my     court:     here     have     I     few 

attendants, 
And  subjects  none  abroad :   pray  you,  look  in. 
My  dukedom  since  you  have  given  me  again, 
I  will  requite  you  with  as  good  a  thing; 

13  wonder 


At  least  bring  forth  a  wonder,  to  content  ye     170 
As  much  as  me  my  dukedom. 

Here   Prospero  discovers   Ferdinand  and 
Miranda  playing  at  chess. 

MiK.    "Sweet  lord,  you  play  me  false. 

Feb.  No,  my  dear  'st  love, 

I  would  not  for  the  world. 

MiK.     Yes,i*    for   a   score   of  kingdoms   you 
shouldij  wrangle, 
And  I  would  call  it  fair  play. 

Alon.  If  this  prove 

A  vision  of  the  island,  one  dear  son 
Shall  I  twice  lose. 

Seb.  a  most  high  miracle! 

Fer.     Though    the    seas    threaten,    they    are 
merciful ; 
I  have  cursed  them  without  cause.  [Kneels. 

Alon.  Now  all  the  blessings 

Of  a  glad  father  compass  thee  about!  180 

Arise,  and  say  how  thou  camest  here. 

MiK.  O,  wonder! 

How  many  goodly  creatures  are  there  here! 
How    beauteous    mankind    is!      O    brave    new 

world. 
That  has  such  people  in  't! 

Pros.  'Tis  new  to  thee. 

Alon.     What  is  this  maid  with  whom  thou 
wast  at  play? 
Your  eld  'st  acquaintance  cannot  be  three  hours : 
Is  she  the  goddess  that  hath  sever 'd  us, 
And  brought  us  thus  together  ? 

Fer.  Sir,  she  is  mortal; 

But  by  immortal  Providence  she 's  mine : 
I  chose  her  when  1  could  not  ask  my  father       100 
For  his  advice,  nor  thought  I  had  one.    She 
Is  daughter  to  this  famous  Duke  of  Milan, 
Of  whom  so  often  I  have  heard  renown. 
But  never  saw  before;    of  whom  I  have 
Eeceived  a  second  life;    and  second  father 
This  lady  makes  him  to  me. 

Alon.  I  am  hers: 

But.  O,  how  oddly  will  it  sound  that  I 
Must  ask  my  child  forgiveness ! 

Pros.  There,  sir,  stop: 

Let  us  not  burthen  our  remembrances  with 
A  heaviness  that's  gone. 

GON.  I  have  inly  wept,       200 

Or  should   have   spoke   ere   this.     Look   down, 

you  gods, 
And  on  this  couple  drop  a  blessed  crown! 
For  it  is  you  that  have  chalk  'd  forth  the  way 
Which  brought  us  hither. 

Alon.  I  say.  Amen,  Gonzalo! 

GON.     Was  MUan  thrust  from  Milan,  that  his 
issue 


14  Supply 
then  ?■ 


"but      what 


15  might 


190 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


Should  become  kings  of  Naples?    O,  rejoice 
Beyond  a  common  joy!    and  set  it  down 
With  gold  on  lasting  pillars:    In  one  voyage 
Did  Claribel  her  husband  find  at  Tunis, 
And  Ferdinand,  her  brother,  found  a  wife      210 
Whore  he  himself  was  lost,  Prospero  his  duke- 
dom 
In  a  poor  isle,  and  all  of  us  ourselves 
When  no  man  was  his  own. 
Alon.       [To  Fer.  and  Mir.]  Give  me  your 

han  Is: 
Let  grief  and  sorrow  still  embrace  his  heart 
That  doth  not  wish  you  joy! 
GON.  Be  it  so!    Amen! 

Be-enter    Ariel    with    the    Master    and 
Boatswain  amazedly  following. 
O,  look,  sir,  look,  sir !    here  is  more  of  us : 
I  prophesied,  if  a  gallows  were  on  land. 
This  fellow  could  not  drown.     Now,  blasphemy, 
That  swear  'st  grace  o  'erboard,  not  an  oath  on 

shore  ? 
Hast  thou   no   mouth   by   land?     What   is  the 

news  ? 
Boats.     The    best    news    is,    that    we    liavo 

safely  found  221 

Our  king  and  company;    the  next,  our  ship — 
Which,    but    three   glasses   since,   we   gave    out 

split — 18 
Is  tight  and  yare  and  bravely  rigged,  as  when 
We  first  put  out  to  sea. 

Ari.  [Aside  to  Pros.]  Sir,  all  this  service 

Have  I  done  since  I  went. 

Pros.  [Aside  to  Ari.]  My  tricksy  spirit! 

Ai.ON.     These  are  not  natural  events;    they 

strengthen 
From  strange  to  stranger.     Say,  how  came  you 

hither? 
Boats.     If    I    did    think,    sir,    I    were    well 

awake, 
I  'Id  strive  to  tell  you.    We  were  dead  of  sleep, 
And — how    we    know    not — all    clapp'd    under 

hatches ;  231 

Where,  but  even  now,  with  strange  and  several 

noises 
Of  roaring,  shrieking,  howling,  jingling  chains, 
And  mo  diversity  of  sounds,  all  horrible, 
We  were  awaked ;  straightway,  at  liberty ; 
Where  we,  in  all  her  trim,  freshly  beheld 
Our  royal,  good,  and  gallant  ship;    our  master 
Capering  to  eye  her: — on  a  trice,  so  please  you, 
Even  in  a  dream,  were  we  divided  from  them. 
And  were  brought  moping  hither.  239 

Ari.  [Aside  to  Pros.]  Was  't  well  done? 

Pros.     [Aside  to  Ari.]  Bravely,  my  diligence. 

Thou  shalt  be  free. 

i«  declared  wrecked 


Axon.    This  is  as  strange  a  maze  as   e'er 

men  trod; 
And  there  is  in  this  liusiuess  more  than  nature 
Was  ever  conduct'-  of:    some  oracle 
Must  rectify  our  knowledge. 

Pros.  Sir,  my  liege. 

Do  not  infestis  your  mind  with  beating  on 
The   strangeness   of   this   business;     at    pick'd 

leisure 
Which  shall  be  shortly,  single  I'll  resolve  you,'" 
Wliich  to  you  shall  seem  probable,  of  every 
These     hajipen'd     accidents;     till     when,     be 

cheerful, 
And  think  of  each  thing  well.     [Aside  to  Ari.] 

Come  hither,  spirit:  251 

Set  Caliban  and  his  companions  free; 
Untie  the  spell.     [Exit  Ariel.]     How  fares  my 

gracious  sir? 
There  are  yet  missing  of  your  company 
Some  few  odd  lads  that  you  remember  not. 
Rr-enter  Ariel,  driving  in  Caliban,  Stephano, 

and  Trixculo,  in  their  stolen  apparel. 
Ste.     Every  man  shift  for  all  the  rest,  and 
let  no  man  take  care  for  himself ;  20  for  all  is  but 
fortune. — Coragio,  bully-monster,  coragio! 

Trin.     If  tlioso  be  true  spies  which  I  wear  in 

my  head,  here's  a  goodly  sight.  260 

Cal.     O     Setebos,    these    be    brave    spirits 

indeed ! 
How  fine  my  master  is!     I  am  afraid 
He  will  chastise  me. 

See.  Ha,  ha! 

What  things  are  these,  my  lord  Antonio? 
Will  money  buy  'em? 

Ant.  Very  like;    one  of  them 

Is  a  plain  fish,  and,  no  doubt,  marketable. 
Pros.     Mark  but  the  badges-i  of  these  men, 

my  lords, 
Then    say   if   they   be   true.      This   mis-shapen 

knave, 
His  mother  was  a  witch ;    and  one  so  strong 
That  could  control  the  moon,  make  flows  and 

ebbs,  270 

And  deal  in  her  command,  without^-'  her  power. 
These  three  have  robb'd  me;    and  this  demi- 

devil — 
For  he's  a  bastard  one — had  plotted  with  them 
To  take  my  life.     Two  of  these  fellows  you 
Must  know  and  own;    this  thing  of  darkness  I 
Acknowledge  mine. 

Cal.  I  shall  be  i)inch'd  to  death. 

Alon.     Is    not    this    Stephano,    ray    drunken 

butler? 


17  conductor 

18  trouble 

18  give  you  explanation 

20  A     drunkenly     d  1  s  • 

torted    spopch. 


21  1.    0..    the   stolen    ap- 

parel 

22  art  in  her  place,  be- 

yond 


BEN  JONSON 


191 


Seb.     He  is  (hunk  now:    where  had  he  winef 
Alox.     And  Trinculo  is  reeling  ripe:    where 
should  they 
Find  this  grand  liquor  that  hath  gilded   'em? — 
How  earnest  thou  in  this  piekle?  :iSl 

Trix.     I  have  been  in  such  a  pickle  since  1 
saw  you  last,  that,  I  fear  me,  will  never  out 
of  my  bones:    I  shall  not  fear  fly-blowing. 
Seb.     Why.  how  now,  Stephano! 
Ste.     O,  touch  me  not; — I  am  not  Stephano, 
but  a  cramp. 

Pros.     You  'Id  be  king  o'  the  isle,  sirrah? 
Ste.     1  should  have  been  a  sore  one,  then. 
Alox.     This    is   a   strange   thing   as   o'er    1 
lookM  on.  [Pointing  to  Calibax. 

Pros.     He  is  as  disproportion  'd  in  his  man- 
ners. 290 
As  in  his  shape.    Go,  sirrah,  to  my  cell; 
Take  with  you  your  companions;    as  you  look 
To  have  my  pardon,  trim  it  handsomely. 

Cal.     Ay,    that    I    will;     and    I'll    be    wise 
hereafter. 
And  seek  for  grace.     What  a  thrice-double  ass 
Was  I,  to  take  this  druukard  for  a  god. 
And  worship  this  dull  fooil 
Pros.  Go  to;    away! 

Alox.     Hence,    and    bestow    your    luggage 

where  you  found  it. 
Seb.     Or  stole  it,  rather. 

[Exeunt  Cal.,  Ste.,  and  Trix. 

Pros.     Sir,  I  invite  your  Highness  and  your 

train  '  300 

To  my  poor  cell,  where  you  shall  take  your  rest 

For   this   one   night;     which,   part   of   it,    I'll 

waste 
With    such    discourse    as,    I    not    doubt,    shall 

make  it 
Go  quick  away:    the  story  of  my  life, 
And  the  particular  accidents  gone  by 
Since  I  came  to  this  isle:    and  in  the  mom 
I'll  bring  you  to  your  ship,  and  so  to  Naples, 
Where  1  have  hope  to  see  the  nuptial 
Of  these  our  dear-beloved  solemnized; 
And  thence  retire  me  to  my  Milan,  where      310 
Every  third  thought  shall  be  my  grave. 

Alox.  I  long 

To  hear  the  story  of  your  life,  which  must 
Takers  the  ear  strangely. 

Pros.  ni  deliver  all; 

And  promise  you  calm  seas,  auspicious  gales. 
And  sail  so  expeditious,  that  shall  catch 
Your  royal  fleet  far  off.     [Aside  to  Abi.]     My 

Ariel,  chick, 
That  is  thy  charge:    then  to  the  elements 
B«  free,  and  fare  thou  weU!     Please  you,  draw 
near.  [Exeunt 

23  captivate 


EPILOGUE.* 
Spolen  by  Prospero. 
Now  my  charms  are  all  o'erthrown. 
And  what  strength  I. have's  mine  own. 
Which  is  most  faint:    now,   'tis  true, 
I  must  be  here  confined  by  you. 
Or  sent  to  Naples.    Let  me  not, 
Since  I  have  my  dukedom  got, 
And  pardon 'd  the  deceiver,  dwell 
In  this  bare  island  by  your  spell; 
But  release  me  from  my  bands 
With  the  help  of  your  good  hands:  10 

Gentle  breath  of  yours  my  sails 
.  ifust  fill,  or  else  my  project  fails, 
Which  was  to  please.     Now  I  want** 
Spirits  to  enforce,  art  to  enchant; 
And  my  ending  is  despair, 
Unless  I  be  relieved  by  prayer, 
"Which  pierces  so.  that  it  assaults 
ilerey  itself,  and  frees  all  faults. 
As  you  from  crimes  would  pardon  'd  be, 
Let  your  indulgence  set  me  free.  20 

BEN  JONSON  (I573?-1637) 

TO     THE     MEMOBY     OF    MY     BELOVED 

MASTEE  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEABE 

AND  WHAT  HE  HATH 

LEFT  US.t 

To  draw  no  envy,  Shakespeare,  on  thy  name, 
Am  I  thus  amplei  to  thy  book  and  fame; 

24  lack 

•  ProbaWy  not  writtpn  by  Shakespeare. 


1  liberal 

t  Written  after  Shakespeare's  death,  which  took 
place  in  April.  1616.  Dpaumont  died  in  March 
and  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey  by  the 
side  of  Chaucer  and  Spenser,  where  twenty-one 
years  later  Jonson  himself  was  to  lie.  Shake- 
speare, however,  was  buried  at  Stratford. 
(Eng.  Lit.,  p.  411.)  Lines  19-21  refer  to  the 
following  "Epitaph  on  Shakespeare"  which 
was  written  by  William  Basse : 
'•Renowned  Spenser,  lie  a  thought  more  nigh 
To  learned  Chaucer  ;  and.  rare  Beaumont,  lie 
A  little  nearer  Spenser,  to  make  room 
For    Shakespeare   in   your   threefold,   fourfold 

tomb. 
To  lodge  all  four  In  one  bed  make  a  shift. 
For  until  doomsday  hardly  will  a  fifth. 
Betwixt  this  day  and  that,  by  fates  be  slain. 
For  whom  your  curtains  need  be  drawn  again. 
But  if  precedency  in  death  doth  bar 
A  fourth  place  in  your  sacred  sepulchre, 
Under  this  sable  marble  of  thine  own. 
Sleep,     rare     tragedian,     Shakespeare,     sleep 

alone : 
Thy  unmolested  peace,  in  an  unshared  cave. 
Possess  as  lord,  not  tenant,  of  thy  grave : 
That  unto  us.  and  others,  it  may  be 
Honour  hereafter  to  be  laid  by  thee." 

The  tenor  of  Jonson's  praise  appears  to  be  that 
other  English  pof-ts.  though  great,  are  "dis- 
proportioned."  that  is.  inferior  to  Shake- 
speare ;  his  peers  are  to  be  found  only  among 
the  ancient-s.  though  be  himself  knew  little 
about   them. 


192 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


While  T  confess  thy  writings  to  be  such, 
As  neither  man,  nor  Muse,  can  praise  too  much. 
'Tis  true,  and  all  men's  suffrage.^     But  these 

ways 
Were  not  the  paths  I  meant  unto  thy  praise ; 
For  silliest  ignorance  on  these  may  light, 
Which,    when    it    sounds    at    best,    but   echoes 

right ; 
Or  blind  affection,  which  doth  ne'er  advance 
The    truth,    but    gropes,    and    urgeth    all    by 

chance;  10 

Or  crafty  malice  might  pretend  this  praise, 
And  think  to  ruin,  where  it  seem'd  to  raise. 

But  thou  art  proof  against  them,  and,  indeed, 
Above  the  ill  fortune  of  them,  or  the  need. 
I  therefore  will  begin:     Soul  of  the  age! 
The    applause!     delight!     the   wonder   of    our 

stage ! 
My  Shakespeare  rise!     I  will  not  lodge  thee  by 
Chaucer,  or  Spenser,  or  bid  Beaumont  lie        20 
A  little  further  off,  to  make  thee  room: 
Thou  art  a  monument  without  a  tomb, 
And  art  alive  still,  while  thy  book  doth  live. 
And  we  have  wits  to  read,  and  praise  to  give. 
That  I  not  mix  thee  so,  my  brain  excuses, 
1  mean  with  great,  but  disproportion 'd  Muses: 
For  if  I  thought  my  judgment  were  of  years,3 
1  should  commit  thee  surely  with  thy  peers. 
And  tell  how  far  thou  didst  our  Lyly  outshine. 
Or  sporting  Kyd,  or  Marlowe 's  mighty  line.   30 
And  though  thou  hadst  small  Latin  and  less 

Greek, 
From  thence  to  honour  thee,  I  will  not  seek< 
For  names :  but  call  forth  thund  'ring  .^schylus. 
Euripi<les,  and  Sophocles  to  us, 
Pacuvius,  Accius,  him  of  Cordova  dead,5 
To  live  again,  to  hear  thy  buskino  tread. 
And  shake  a  stage :    or  when  thy  socks^  were  on, 
Leave  thee  alone  for  the  comparison 
Of  all,  that  insolent  Greece,  or  haughty  Eome 
Sent  forth,  or  since  did  from  their  ashes  come. 
Triumph,  my  Britain,  thou  hast  one  to  show,  41 
To  whom  all  scenes  of  Europe  homage  owe. 
He  was  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time! 
And  all  the  Muses  still  were  in  their  prime, 
When,  like  Apollo,  he  came  forth  to  warm 
Our  ears,  or  like  a  Mercury  to  charm! 
Nature  herself  was  proud  of  his  designs, 
And  .joyed  to  wear  the  dressing  of  his  lines! 
Which  wore  so  richly  spun,  and  woven  so  fit, 
As,  since,  she  will  vouchsafe  no  other  wit.       50 


2  verdict 

3  mature 

4  will  not  be  at  a  loss 

5  Three     Roman     tragic 

poets     ( the    Cordo- 
van 1«  Seneon  • 
•  A  high   N>ot    worn  by 


ancient  tragic  act- 
ors :  flgurativp  for 
"tragedy."  I 

T  A    low   shoe   worn   by  i 
ancient  comedians ; 
hence    "comedy." 


The  merry  Greek,  tart  Aristophanes, 

Neat  Terence,  witty  Plautus,  now  not  please; 

But  antiquated  and  deserted  lie, 

As  they  were  not  of  nature's  family. 

Yet  must  I  not  give  nature  all ;    thy  art, 
My  gentle  Shakespeare,  must  enjoy  a  part. 
For  though  the  poet's  matter  nature  be. 
His  art  doth  give  the  fashion:    and,  that  he 
Who  casts  to  write  a  living  line,  must  sweat. 
(Such  as  thine  are)  and  strike  the  second  heat 
Upon  the  Muses'  anvil;    turn  the  same,  61 

And  himself  with  it,  that  he  thinks  to  frame ; 
Or  for  the  laurel,  he  may  gain  a  scorn ; 
For  a  good  poet's  made  as  well  as  born. 
And  such  wert  thou!     Look  how  the  father's 

face 
Lives  in  his  issue,  even  so  the  race 
Of  Shakespeare's  mind  and  manners  brightly 

shines 
In  his  well  turned,  and  true  fil&d  lines; 
In  each  of  which  he  seems  to  shake  a  lance. 
As  brandish  'd  at  the  eyes  of  ignorance.         70 

Sweet  Swan  of  Avon!    what  a  sight  it  were 
To  see  thee  in  our  water  yet  appear, 
And    make    those    flights    upon    the    banks    of 

Thames, 
That  so  did  take  Eliza,8  and  our  James! 
But  stay,  I  see  thee  in  the  hemisphere 
Advanced,  and  made  a  constellation  there! 
Shine  forth,  thou  Star  of  poets,  and  with  rage, 
Or  influence,  chide,  or  cheer  the  drooping  stage. 
Which,    since    thy    flight     from     hence,    hath 

mourn 'd  like  night,  79 

And  despairs  day,  but  for  thy  volume's  light. 

From  VOLPONE;    OR,  THE  FOX 

The  Argument* 

Volpone,  childless,  rich,  feigns  sick,  despairs. 
Offers  his  state  to  hopes  of  several  heirs, 
Lies   languishing:     his   parasite   receives 
Presents  of  all,  assures,  deludes;  then  weaves 
Other   cross   plots,   which    ope    themselves,   are 

told. 
New  tricks  for  safety  are  sought;  they  thrive: 

when   bold. 
Each  tempts  the  other  again,  and  all  are  sold. 

8  captivate  Queen   Elizabeth 

*  This  .Vrgument — which  is  In  the  form  of  an 
acrostic,  the  initial  letters  of  the  seven  lines 
spelling  the  title — gives  in  condensed  form  the 
plot  of  the  play.  The  purpose  is  to  present 
instructively  some  of  the  worst  passions  of 
men.  especially  avarice.  Volpo'ne,  the  rich, 
hvpocritlcal  old  "fox."  assisted  by  his  parasite. 
.Mosca  ("fly"),  amuses  himself  with  di-lnding 
those  who  "hope  to  become  his  heirs,  namely. 
the  advocate  Voltore  ("vulture"),  rorbaccio 
("old  raven"),  etc:  but  all  come  to  grief  in 
the  end.  The  selection  here  printed  consti- 
tutes the  major  portion  of  Act  I.  On  .lonson's 
use  of  "humours."  see  Rnp.  Lit.,  p.  122. 


BEN  JONSON 


193 


10 


Act   L 

Scene    I. — A    Boom    in    Volpone's    House. 
Enter  Volpone  and  Mosca. 

Folpone.    Good    mcrning    to    the    day;    and 
next,  my  gold! 
Open  tbe  shrine,  that  I  may  see  my  sfunt. 

[Mosca  Kithdraws  the  curtain,  and 
discovers    piles    of    gold,    plate, 
jewels,  etc. 
Hail  the  world 's  soul,  and  mine !  more  glad 

than  is 
The  teeming  earth  to  see  the  longed-for  sun 
Peep  through  the  horns  of  the  celestial  Bami 
Am  I,  to  view  thy  splendour  darkening  his; 
That  lying  here,  amongst  my  other  hoards, 
Show'st  like  a  flame  by  night,  or  like  the  day 
Struck  out  of  chaos,  when  all  darkness  fled 
Unto  the  centre.     O  thou  son  of  Sol, 
But  brighter  than  thy  father,  let  me  kiss. 
With  adoration,  thee,  and  every  relic 
Of  sacred  treasure  in  this  blessed  room.         20 
Well  did  wise  poets,  by  thy  glorious  name, 
Title  that  age  which  they  would  have  the  best ; 
Thou  being  the  best  of  things;  and  far  tran- 
scending 
All  style  of  joy,  in  children,  parents,  friends, 
Or  any  other  waking  dream  on  earth: 
Thy  looks  when  they  to  Venus  did  ascribe. 
They  should  have  given  her   twenty  thousand 

Cupids ; 
Such  are  thy  beauties  and  our  loves!  Dear  saint. 
Riches,    the    dumb    god,    that    giv'st    all    men 

tongues, 
That  canst  do  nought,  and  yet  mak'st  men  do 
all  things;  30 

The  price  of  souls;  even  hell,  with  thee  to  boot. 
Is  made  worth  heaven.  Thou  art  virtue,  fame. 
Honour,  and  all  things  else.    Who  can  get  thee, 

He  shall  be  noble,  valiant,  honest,  wise 

Mos.     And  what  he  will,  sir.    Eiches  are  in 
fortune 
A  greater  good  than  wisdom  is  in  nature. 

Volp.    True,  my  beloved  Mosca.   Yet  I  glory 
More  in  the  cunning  purchase  of  my  wealth. 
Than  in  the  glad  possession,  since  I  gain 
No  common  way ;  I  use  no  trade,  no  venture ;  -10 
I  wound   no   earth   with   ploughshares,   fat  no 

beasts 
To  feed  the  shambles;  have  no  mills  for  iron. 
Oil,  corn,  or  men,  to  grind  them  into  powder: 
I  blow  no  subtle  glass,  expose  no  ships 
To  threat 'nings  of  the  furrow-faced  sea; 
I  turn  no  monies  in  the  public  bank. 
Nor  usure  private.2     .... 

1  The   first  sign   of  the      2  practicp      no      private 
zodiac,  ascendant  at  usarj 

the  vernal  equinox. 


50 


What  should 'I  do. 

But  cocker  up^  my  genius,  and  live  free 

To  all  delights  my  fortune  caUs  me  tot 

I  have  no  wife,  no  parent,  child,  ally, 

To  give  my  substance  to ;  but  whom  I  make 

Must  be  my  heir;  and  this  makes  men  observe 

me: 
This  draws  new  clients  daily  to  my  house. 
Women  and  men  of  every  sex  and  age, 
That  bring  me  presents^  send  me  plate,  coin, 

jewels. 
With  hope  that  when  I  die  (which  they  expect 
Each  greedy  minute)  it  shall  then  return 
Tenfold  upon  them;  whilst  some,  covetous 
Above  the  rest,  seek  to  engross  me  whole,        60 
And  counter-work  the  one  unto  the  other. 
Contend  in  gifts,  as  they  would  seem  in  love: 
All  which  I  suffer,  playing  with  their  hopes. 
And  am  content  to  coin  them  into  profit, 
And  look  upon  their  kindness,  and  take  more. 
And  look  on  that;    still  bearing  them  in  hand,* 
Letting  the  cherry  knock  against  their  lips. 
And  draw  it  by  their  mouths,  and  back  again. — • 
How  now!     .... 

[Knoching  tcitliout. 

Who's  that?     .     .     Look,  Mosca.     .     .  ^0 

Mos.      Tis   Signior   Voltore,   the   advocate; 

I  know  him  by  his  knock. 
Volp.    Fetch  me  my  gown, 
My    furs,    and    night-caps;    say    my    couch    is 

changing. 
And  let  him  entertain  himself  awhile 
Without  i'  the  gallery.     [Exit  Mosca.]     Now, 

now  my  clients 
Begin  their  visitation!     Vulture,  kite, 
Raven,  and  gorcrow,  all  my  birds  of  prey, 
That  think  me  turning  carcase,  now  they  come: 
I  am  not  for  them  yet. 

Be-enter  Mosca,  with  the  gown,  etc. 
How  now!  the  news?  80 

Mos.    A  piece  of  plate,  sir. 
Volp.     Of  what  bigness? 
Mos.     Huge, 
Massy,  and  antique,  with  yoor  name  inscribed, 
And  arms  engraven. 

Volp.     Good!  and  not  a  fox 
Stretched    on    the    earth,    with    fine    delusive 

sleights. 
Mocking  a  gaping  crow?  ha,  Mosca! 
Mos.     Sharp,  sir. 

Volp.    Give  me  my  furs.  90 

[Puts  on  his  sick  dress. 
Why  dost  thou  laugh  so,  man? 

Mos.     I  cannot  choose,  sir.  when  I  apprehend 
Wbat  thoughts  he  has  without  now,  as  he  walks: 


3  pamper 


4  leading  them  on 


194 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


That  this  might  be  the  last  gift  he  should  give; 
That  this  would  fetch  you;  if  you  died  to-day, 
And  gave  him  all,  what  he  should  be  to-morrow ; 
"What    large    return    would    come    of    all    his 

ventures ; 
How  he  should  worshipped  be,  and  reverenced; 
Ride  with  his  furs,  and  foot-cloths;  waited  on 
By  herds  of  fools  and  clients ;  have  clear  Avay    100 
Made  for  his  mule,  as  lettered  as  himself; 
Be  called  the  great  and  learned  advocate: 
And  then  concludes,  there's  nought  impossible, 
Volp.    Yes,  to  be  learned,  Mosca. 
Mos.     O,  no:  rich 
Implies  it.     Hood  an  ass  with  reverend  purple, 
So  you  can  hide  his  two  ambitious  ears, 
And  he  shall  pass  for  a  cathedral  doctor.s 
Volp.     My  caps,  my  caps,  good  Mosca.  Fetch 

him  in. 
Mos.     Stay,    sir;    your    ointment    for    your 
eyes.  no 

Volp.    That's  true; 
Dispatch,  dispatch:  I  long  to  have  possession 
Of  my  new  present. 

Mos.     That,  and  thousands  more, 
I  hope  to  see  you  lord  of. 
Volp.     Thanks,  kind  Mosca. 
Mos.    And  that,  when  I  am  lost  in  blended 
dust. 
And  hundreds  such  as  I  am,  in  succession — 
Volp.     Nay,  that  were  too  much,  Mosca. 
Mos.     You  shall  live  120 

Still  to  delude  these  harpies. 

Volp.     Loving   Mosca ! 
'Tis  well:  my  pillow  now,  and  let  him  enter. 

[Exit  Mosca. 
Now,  my  feigned  cough,  my  phthisic,  and  my 

gout. 
My  apoplexy,  palsy,  and  catarrhs, 
Help,  with  your  forced  functions,  this  my  pos- 
ture. 
Wherein,  this  three  year,  I  have  milked  their 

hopes. 
He   comes;    I  hear  him — Uh!  [coughing.]   uh! 

uh!    uh!    O 

Be-enter    Mosca,    introducing    Voltore   with    a 
piece  of  Plate. 
Mos.     You  still  are  what  you  were,  sir.   Only 

you. 

Of  all  the  rest,  are  he"  commands  his  love,      130 
And  you  do  wisely  to  preserve  it  thus, 
With  early  visitation,  and  kind  notes^ 
Of  your  good  meaning  to  him.  which,  T  knitw, 
f'annot  but  come  most  grateful.     Patron!   sir! 
Here 's  Signior  Voltore  is  come 

0  learned    man    worthy      6  he  that 
to  occupy  the  seat      ^  tokens 
(cathedra)    of    au- 
thority 


[Aside. 


Volp.   [faintly]  What  say  you? 

Mos.     Sir,     Signior    Voltore    is    come    this 
morning 
To   visit  you. 

Volp.     I  thank  him. 

Mos.     And  hath  brought  140 

A  piece  of  antique  plate,  bought  of  St.  Mark,* 
With  which  he  here  presents  you. 

Volp.     He  is  welcome. 
Pray  him  to  come  more  often. 

Mos.     Yes. 

Volt.     What  says  he? 

Mos.     He  thanks  you,  and  desires  you  to  see 
him  often. 

Volp.     Mosca. 

Mos.     My  patron! 

Volp.     Bring  him  near,  where  is  he?         150 
I  long  to  feel  his  hand. 

Mos.     The  plate  is  here,  sir. 

Volt.     How  fare  you,  sir? 

Volp.     1  thank  you,  Signior  Voltore; 
Where  is  the  plate?  mine  eyes  are  bad. 

Volt,  [putting  it  into  his  hands.]     I'm  sorry 
To  see  you  still  thus  weak. 

Mos.     That  he's  not  weaker. 

Volp.     You;  are  too  munificent. 

Volt.     No,   sir;   would   to   heaven,  160 

I   could   as   well   give  health   to   you,    as   that 
plate ! 

Volp.     You  give,  sir,  what  you  can;  T  thank 
you.     Your  love 
Hath    taste   in    this,    and    shall   not   be  unan- 
swered: 
I  pray  you  see  me  often. 

Volt.     Yes,  I  shall,  sir. 

Volp.     Be  not  far  from  me. 

Mos.     Do  you  observe  that,  sir? 

Volp.     Hearken   unto  me  still;    it  will  con- 
cern you. 

Mos.    You  are  a  happy  man,  sir;  know  your 
good.  170 

Volp,     I  cannot  now  last  long 

Mos.     You  are  his  heir,  sir. 

Volt.     Am  I? 

Volp.     I  feel  me  going:  Uh!  uh!  uh!  uh! 
I  'm  sailing  to  my  port,  Uh !  uh !  uh !  uh ! 
And  I  am  glad  I  am  so  near  my  haven. 

Mos.    Alas,  kind  gentleman!     Well,  we  must 
all  go 

Volt.    But,  Mosca 

Mos.     Age  will  conquer. 

Volt.     Pray  thee,  hear  me; 
Am  I  inscribed  his  heir  for  certain? 

Mos.    Are  you! 
I  do  beseech  you,  sir,  you  will  vouchsafe 

8  The  great  square  and  mart  of  Venice. 


180 


BEN  JONSON 


195 


200 


To  write  me  in  your  faimly.»     All  my  hopes 
Depend  upon  your  worship:  I  am  lost 
Except  the  rising  sun  do  shine  on  me. 

Volt.     It  shall   both   shine,   and  warm  thee, 

Mosca. 
Mos.     Sir. 
I  am  a  man  that  hath  not  done  your  love 
All  the  worst  oflBces :  here  I  wear  your  keys,  190 
See  all  your  coffers  and  your  caskets  locked, 
Keep  the  poor  inventory  of  your  jewels, 
Your  plate,  and  monies;  am  your  steward,  sir, 
Husband  your  goods  here. 
Volt.    But  am  I  sole  heir? 
Mos.     "Without  a  partner,  sir:  confirmed  this 
morning: 
The  wax  is  warm  yet,  and  the  ink  scarce  dry 
Upon  the  parchment. 

Volt.     Happy,  happy  me! 
By  what  good  chance,  sweet  Mosca? 

Mos.     Your  desert,  sir; 
I  know  no  second  cause. 

Volt.     Thy  modesty 
Is  not  to  know  itio;    well,  we  shall  requite  it. 
Mos.     He  ever  liked  your  course,  sir;    that 
first  took  him. 
I  oft  have  heard  him  say  how  he  admired 
Men  of  your  large  profession,  that  could  speak 
To  every  cause,  and  things  mere  contraries, 
Till  they  were  hoarse  again,  yet  all  be  law; 
That,  with  most  quick  agility,  could  turn,  •  210 
And  return ;  make  knots,  and  undo  them ;  | 

Give  forked  counsel;    take  provoking^  gold 
On  either  hand,  and  put  it  upi^;    these  men, 
He  knew,  would  thrive  with  their  humility. 
And.  for  his  part,  he  thought  he  should  be  blest 
To  have  his  heir  of  such  a  suffering  spirit, 
So  wise,  80  grave,  of  so  perplexed  a  tongue, 
And    loud    withal,    that    would    not    wag,    nor 

scarce 
Lie  still,  Avithout  a  fee;  when  every  word 
Your  worship  but  lets  fall,  is  a  chequinis!     220 
[Knocking  withaut. 
"Who 's  that  ?  one  knocks ;  I  would  not  have  you 

seen.  sir. 
And  yet — pretend  you  came,  and  went  in  haste; 
I'll  fashion  an  excuse — and,  gentle  sir, 
"VN'hen  you  do  come  to  swim  in  golden  lard, 
Up  to  the  arms  in  honey,  that  your  chin 
Is  borne  up  stiff  with  fatness  of  the  flood, 
Think  on  your  vassal;  but  remember  me: 
I  have  not  been  your  worst  of  clients. 
Volt.     Mosca! — 

Mos.    "When    will   you  have   your   inventory 
brought,  sir!  230 

» engage    me    as    your  ii  alluring 

servant  12  pouch   it 

le  it   is   vour   modesty  1 3  sequin  :    an    Italian 

that  speaks  thus  coin  worth  about  9s 


Or  see  a  copy  of  the  Will? — Anom*!  — 
I'll  bring  them  to  you,  sir.     Away,  begone. 
Put  business  in  your  face.  [Exit  "Voltore. 

Volp.[springing  up.]    Excellent  Mosca! 
Come  hither,  let  me  kiss  thee. 

Mos.     Keep  you  still,  sir. 
Here  is  Corbaccio. 

Volp.     Set  the  plate  away: 
The  vulture's  gone,  and  the  old  raven's  come. 

Mos.    Betake  you  to  your  silence,  and  your 

sleep.  240 

Stand  there  and  multiply.     [Putting  the  plate 

to  the  rest.]     Now  we  shall  see 
A  wretch  who  is  indeed  more  impotent 
Than  tliis  can  feign  to  be;  yet  hopes  to  hop 
Over  his  grave. 

Enter  Corbaccio. 
Signior  Corbaccio! 
You're  very  welcome,  sir. 

Corb.     How  does  your  patron? 

Mos.     Troth,  as  he  did,  sir,  no  amends. 

Corb.     "What!    mends  he? 

Mos.     No,  sir:  he's  rather  worse. 

Corb.     That's  well.     Where  is  he?  250 

If  OS.     Upon    his    couch,    sir,    newly    fall'n 
asleep. 

Corb.     Does  he  sleep  well? 

Mos.     No  wink,  sir,  all  this  night, 
Nor  yesterday;  but  slumbers. 

Corb.     Good!  he  should  take 
Some   counsel  of   physicians:    I   have    brought 

him 
An  opiate  here,  from  mine  own  doctor. 

Mos.     He  will  not  hear  of  drugs. 

Corb.     "Why?     I  myself 
Stood  by  while  it  was  made,  saw   all  the  in- 
gredients ;  260 
And  know  it  cannot  but  most  gently  work: 
My  life  for  his,    'tis  but  to  make  him  sleep. 

Volp.     Ay,  his  last  sleep,  if  he  would  take  it. 

Mos.     Sir,  t^*'*^^- 

He  has  no  faith  in  physic. 

Corb.     Say  you,  say  you? 

Mos.    He  has  no  faith   in  physic:    he   does 
think 
Most  of  your  doctors  are  the  greater  danger. 
And  worse  disease,  to  escape.    I  often  have 
Heard  him  protest  that  youris  physician        270 
Should  never  be  his  heir. 

Corb.     Not  I  his  heir? 

Mos.    Not  your  physician,  sir. 

Cor6.     O,  no,  no,  no. 
I  do  not  mean  it. 

Mos.     No,  sir,  nor  their  fees 
He  cannot  brook:  he  says  they  flay  a  man 

14  at  once  (addressed  to  the  one  knocking) 

15  a 


196 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


Before  they  kill  him. 

Corb.     Eight,  I  do  conceive  you. 

Mos.    And  then  they  do  it  by  experiment ;     280 
For  which  the  law  not  only  doth  absolve  them, 
But  gives  them  great  reward:  and  he  is  loth 
To  hire  his  death  so. 

Corb.     It  is  true,  they  kill 
With  as  much  licence  as  a  judge. 

Mos.     Nay,    more ; 
For  he  but  kills,  sir,  where  the  law  condemns, 
And  these  can  kill  him  too. 

Corb.    Ay,  or  me; 
Or  any  man.     How  does  his  apoplex?  290 

Is  that  strong  on  him  still? 

Mos.     Most  violent. 
His  speech  is  broken,  and  his  eyes  are  set, 
His  face  drawn  longer  than  'twas  wont 

Corb.     How!  how! 
Stronger  than  he  was  wont? 

Mos.     No,  sir;  his  face 
Drawn  longer  than    'twas  wont. 

Corb.     O,  good! 

Mos.     His  mouth  300 

Is  ever  gaping,  and  his  eyelids  hang. 

Corb.     Good. 

Mos.     A   freezing  numbness  stiffens  all  his 
joints. 
And  makes  the  colour  of  his  flesh  like  lead. 

Corb.      'Tis   good. 

Mos.     His  pulse  beats  slow,  and  dull. 

Corb.     Good  symptoms  still. 

Mos.     And  from  his  brain 

Corb.     I  conceive  you;  good. 

Mos.     Flows  a  cold  sweat,  with  a  continual 
rheum,  310 

Forth  the  resolved ic  corners  of  his  eyes. 

Corb.  Is't  possible?  Yet  I  am  better,  ha! 
How  does  he  with  the  swimming  of  his  head? 

Mos.  O,  sir,  'tis  past  the  scotomy;i7  he  now 
Hath  lost  his  feeling,  and  hath  leftis  to  snort : 
You  hardly  can  perceive  him,  that  he  breathes. 

Corb.     Excellent,  excellent!  sure  I  shall  out- 
last him: 
This  makes  me  young  again,  a  score  of  years. 

Mos.     I  was  a-coming  for  you,  sir. 

Corb.     Has  he  made  his  Will?  320 

What  has  he  given  me? 

Mos.     No,  sir. 

Corb.     Nothing !   ha  ? 

Mos.     He  has  not  made  his  Will,  sir. 

Corb.     Oh,  oh,  oh! 
What  then  did  Voltore,  the  lawyer,  here! 

Mo8.     He  smelt  a  carcase,  sir,  when  he  but 
heard 
My  master  was  about  his  testament; 


i«  relaxed 
17  dizziness 


1  *<  ceased 


As  I  did  urge  him  to  it  for  your  good 

Corb.     He  came  unto  him,  did  he?    I  thought 
so.  330 

Mos,     Yes,  and  presented  him  this  piece  of 
plate. 

Corb.     To  be  his  heir? 

Mos.     I  do  not  know,  sir. 

Corb.     True: 
I  know  it  too. 

Mos.     By  your  own  scale,i9  sir.  [Aside. 

Corb.   Well, 
I  shall  prevent  him  yet.     See,  MoSca,  look. 
Here  I  have  brought  a  bag  Of  bright  chequines, 
Will  quite  weigh  down  his  plate.  340 

Mos.  [taking  the  bag.]    Yea,  marry,  sir. 
This  is  true  physic,  this  your  sacred  medicine; 
No  talk  of  opiates  to^o  this  great  elixir! 

Corb.     'Tis    aurum    palpabile,    if    not    pot- 
abile.2i 

Mos.     It  shall  be  ministered  to  him  in  his 
bowl. 

Corb.     Ay,  do,  do,  do 

Mos.     Most  blessed  cordial! 
This  will  recover  him. 

Corb.     Yes,  do,  do,  do. 

Mos.     I  think  it  were  not  best,  sir.  350 

Corb.     What? 

Mos.     To  recover  him. 

Corb.     O,  no,  no,  no;   by  no  means. 

Mos.     Why,  sir,  this 
Will  work  some  strange  effect,  if  he  but  feel  it. 

Corb.     'Tis  true,  therefore  forbear;  I'll  take 
my  venture: 
Give  me  it  again. 

Mos.     At  no  hand: 22  pardon  me: 
You  shall  not  do  yourself  that  wrong,  sir.     I 
Will  so  advise  you,  you  shall  have  it  all.        360 

Corb.     How? 

Mos.     All,  sir;    'tis  your  right,  your  own;  no 
man 
Can  claim  a  part:    'tis  yours  without  a  rival, 
Decreed  by  destiny. 

Corb.    How,  how,  good  Mosca  f 

Mos.     I'll   tell   you,    sir.      This   fit   he   shall 
recover. 

Corb.     I  do  conceive  you. 

Mos.     And  on  first  advantage 
Of  his  gained  sense,  will  I  rciuiportuno  him 
Unto  the  making  of  his  testament:  370 

And  show  him  this.        [Pointing  to  the  money. 

Corb.     Good,  good. 

Mos.      'Tis  better  yet, 
If  you  will  hear,  sir. 

i»  Judging  him  by  yourself 

20  coinnarod   to 

21  (iold  tliat  cnn  )>•>  felt,  (hough  not  drunlc  (potable 

gold  was  believed  to  havo  mrdicinal  value). 
32  by  DO  means 


BEAUMO^•r  AND   FLETCHEE. 


197 


Corb.     Yes,  with  all  my  heart. 
Mos.  Now  would  I  counsel  you,  make  home 
with  speed; 
There,  frame  a  Will ;  whereto  you  shall  inscribe 
My  master  your  sole  heir. 

Corb.     And  disinherit 
My  son!  380 

Mos.     O,  sir,  the  better:    for  that  colour^s 
Shall  make  it  much  more  taking. 
Corb.    O,  but  colour! 
Mos.     This  Will,  sir,  you  shall  send  it  unto 

me. 
Now,  when  I  come  to  inforce,  as  I  will  do, 
Your   cares,   your   watchings,   and   your   many 

prayers. 
Your  more  than  many  gifts,  your  this  day's 

present, 
And  last,  produce  your  Will;   where,  without 

thought. 
Or  least  regard,  unto  your  proper  issue, 
A   son   so   brave,   and   highly  meriting.  390 

The  stream  of  your  diverted  love  hath  thrown 

you 
Upon  my  master,  and  made  him  your  heir: 
He  cannot  be  so  stupid,  or  stone-dead. 

But  out  of  conscience  and  mere  gratitude 

Corb.     He  must  pronounce  me  his? 
Mos.      'Tis  true. 
Corb.      This   plot 
Did  I  think  on  before. 
Mos.    I  do  believe  it. 
Corb.     Do  you  not  believe  it? 
Y''es,  sir. 

Mine  own  project. 
Which,  when  he  hath  done,  sir- 
Published  me  his  heir? 


400 


Mos, 

Corb. 

Mos. 

Corb. 

Mos. 

Corb. 

Mos. 

Corb. 

Mos. 

Corb. 


And  you  so  certain  to  survive  him 

Ay. 

Being  so  lusty  a  man 

Tis  true. 

Y^es,  sir 

I  thought  on  that  too.     See,  how  he 
should  be  410 

The  very  organ  to  express  my  thoughts! 
Mos.     You   have   not   only   done  yourself   a 

good 

Corb.    But  multiplied  it  on  my  son. 
Mos.     'Tis  right,  sir. 
'    Corb.    Still,  my  invention. 

Mos.      'Las,  sir!   heaven  knows, 
It  hath  been  all  my  study,  all  my  care. 
(I    e'en    grow    gray    withal,)     how    to    work 

things 

Corb.    I  do  conceive,  sweet  Mosca. 
Mos.     You  are  he  420 

For  whom  I  labour  here. 

23  pretence 


Corb.     Ay,  do,  do,  do: 
I'll  straight  about  it.  [Going. 

Mos.     Kook  go  with  you,  raven  12*       [Aside. 
Corb.    I  know  thee  honest. 
Mos.     Y'ou  do  lie,  sir! 

Cor6.     And 

Mos.    Y'our  knowledge  is  no  better  than  your 

ears,  sir. 
Corb,    I  do  not  doubt  to  be  a  father  to  thee. 
Mos.     Nor  I  to  guJl  my  brother  of  his  bless- 
ing. 430 
Cor6.    I  may  have  my  youth  restored  to  me, 

why  not? 
Mos.     Your  worship  is  a  precious  ass! 
Corb.     What  sayest  thou? 
Mos.    I  do  desire  your  worship  to  make  haste, 

sir. 
Corb.      'Tis  done,  'tis  done;    I  go.  [Exit. 

Volp.   [leaping  from  his  couch.]    O,  I  shall 
burst ! 

Let  out  my  sides,  let  out  my  sides 

Mos.     Contain 
Your  flux25  of  laughter,  sir:    you  know   this 

hope 
Is  such  a  bait,  it  covers  any  hook.  440 

Volp.  O,  but  thy  working,  and  thy  placing  it! 
I  cannot  hold;  good  rascal,  let  me  kiss  thee: 
I  never  knew  thee  in  so  rare  a  humour. 

Mos.    Alas,  sir,  I  but  do  as  I  am  taught; 
Follow    your    grave    instructions;     give    them 

words ; 
Pour  oil  into  their  ears,  and  send  them  hence. 
Volp.      'Tis   true,    'tis    true.    What    a    rare 
punishment 
Is  avarice  to  itself! 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER 
(1584-1616)     (1579-1625) 

From    THE    KNIGHT    OF    THE   BURNING 
PESTLE.* 

IXDUCTION. 

Several  Gentlemen  sitting  on  Stooh  upon  the 
Stage.  The  Citizen,  his  Wife,  and  Kalph 
sitting  below  among  the  audience. 

Enter  Speaker  of  the  Prologue. 
S.  of  Prol.    ' '  From  all  that 's  near  the  court, 
from  all  that 's  great, 


24  may  cheat  pursue  you, 
cheat ! 


25  flow 


•  This  play  was  written  and  acted  about  1611. 
Like  Shakespeare's  A  ilidaummer  Xight'a 
Dream,  It  is  made  up  of  diverse  elements — a 
romantic  comedy  and  a  burlesque.  Herein  are 
given  a  few  scenes  of  the  latter,  which  can 
easily   be   detached   from    the   main    plot.      It 


15)8 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


Within  the  compass  of  the  city-walls, 

We  now  have  brought  our  scene " 

Citizen  leaps  on  the  Stage. 

at.     Hold  your  peace,  goodman  boy! 

S.  of  Prol.    What  do  you  mean,  sir? 

at.  That  you  have  no  good  meaning:  this 
seven  yearsi  there  hath  been  plays  at  this 
house,  I  have  observed  it,  you  have  stills  girds 
at  citizens ;  and  now  you  call  your  play  * '  The 
London  Merchant."  Down  with  your  title, 
boy!   down  with  your  title! 

S.  of  Prol.  Are  you  a  member  of  the  noble 
city? 

at.    I  am. 

S.  of  Prol.     And  a  freeman  ?3 

at.     Yea,  and  a  grocer. 

S.  of  Prol.  So,  grocer,  then,  by  your  sweet 
favour,  we  intend  no  abuse  to  the  city. 

at.  No,  sir!  yes,  sir:  if  you  were  not  re- 
solved to  play  the  Jacks,*  Mhat  need  you  study 
for  new  subjects,  purposely  to  abuse  your  bet- 
ters? why  could  not  you  be  contented,  as  well 
as  others,  with  ' '  The  Legend  of  Whittington, ' ' 
or  "The  Life  and  Death  of  Sir  Thomas  Gres- 
ham,  with  the  building  of  the  Koyal  Ex- 
change," or  "The  story  of  Queen  Eleanor, 
with  the  rearing  of  London  Bridge  upon  wool- 
sacks?"! 

JS.  of  Prol.  You  seem  to  be  an  understand- 
ing man:   what  would  you  have  us  do,  sir? 

Cit.  Why,  present  something  notably  in 
honour  of  the  commons^  of  the  city. 

S.  of  Prol.  Why,  what  do  you  say  to  "The 
Life  and  Death  of  fat  Drake,  or  the  Repairing 
of  Fleet  Sewers?" 

at.  I  do  not  like  that;  but  I  will  have  a 
citizen,  and  he  shall  be  of  my  own  trade. 

S.  of  Prol.  Oh,  you  should  have  told  us 
your  mind  a  month  since;  our  play  is  ready 
to  begin  now. 

at.      'Tis  all   one   for  that;    I  will  have  a 

must  be  understood  that  It  was  the  custom 
at  theaters  to  admit  gallants  and  others  who 
liked  to  be  conspicuous,  and  who  were  willing 
to  pay  an  extra  sixpence,  to  seats  on  the 
stage,  where  they  often  abused  their  privilege 
by  Indulging  in  audible  criticism  of  the  play 
and  players.  The  authors  of  the  present  drama 
ingeniously  staged  that  custom  as  a  part  of 
their  own  play  and  took  the  opportunity  to 
satirize  both  the  taste  and  understanding  of 
their  dun(!e-critlcs.  Furthermore,  they  wove 
In  a  burlcHque  upon  the  romantic  extrava- 
gance of  knight-errantry,  present ing  In  Ualph, 
the  grocer's  apprentice,  anotlier  Don  Quixote, 
like  him  whose  Immortal  deedH  had  been  given 
to  the  world's  laughter  but  a  few  years  before. 

1  Supply  "that."  *  play   the  knave    (cp. 

2  always  The    Tempest,    IV., 
8  one  Invested  with  full               1.,  918) 

citizen's  rights  r,  ordinary  cltlzena 

t  These  are  titles  of  old  plays,  more  or  less  dis- 
torted ;  the  reference  to  London  Bridge  Is  a 
lesting  addition.  The  title  proposed  five  lines 
farther  down  Is  of  course  a  jest. 


grocer,  and  he  shall  do  admirable  things. 

S.  of  Prol.    What  will  you  have  him  do? 

at.    Marry,  I  will  have  him 

Wife.   \helo'w.'\     Husband,  husband! 

Falph.   [below.]     Peace,  mistress. 

Wife,  [below.]  Hold  thy  peace,  Ealph;  I 
know  what  I  do,  I  warrant  ye. — Husband,  hus- 
band! 

at.     What  sayest  thou,  cony?6 

Wife  [below.]  Let  him  kill  a  lion  with  a 
pestle,  husband!  let  him  kill  a  lion  with  a 
pestle ! 

Cit.  So  he  shall. — I  '11  have  liim  kill  a  lion 
with  a  pestle. 

Wife,  [below.]  Husband!  shall  I  come  up, 
husband? 

at.  Ay,  cony. — Ralph,  help  your  mistress 
this  way. — Pray,  gentlemen,  make  her  a  little 
room. — I  pray  you,  sir,  lend  me  your  hand  to 
help  up  my  wife:  I  thank  you,  sir. — So. 

[Wife  comes  on  the  Stage. 

Wife.  By  your  leave,  gentlemen  all;  I'm 
something  troublesome:  I'm  a  stranger  here; 
I  was  ne'er  at  one  of  these  plays,  as  they  say, 
before;  but  I  should  have  seen  "Jane  Shore" 
once;  and  my  husband  hath  promised  me,  any 
time  this  twelvemonth,  to  carry  me  to  "The 
Bold  Beauchamps, "  but  in  truth  he  did  not. 
I  pray  you,  bear  Mith  me. 

at.  Boy,  let  my  wife  and  I  have  a  couple  of 
stools,  and  then  begin;  and  let  the  grocer  do 
rare  things.  [Stools  are  brought 

S.  of  Prol.  But,  sir,  we  have  never  a  boy 
to  play  him:  every  one  hath  a  part  already. 

Wife.  Husband,  husband,  for  God's  sake,  let 
Ralph  play  him!  bcshrew  me,  if  I  do  not  think 
he  will  go  beyond  them  all. 

Cit.  Well  remembered,  wife. — Come  up, 
Ralph. — I'll  tell  you,  gentlemen;  let  them  but 
lend  him  a  suit  of  reparel  and  necessaries,^  and, 
by  gad,  if  any  of  them  all  put  him  to  shame, 
I'll  be  hanged. 

[Balph  comes  on  the  Stage. 

Wife.  I  pray  you,  youth,  let  him  have  a 
suit  of  reparel! — I'll  be  sworn,  gentlemen,  my 
husband  tells  you  true:  he  will  act  you  some- 
times at  our  house,  that  all  the  neighbours  cry 
out  on  him ;  he  will  fetch  you  up  a  couraging* 
part  so  in  the  garret,  that  we  are  all  as  feared, 
I  warrant  you,  that  wc  quake  again:  we'll  fear» 
our  children  with  him;  if  they  be  never  so 
unruly,  do  but  cry,  "Ralph  comes,  Ralph 
conies!"  to  them,  and  they'll  be  as  quiet  as 
lambs.— Hold    up   Ihy   head,    Ralph;    slimv    the 

0  rabbit   (a  term  of  en-  say   "apparel   and 

dearnient)  accessories. 

7  The   grocer   means   to       s  valiant 
0  scare 


BEAUMONT   AND   FLETCHER. 


199 


geutlemen  what  thou  canst  do;  speak  a  huff- 
ingio  part;  I  warrant  you,  the  gentlemen  will 
accept  of  it. 

at.     Do,  Balph,  do. 

Balph.     "By  Heaven,  methinks,  it  were  an 
easy  leap 
To   pluck    bright   honour   from   the  pale-faced 

moon; 
Or  dive  into  the  bottom  of  the  sea, 
Where  never  fathom-line  touched  any  ground, 
And  pluck  up  drowned  honour  from  the  lake 
of  hell.  "11 

at.  How  say  you,  gentlemen,  is  it  not  as 
I  told  youf 

Wife.  Nay,  gentlemen,  he  hath  played  be- 
fore, my  husband  says,  Mucedorus,i2  before 
the  wardens  of  our  company. 

at.  Ay,  and  he  should  have  played  Jero- 
nimoi2  with  a  shoemaker  for  a  wager. 

S.  of  Prol.  He  shall  have  a  suit  of  apparel, 
if  he  will  go  in. 

at.  In,  Ealph,  in  Ealph;  and  set  out  the 
grocery  in  their  kind,i3  if  thou  lovest  me. 

[Exit  Ealph. 

Wife.  I  warrant,  our  Ralph  will  look  finely 
when  he 's  dressed. 

S.  of  Prol.    But  what  will  you  have  it  called  ? 

at.     "The  Grocer's  Honour." 

S.  of  Prol.  Methinks  "The  Knight  of  the 
Burning  Pestle"  were  better. 

Wife.  I  '11  be  sworn,  husband,  that 's  as  good 
a  name  as  can  be. 

at.  Let  it  be  so. — ^Begin,  begin;  my  wife 
and  I  will  sit  down. 

S.  of  Prol.     I  pray  you,  do. 

at.  What  stately  music  have  you?  you 
have  shawms? 

S.  of  Prol.    Shawms!  no. 

at.  No!  I'm  a  thief,  if  my  mind  did  not 
givei*  me  so.  Ralph  plays  a  stately  part,  and 
he  must  needs  have  shawms:  I  '11  be  at  the 
charge  of  them  myself,  rather  than  we'll  be 
without  them. 

S.  of  Prol.    So  you  are  like  to  be. 

at.  VThj,  and  so  I  will  be:  there's  two 
shillings; — [Gives  mo)i€i/.'\ — let '^  have  the 
waitsis  of  Southwark;  they  are  as  rare  fellows 
as  any  are  in  England;  and  that  will  fetch 
them  all  o  'er  the  wateris  with  a  vengeance,  as 
if  they  were  mad. 

S.  of  Prol.  You  shall  have  them.  Will  you 
^^it  down,  then  ? 


10  swaggering  ElIzabethaL      com- 

11  Hotspur's  Bpeech  in  1  edy. 

Henry   TV.,    I,    ill.,  i3  proper  garb 

somewhat     dis-  i4  tell 

torted.  15  professional  carolers 

12  A     character    in    an  16  The  Thames. 


.      at.     Ay. — Come,  wife. 

I       Wife.     Sit  you  merry  all,   gentlemen ;    I  'm 

j  bold  to  sit  amongst  you  for  my  ease. 

[atizcn  and  wife  sit  down. 
S.  of  Prol.    ' '  From  all  that 's  near  the  court, 
from  all  that's  great, 
Within  the  compass  of  the  city-walls. 
We  now  ha\-e  brought  our  scene.    Fly  far  from 

hence 
All  private  taxes,i7  immodest  phrases, 
W^hatever  may  but  show  like  vicious! 
For  wicked  mirth  never  true  pleasure  brings, 
But    honest    minds    are    pleased    with    honest 
things. ' ' — 
Thus  much  for  that  we  do;    but  for  Ralph's 
part  you  must  answer  for  yourself. 

at.  Take  you  no  care  for  Ralph;  he'll  dis- 
charge himself,  I  warrant  you. 

[Exit  Speaker  of  Prologue. 
Wife.    I  'faith,  gentlemen,  I  '11  give  my  word 
for  Ralph. 

Act  I,  Scene  III. 

A  Grocer's  Shop. 

Enter  Balph,  as  a  Grocer,  reading  Palmerin  of 
England,!^  with  Tim  and  George. 

[Wife.  Oh,  husband,  husband,  now,  now! 
there's  Ralph,  there's  Ralph. 

at.  Peace,  fool!  let  Ralph  alone. — Hark 
you,  Ralph;  do  not  strain  yourself  too  much  at 
the  first. — Peace! — ^Begin,  Ralph.] 

Ealph.  [Eeads.]  Then  Palmerin  and  Trin- 
eu3,  snatching  their  lances  from  their  dwarfs, 
and  clasping  their  helmets,  galloped  amain  after 
the  giant;  and  Palmerin,  having  gotten  a  sight 
of  him,  came  posting  amain,  saying,  "Stay, 
traitorous  thief!  for  thou  mayst  not  so  carry 
away  her,  that  is  worth  the  greatest  lord  in  the 
world ; ' '  and,  with  these  words,  gave  him  a 
blow  on  the  shoulder,  that  he  struck  him  be- 
sidesi9  his  elephant.  And  Trineus,  coming  to 
the  knight  that  had  Agricola  behind  him,  set 
him  soon  besides  his  horse,  with  his  neck  broken 
in  the  fall;  so  that  the  princess,  getting  out  of 
the  throng,  between  joy  and  grief,  said,  "All 
happy  knight,  the  mirror  of  all  such  as  follow 
arms,  now  may  I  be  well  assured  of  the  love 
thou  bearest  me." — I  wonder  why  the  kings  do 
not  raise  an  army  of  fourteen  or  fifteen  hun- 
dreil  thousand  men,  as  big  as  the  army  that 
the  Prince  of  Portigo  brouglit  against  Rosi- 
cleer,2o  and  destroy  these  giants;  they  do  much 

1 7  personal  hits  is  by  the  side  of 

ISA    Spanish    romance,  20  A    character    in    an- 
then    lately    trans-  other    Spanish    ro- 

tated, mance. 


200 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


hurt  to  wandering  damsels,  that  go  in  quest  of 
their  knights. 

[  Wife.  Faith,  husband,  and  Balph  says  triue ; 
for  they  say  the  King  of  Portugal  cannot  sit 
at  his  meat,  but  the  giants  and  the  ettins-'i 
will  come  and  snatch  it  from  him. 

at.     Hold  thy  tongue.— On,  Ralph!] 

Ralph.  And  certainly  those  knights  are  much 
to  be  commended,  who,  neglecting  their  posses- 
sions, wander  with  a  squire  and  a  dwarf 
through  the  deserts  to  relieve  poor  ladies. 

[Wife.  Ay,  by  my  faith,  are  they,  Ealph; 
let  'em  say  what  they  will,  they  are  indeed. 
Our  knights  neglect  their  possessions  well 
enough,  but  they  do  not  the  rest.]     .     . 

Ealph.  But  what  brave  spirit  could  be  con- 
tent to  sit  in  his  shop,  with  a  flappet^s  of  wood, 
and  a  blue  apron  before  him,  selling  mithri- 
datum  and  dragon 's-water^a  to  visited-*  houses, 
that  might  pursue  feats  of  arms,  and,  through 
his  noble  achievements,  procure  such  a  famous 
history  to  be  written  of  his  heroic  prowess? 

[Cit.  Well  said,  Ealph;  some  more  of  those 
words,  Ralph. 

Wife.     They   go   finely,  by    my   troth.] 

Ealph.  Why  should  not  I,  then,  pursue  this 
course,  both  for  the  credit  of  myself  and  our 
company?  for  amongst  all  the  worthy  books  of 
achievements,  I  do  not  call  to  mind  that  I  yet 
read  of  a  grocer-errant:  I  will  be  the  said 
knight. — Have  you  heard  of  any  that  hath  wan- 
dered unfurnished  of  his  squire  and  dwarf? 
My  elder  prentice  Tim  shall  be  my  trusty 
squire,  and  little  George  my  dwarf.  Hence,  my 
blue  apron!  Yet,  in  remembrance  of  my  for- 
mer trade,,  upon  my  shield  shall  be  portrayed 
a  Burning  Pestle,  and  I  will  be  called  the 
Knight  of  the  Burning  Pestle. 

[Wife.  Nay,  I  dare  swear  thou  wilt  not  for- 
get thy  old  trade;  thou  wert  ever  meek.] 

Ealph.     Tim ! 

Tim.    Anon. 

Ealph.  My  beloved  squire,  and  George  my 
dwarf,  I  charge  you  that  from  henceforth  you 
never  call  me  by  any  other  name  but  * '  the 
right  courteous  and  valiant  Knight  of  the  Burn- 
ing Pestle ; ' '  and  that  you  never  call  any 
female  by  tiie  name  of  a  woman  or  wench,  but 
' '  fair  lady, ' '  if  she  have  her  desires,  if  not, 
"distressed  damsel;"  that  you  call  all  forests 
and  heaths  "deserts,"  and  all  horses  "pal- 
freys. ' ' 

[Wife.  This  is  very  fine,  faith. — Do  the  gen- 
tlemen like  Ralph,  think  you,  husband? 

Cit.    Ay,  I  warrant  thee ;  the  players  would 


21  giants 

22  small    piece    (here 

pestle) 


2a  popular  medicines  of  | 

tlio  time 
24  plagnc-strlrkm 


give  all  the  shoes  in  their  shop  for  him.] 

Ealph.  My  beloved  squire  Tim,  stand  out. 
Admit  this  were  a  desert,  and  over  it  a  knight- 
errant  pricking,25  and  1  should  bid  you  inquire 
of  his  intents,  what  would  you  say? 

Tim.  Sir,  my  master  sent  me  to  knovf 
whither  you  are  riding? 

Ealph.  No,  thus:  "Fair  sir,  the  right 
courteous  and  valiant  Knight  of  the  Burning 
Pestle  commanded  me  to  inquire  upon  what  ad- 
venture you  are  bound,  whether  to  relieve  some 
distressed  damsel,  or  otherwise. ' ' 

[Cit.     Scurvy    blockhead,    cannot    remember! 

Wife.  I 'faith,  and  Ralph  told  him  on't  b'> 
fore:  all  the  gentlemen  heard  him. — Did  he 
not,  gentlemen  ?  did  not  Ralph  tell  him  on 't  '•] 

George.  Right  courteous  and  valiant  Knight 
of  the  Burning  Pestle,  here  is  a  distressed  dart- 
sel  to  have  a  halfpenny-worth  of  pepper. 

[Wife.  That's  a  good  boy!  see,  the  little 
boy  can  hit  it;  by  my  troth,  it's  a  fine  child.] 

Ealph.  Relieve  her,  with  all  courteous  lan- 
guage. Now  shut  up  shop;  no  more  my  pren- 
tices, but  my  trusty  squire  and  dwarf.  I  must 
bespeak26  my  shield  and  arming  pestle. 

[Exeunt  Tim  and  George. 

[Cit.  Go  thy  ways,  Ralph!  As  I 'm  a  true 
man,  thou  art  the  best  on   'em  all. 

Wife.     Ralph,  Ralph! 

Ealph.    What  say  you,  mistress? 

Wife.  I  prithee,  come  again  quickly,  sweet 
Ralph. 

EalpJu    By  and  by.]  [Kxit. 

[Tn  the  main  plot,  Jasper  Merrythought  has 
been  dismissed  by  his  employer  for  falling  in 
love  with  his  employer's  daughter.  His  father 
takes  his  part,  but  his  mother  is  incensed,  and 
taking  her  younger  son,  Michael,  and  her  money 
and  jewels,  she  leaves  her  home,  and  the  two 
are  wandering  in  Waltham  Forest,  when  Ralph 
comes  on  the  scene.] 

Act  II,  Scene  TI. 
Waltham  Forest. 

Enter  Mistress  Merrythought  and  Michael. 

Mist.  Mer.  Come,  Michael ;  art  thou  not 
weary,  boy? 

Mich.     No,   forsooth,   mother,   not   I. 

Mist.  Mer.     Where  be  we  now,  child? 

Mich.  Indeed,  forsooth,  mother,  I  cannot 
tell,  unless  we  be  :it  Mile-End:  Is  not  all  the 
world  Mile-End,  mother? 

yiist.  Mer.  No.  Michael,  not  all  the  world, 
boy;    but  I  can  assure  tliee.  Michael.  Mile-Knd 


25  riding 


2«  ©rder 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


201 


is  a  goodly  matter :  there  has  been  a  pitch-  j 
field,2'  my  child,  between  the  naughty  Spaniels 
and  the  Englishmen;  and  the  Spaniels  ran 
away,  Michael,  and  the  Englishmen  followed: 
my  neighbour  Coxstone  was  there,  boy,  and 
killed  them  all  with  a  birding-piece. 

Mich.     Mother,   forsooth — 

Mist.  Mer.     "What  says  my  white  boyss? 

Mich.     Shall  not  my  father  go  with  us  too! 

Mi^t.  Mer.  No.  Michael,  let  thy  father  go 
snick-up ; -'•>  .  .  let  him  stay  at  home,  and 
sing  for  his  supper,  boy.  Come,  child,  sit  down, 
and  I  '11  show  my  boy  fine  knacks,  indeed. 
[They  sit  down:  and  she  tales  out  a  casket.} 
Look  here,  Michael:  here'i  a  ring,  and  here's 
a  brooch,  and  here'«  a  bracelet,  and  here's  two 
rings  more,  and  here's  money  and  gold  by  th' 
eye,3*>  my  boy. 

Mich.     Shall  I  have  all  this,  mother! 

Mist.  Mer.  Ay.  Michael,  thou  shalt  have  all, 
MichaeL 

[Cit.     How  likest  thou  this,  wench? 

Wife.  I  cannot  tell;  I  would  have  Ralph, 
George;  I'll  see  no  more  else,  indeed,  la;  and 
1  pray  you,  let  the  youths  understand  so  much 
by  word  of  mouth ;  for,  I  tell  you  truly,  I  'm 
afraid  o'  my  boy.  Come,  come,  George,  let's 
be  merry  and  wise :  the  child 's  a  fatherless 
child;  and  say  they  should  put  him  into  a 
strait  pair  of  gaskins,3i  'twere  worse  than  knot- 
grass ;32  he  would  never  grow  after  it.] 
Enter  Balph,  Tim,  and  George. 

[Cit.     Here's  Ralph,  here's  Ralph! 

Wife.  How  do  you  do,  Ralph?  you  are  wel- 
come, Ralph,  as  I  may  say;  it's  a  good  boy, 
hold  up  thy  head,  and  be  not  afraid ;  we  are 
thy  friends,  Ralph;  the  gentlemen  will  praise 
thee,  Ralph,  if  thou  playest  thy  part  with 
audacity.     Begin,  Ralph,  a'  God's  name!] 

Baiph.  My  trusty  squire,  unlace  my  helm; 
give  me  my  hat.  Where  are  we,  or  what  desert 
may  this  be? 

George.  Mirror  of  knighthood,  this  is,  as  I 
take  it,  the  perilous  Waltham-down ;  in  whose 
bottom  stands  the  enchanted  valley. 

Mist.  Mer.  Oh,  Michael,  we  are  betrayed, 
we  are  betrayed!  here  be  giants!  Fly,  boy! 
fly,  boy,  fly! 

[Exit  with  Michael,  leaving  the  caslet. 

Balph.     Lace  on  my  helm  again.    What  noise 
is  this? 
A  gentle  lady,  flying  the  embrace 
Of  some  uncourteous  knight !     I  will  relieve  her. 

27  pitched   battle    (probably    only    a    mock    battle, 

for    the  Spanish    never    fought    the    English 
there) 

28  dear  boy  32  Supposed,   when   tak- 

29  go  hang  en   as   an   infusion. 

30  galore  to  retard  growth. 
81  breeches 


Go,  squire,   and   say,   the   Knight,   that   wears 

this  Pestle 
In  honour  of  all  ladies,  swears  revenge 
Upon  that  recreant  coward  that  pursues  her; 
Go,  comfort  her,  and  that  same  gentle  squire 
That  bears  her  company. 

Tim.     I  go,  brave  knight.  [Exit. 

Balph.     My  trusty  dwarf  and  friend,  reach 
me  my  shield; 
And    hold    it    while    I    swear.      First,    by    my 

knighthood ; 
Then  by  the  soul  of  Amadis  de  Gaul,33 
My  famous  ancestor;    then  by  my  sword 
The  beauteous  Brionella  girt  about  me; 
By  this  bright  burning  Pestle,  of  mine  honour 
The  liA-ing  trophy;    and  by  all  respect 
Due  to  distressed  damsels;    here  I  vow 
Never  to  end  the  quest  of  this  fair  lady 
And  that  forsaken  squire  till  by  my  valour 
I  gain  their  liberty! 

George.     Heaven  bless  the  knight 
That  thus  relieves  poor  errant  gentlewomen! 

[Exeunt. 

[Wife.  Ay,  marry,  Ralph,  this  has  some 
savour  in  't;  I  would  see  the  proudest  of  them 
all  offer  to  carry  his  books  after  him.  But, 
George,  I  will  not  have  him  go  away  so  soon: 
I  shall  be  sick  if  he  go  away,  that  I  shall:  call 
Ralph  again,  George,  call  Ralph  again;  I 
prithee,  sweetheart,  let  him  come  fight  before 
me,  and  let's  ha'  some  drums  and  some  trum- 
pets, and  let  him  kill  all  that  comes  near  him, 
an3*  thou  lov'st  me,  George! 

Cit.  Peace  a  little,  bird:  he  shall  kill  them 
all,  an  they  were  twenty  more  on  'em  than  there 
are.] 

[Jasper  enters  and,  finding  the  casket,  carries 
it  off.] 

Act  it,  Scene  III. 

Another  part  of  the  Forest. 
Enter  Balph  and  George. 
[Wife.     But  here  comes  Ralph,  George;   thou 
■halt  hear  him  speak  as  he  were  an  emperal.] 
Balph.     Comes  not  sir  squire  again? 
George.     Right  courteous  knight. 
Your  squire  doth  come,  and  with  him  comes  the 

lady. 

And  the  Squire  of  Damsels,  as  I  take  it. 

Enter  Tim,  Mistress  Merrythought,  and 

Michael. 

Balph.    Madam,  if  any  service  or  devoirs'- 

Of  a  poor  errant  knight  may  right  your  wrongs. 


;  33  A    hero    of    medieval 
romance,  "Knight 
;  of    the    Burning 

'  Sword." 


34  if 

35  duty 


802 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


Command  it ;    I  am  prestse  to  give  you  succour ; 
For  to  that  holy  end  1  bear  my  armour. 

Mist.  Mer.  Alas,  sir,  I  am  a  poor  gentle- 
woman, and  I  have  lost  my  money  in  this  forest. 

Ralph.     Desert,   you   would    say,    lady;     and 
not  lost 
Whilst  I  have  sword  and  lance.     Dry  up  your 

tears, 
Which  ill  befit  the  beauty  of  that  face. 
And  tell  the  story,  if  I  may  request  it. 
Of  your  disastrous  fortune. 

Mist.  Mer.  Out,  alas!  I  left  a  thousand 
pound,  a  thousand  pound,  e'en  all  the  money  I 
had  laid  up  for  this  youth,  upon  the  sight  of 
your  mastership,  you  looked  so  grim,  and,  as  I 
may  say  it,  saving  your  presence,  more  like  a 
giant  than  a  mortal  man. 

Ralph.  I  am  as  you  are,  lady;  so  are  they; 
All  mortal.    But  why  weeps  this  gentle  squire? 

Mist.  Mer.  Has  he  not  cause  to  weep,  do  you 
think,  when  he  hath  lost  his  inheritance? 

Ralph.     Young  hope  of  valour,  weep  not;    I 
am  here 
That  will  confound  thy  foe,  and  pay  it  dear 
Upon  his  coward  head,  that  dares  deny 
Distressed   squires   and   ladies   equity. 
I  have  but  one  horse,  on  which  shall  ride 
The  fair  lady  behind  me,  and  before 
This    courteous    squire:     fortune    will    give   us 

more 
Upon  our  next  adventure.    Fairly  speed 
Beside  us,  squire  and  dwarf,  to  do  us  need! 

[^Exeunt. 

[Cit.     Did  not  I   tell  you,  Nell,  what  your 

man  would  do  ?  by  the  faith  of  my  body,  wench, 

for  clean  action  and  good  delivery,  they  may  all 

cast  their  caps  at  him. 

Wife.  And  so  they  may,  i'  faith;  for^  I 
dare  speak  it  boldly,  the  twelve  companies^T  of 
London  cannot  match  him,  timber  for  timber. 
Well,  George,  an  he  be  not  inveigled  by  some 
of  these  paltry  players,  I  ha'  much  marvel: 
but,  George,  we  ha'  done  our  parts,  if  the  boy 
have  any  grace  to  be  thankful. 

Cit.     Yes,  I  warrant  thee,  duckling.] 

[Balph  encounters  Jasper,  who  knocks  him 
down  with  his  own  pestle,  whereupon  Ralph  and 
his  party  seek  shelter  at  the  Bell  Inn.] 

Act  it,  Scene  VI. 

Before  the  Bell-Inn,  Waltham. 

Enter   Ralph,   Mistress    Merrythought, 

Michael,  Tim  aiid  George. 

[Wife.    Oh,  husband,  here's  Ralph  again! — 

8«  ready  st  licenced  companies  of 

players 


Stay,  Ralph,  let  me  speak  with  thee.  How 
dost  thou,  Ralph?  art  thou  not  shrewdly  hurt? 
the  foul  great  lungiesi  laid  unmercifully  on 
thee:  there's  some  sugar-candy  for  thee.  Pro- 
ceed; thou  shalt  have  another  bout  with  him. 

Cit.  If  Ralph  had  him  at  the  fencing-school, 
if  he  did  not  make  a  puppy  of  him,  and  drive 
him  up  and  down  the  school,  he  should  ne'er 
come  in  my  shop  more.] 

Mist.  Mer.  Truly,  Master  Knight  of  the 
Burning  Pestle,  I  am  weary. 

Mich.  Indeed,  la,  mother,  and  I  am  very 
hungry. 

Ralph.  Take  comfort,  gentle  dame,  and  your 
fair  squire; 
For  in  this  desert  there  must  needs  be  placed 
Many  strong  castles  held  by  courteous  knights; 
And  till  I  bring  you  safe  to  one  of  those, 
I  swear  by  this  my  order  ne  'er  to  leave  you.  .  . 
George.  I  would  we  had  a  mess  of  pottage 
and  a  pot  of  drink,  squire,  and  were  going  to 
bed! 

Tim.  Why,  we  are  at  Waltham-town 's  end, 
and  that's  the  Bell-Inn. 

George.     Take  courage,  valiant  knight,  dam- 
sel, and  squire! 
I  have  discovered,  not  a  stone's  cast  off, 
An  ancient  castle,  held  by  the  old  knight 
Of  the  most  holy  order  of  the  Bell, 
Wlio  gives  to  all  knights-errant  entertain: 
There  plenty  is  of  food,  and  all  prepared 
By  the  white  hands  of  his  own  lady  dear. 
He   hath    three    squires    that    welcome   all    his 

guests ; 
The  first,  hights  Chamberlino,  who  will  see 
Our  beds  prepared,  and  bring  us  snowy  sheets, 
Wliere   never    footman    stretched    his    buttered 

hams;  3 
The  second,  hight  Tapstero,  who  will  see 
Our  pots  full  filled,  and  no  froth  therein ; 
The  third,  a  gentle  squire,  Ostlero  hight, 
Who    will    our    palfreys    slick    with    wisps    of 

straw. 
And  in  the  manger  put  them  oats  enough. 
And    never    grease    their    teeth    with    candle- 
snuff.** 
[Wife.   That  same  dwarf's  a  pretty  boy,  but 
the  squire's  a  groutnol."] 

Ralph.    Knock  at  the  gates,  my  squire,  with 

stately  lance. 

[Tim  kneels  at  the  door. 

Enter  Tapster. 
Tap.    Who's   there!— You 're   welcome,    gen- 
tlemen: will  you  see  a  room? 


1  lubber 

2  called 

8  Footmen  anointed  their 
cnlvos  with  cronse. 


4  A  trick  to  prevent 

horses  from  eating. 

5  l)lookhead 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHEB. 


203 


George,  fiight  courteous  and  valiant  Knight 
of  the  Burning  Pestle,  this  is  the  Squire  Tap- 
Btero. 

Ralph.    Fair  Squire  Tapstero,  I  a  wandering 
knight, 
Hight  of  the  Burning  Pestle,  in  the  quest 
Of  this  fair  lady 's  casket  and  wrought  purse, 
Losing  myself  in  this  vast  wilderness. 
Am  to  this  castle  well  by  fortune  brought; 
Where,  hearing  of  the  goodly  entertain 
Your  knight  of  holy  order  of  the  Bell 
Gives  to  all  damsels  and  all  errant  knights, 
I  thought  to  knock,  and  now  am  bold  to  enter. 

Tap.  An't  please  you  see  a  chamber,  you 
are  very  welcome.  [Exeunt. 

[Wife.  George,  I  would  have  something 
done,  and  I  cannot  tell  what  it  is. 

C%t.    What  is  it,  NeUf 

Wife.  Why,  George,  shall  Balph  beat  no- 
body again?  prithee,  sweetheart,  let  him. 

at.  So  he  shall,  Nell;  and  if  I  join  with 
him,  we'U  knock  them  alL] 

Act  m,  Scene  II. 

A  Boom  in  the  Bell-Inn,  Waltham. 

Enter  Mistress  Merrythought,  Balph,  Michael, 
Tim,  George,  Host  and  Tapster. 

[Wife.  Oh,  Balph!  how  dost  thou,  Balph? 
How  hast  thou  slept  to-night!  has  the  knight 
used  thee  wellf 

at.   Peace,  Nell;  let  Balph  alone.] 

Tap.    Master,  the  reckoning  is  not  paid. 

Ealph.    Bight  courteous  knight,  who,  for  the 
order's  sake 
Which  thou  hast  ta'en,  hang'st  out   the  holy 

Bell, 
As  I  this  flaming  Pestle  bear  about, 
We  render  thanks  to  your  puissant  self. 
Your  beauteous  lady,  and  your  gentle  squires. 
For  thus  refreshing  of  our  wearied  limbs. 
Stiffened  with  hard  achievements  in  wild  de- 
sert. 

Tap.    Sir,  there  is  twelve  shillings  to  pay. 

Balph.    Thou  merry  Squire  Tapstero,  thanks 
to  thee 
For  comforting  our  souls  with  double  jug: 
And,  if  adventurous  fortune  prick  thee  forth, 
Thou  jovial  squire,  to  follow  feats  of  arms. 
Take  heed  thou  tender«  every  lady's  cause, 
Every  true  knight,  and  every  damsel  fair; 
But  spill  the  blood  of  treacherous  Saracens, 
And  false  enchanters  that  with  magic  spells 
Have  done  to  death  full  many  a  noble  knight. 

Host.    Thou  valiant  Knight  of  the  Burning 

«  cherish 


Pestle,  give  ear  to  me;  there  is  twelve  shillings 
to  pay,  and,  as  I  am  a  true  knight,  I  will  not 
bate  a  penny. 

[Wife.  George,  I  prithee,  tell  me,  must 
Balph  pay  twelve  shillings  now? 

at.  No,  Nell,  no;  nothing  but  the  old 
knight  is  merry  with  Balph. 

Wife.  Oh,  is't  nothing  else?  Balph  will  be 
as  merry  as  he.] 

Balph,    Sir  Knight,  this  mirth  of  yours  be- 
comes you  well; 
But,  to  requite  this  liberal  courtesy, 
If  any  of  your  squires  will  follow  arms, 
He  shall  receive  from  my  heroic  hand 
A  knighthood,  by  the  virtue  of  this  Pestle. 

Host.     Fair  knight,   I   thank  you   for  your 
noble  offer: 
Therefore,  gentle  knight. 

Twelve  shillings  you  must  pay,  or  I  must  cap^ 
you. 

[Wife.  Look,  George!  did  not  I  teU  thee  as 
much?  the  knight  of  the  Bell  is  in  earnest. 
Balph  shall  not  be  beholding  to  him:  give  uim 
his  money,  George,  and  let  him  go  snick  up.s 

at.  Cap  Balph!  no. — Hold  your  hand.  Sir 
Knight  of  the  Bell;  there's  your  money  [gives 
money]:  have  you  any  thing  to  say  to  Balph 
now?    Cap  Balph! 

Wife.  I  would  you  should  know  it,  Balph 
has  friends  that  will  not  suffer  him  to  be  capt 
for  ten  times  so  much,  and  ten  times  to  the 
end  of  that. — Now  take  thy  course,  Ralph.] 

Mist.  Mer.  Come,  Michael;  thou  and  I  will 
go  home  to  thy  father;  he  hath  enough  left  to 
keep  us  a  day  or  two,  and  we'll  set  our  fellows 
abroad  to  cry  our  purse  and  our  casket:  shall 
we,  Michael? 

Mich.  Ay,  I  pray,  mother;  in  truth  my  feet 
are  full  of  chilblains  with  travelling. 

[Wife.  Faith,  and  those  chilblains  are  a 
foul  trouble.  Mistress  Merrythought,  when 
your  youth  comes  home,  let  him  rub  all  the 
soles  of  his  feet,  and  his  heels,  and  his  ankles, 
with  a  mouse-skin;  or,  if  none  of  your  people 
can  catch  a  mouse,  when  he  goes  to  bed  let  him 
roll  his  feet  in  the  warm  embers,  and,  I  war- 
rant you,  he  shall  be  weU.     .     .] 

Mist.  Mer.  Master  Knight  of  the  Burning 
Pestle,  my  son  Michael  and  I  bid  you  farewell: 
I  thank  your  worship  heartily  for  your  kindness. 

Balph.    Farewell,  fair  lady,  and  your  tender 
squire. 
If  pricking  through  these  deserts  I  do  hear 
Of  any  traitorous  knight,  who  through  his  guile 
Hath  light  upon  your  casket  and  your  purse. 
I  will  despoil  him  of  them,  and  restore  them. 


7  arrest 


8  go  bang 


204 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


" .  Mist.  Mer.     I  thank  your  worship. 

[Exit  with  Michael. 
Ralph.    Dwarf,  bear  my  shield;   squire,  ele- 
vate my  lance:  — 
And  now  farewell,  you  Knight  of  holy  Bell. 
[Cit.    Ay,  ay,  Balph,  all  is  paid.] 
Jialph.    But  yet,  before  I  go,  speak,  worthy 
knight. 
If  aught  you  do  of  sad  adventures  know, 
Where  errant  knight  may  through  his  prowess 

win 
Eternal  fame,  and  free  some  gentle  souls 
From  endless  bonds  of  steel  and  lingering  pain. 
Host.   Sirrah,  go  to  Nick  the  barber,  and  bid 
him  prepare  himself,    as    I    told    you    before, 
quickly. 

Tap.     I  am  gone,  sir.  [Exit. 

Host.    Sir  Knight,  this  wilderness  aflfordeth 
none 
But   the  great   venture,   where    full    many    a 

knight 
Hath   tried  his  prowess,   and    come    off    with 

shame; 
And  where  I  would  not  have  youi  lose  your  life 
Against  no  man,  but  furious  fiend  of  hell. 
Balph.    Speak  on,  Sir  Knight;   tell  what  he 
is  and  where: 
For  here  I  vow,  upon  my  blazing  badge, 
Never  to  blaze^  a  day  in  quietness. 
But  bread  and  water  will  I  only  eat, 
And  the  green  herb  and  rock  shall  be  my  couch, 
Till  I  have  quelled  that  man,  or  beast,  or  fiend, 
That  works  such  damage  to  all  errant  knights. 
Host.    Not  far  from  hence,  near  to  a  craggy 
cliff. 
At  the  north  end  of  this  distressed  town, 
There  doth  stand  a  lowly  house, 
Buggedly  builded,  and  in  it  a  cave 
In  which  an  ugly  giant  now  doth  won,io 
Yelepedii  Barbarossa:    in  his  hand 
He  shakes  a  naked  lance  of  purest  steel. 
With   sleeves   turned   up;    and  him   before   he 

wears 
A  motley  garment,  to  preserve  his  clothes 
From  blood  of  those  knights  which  he  massa- 
cres 
And  ladies  gent:  12  without  his  door  doth  hang 
A  copper  basin  on  a  prickantia  spear; 
At  which  no  sooner  gentle  knights  can  knock. 
But  the  shrill  sound  fierce  Barbarossa  hears, 
And  rushing  forth,  brings  in  the  errant  knight, 
And  sets  him  down  in  an  enchanted  chair; 
Then  with  an  engine'*,  which  he  hath  prepared. 
With  forty  teeth,  he  claws  his  courtly  crown; 


0  shine 

10  dwell 

11  called 


i2Kentle,  courteous 
18  pointiDK  upward 
14  Instrument 


Next  makes  him  wink,  and  underneath  his  chin 
He  plants  a  brazen  piece  of  mighty  bordi'"'. 
And  knocks  his  bullets^"  round  about  his  cheeks; 
Whilst  with  his  fingers,  and  au  instrument 
With  which  he  snaps  his  hair  off,  he  doth  fill 
The  wretch's  ears  with  a  most  hideous  noise: 
Thus  every  knight-adventurer  he   doth   trim, 
And  now  no  creature  dares  encounter  him. 

Balph.    In  God's  name,  I  will  fight  with  him. 
Kind  sir, 
Go  but  before  me  to  this  dismal  cave. 
Where  this  huge  giant  Barbarossa  dwells. 
And,  by  that  virtue  that  brave  Eosicleer 
That  damned  brood  of  ugly  giants  slew. 
And  Palmerin  Frannarco  overthrew, 
I  doubt  not  but  to  curb  this  traitor  foul. 
And  to  the  devil  send  his  guilty  soul. 

Host.  Brave-sprighted  knight,  thus  far  I  will 
perform 
This  your  request ;  I  '11  bring  you  within  sight 
Of  this  most  loathsome  place,  inhabited 
By  a  more  loathsome  man;  but  dare  not  stay. 
For  his  main  force  swoops  all  he  sees  away. 

Balph.  Saint  George,  set  on  before!  march 
squire  and  page.  [Exeunt. 

[Wife.  George,  dost  think  Balph  will  con- 
found the  giant? 

Cit.  I  hold  ray  cap  to  a  farthing  he  does: 
why,  Nell,  I  saw  him  wrestle  with  the  great 
Dutchman,  and  hurl  him. 

Wife.  Faith,  and  that  Dutchman  was  a 
goodly  man,  if  all  things  were  answerablei^  to 
his  bigness.  And  yet  they  say  there  was  a 
Scotchman  higher  than  he,  and  that  they  two 
and  a  knight  met,  and  saw  one  another  for 
nothing.     .     .     .] 

Act  TIT,  Scene  IV. 

Before  a  Barber's  Shop,  Waltham. 

Enter  Balph,  Host,  Tim,  and  George. 

[Wife.  Oh,  Ralph's  here,  George! — God 
send  thee  good  luck,  Ralph!] 

Host.  Puissant  knight,  yonder  his  mansion  is. 
Lo,  where  the  spear  and  copper  basin  are! 
Behold   that    string,   on   which   hangs   many   a 

tooth, 
Drawn    from    the    gentle    jaw    of    wandering 

knights! 18 
r  dare  not  stay  to  sound;  he  will  appear.  [Exit. 
Balph.   Oh,  faint  not,  heart!    Susan,  my  lady 
dear. 
The  cobbler's  maid  in  Milk-street,  for  whose 
sake 


15  broad    rim     (I.    p.,    a 

Imrhcr's  liasin) 

16  sonp-balls 

17  In  proportion 


IS  Barbers  were  also 
surRoons  and  den- 
tists. 


BEAUMONT  AND   FLETCHER. 


205 


I  take  these  arms,  oh,  let  the  thought  of  thoe 
Carry     thy    knight     through     all     adventurous 

deeds ; 
And,  in  the  lionour  of  thy  beauteous  self. 
May  I  destroy  this  monster  Barbarossa! — 
Knock,  squire,  upon  the  basin,  till  it  break 
With  the  shrill  strokes,  or  till  the  giant  speak. 
[Tim  Jcnoclcs  upon  the  hasin. 
Enter  Barber. 

[Wife.  Oh,  George,  the  giant,  the  giant! — 
Now,  Ralph,  for  thy  life !  ] 

Bar.    "What  fondio  unknowing  wight  is  this, 
that  dares 
So  rudely  knock  at  Barbarossa 's  cell, 
Where  no  man  comes  but  leaves  his  fleece  be- 
hind 1 

Ralph.    I,  traitorous  caitiff,  who  am  sent  by 
fate 
To  punish  all  the  sad  enormities 
Thou  hast  committed  against  ladies  gent 
And  errant  knights.    Traitor  to  God  and  men, 
Prepare  thyself;  this  is  the  dismal  hour 
Appointed  for  thee  to  give  strict  account 
Of  all  thy  beastly  treacherous  villanies. 

Bar.    Fool-hardy  knight,  full  soon  thou  shalt 
aby2o 
This  fond  reproach:  thy  body  will  I  bang; 

[Tales  down  Ms  pole 
And  lOy  upon  that  string  thy  teeth  shall  hang! 
Prepare  thyself,  for  dead  soon  shalt  thou  be. 

Ralph.   Saint  George  for  me!         [They  fight. 

Bar.    Gargantua2i  for  me! 

[Wife.  To  him,  Ralph,  to  him!  hold  up  the 
giant;  set  out  thy  leg  before,  Ralph! 

at.  Falsify  a  blow,  Ralph,  falsify  a  blow! 
the  giant  lies  open  on  the  left  side. 

Wife.  Bear't  off,  bear't  off  still!  there, 
boy! — Oil,  Ralph's  almost  down,  Ralph's  almost 
down !  ] 

Ralph.  Su.san,  inspire  me!  now  have  up  again. 

Wife.  Up,  up,  up,  up,  up!  so,  Ralph!  down 
with  him,  down  with  him,  Ralph! 

at.     Fetch  him  o'er  the  hip,  boy! 

[Ralph  TcnocTcs  down  the  Barher. 

Wife.  There,  boy!  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill, 
Ralph ! 

19  fooHsh  21  A   giant   in   Rabelais' 

20  pay  for  satire. 


at.    No,  Ralph;  get  all  out  of  him  first.] 
Ralph.    Presumptuous  man,  see  to  what  des- 
perate end 
Thy   treachery   hath    brought   thee!     The   just 

gods. 
Who  never  prosper  those  that  do  despise  them, 
For  all  the  villanies  which  thou  hast  done 
To   knights   and  ladies,  now    have    paid    thee 

home 
By  my  stiff  arm,  a  knight  adventurous. 
But  say,  vile  wretch,  before   I  send  thy  soul 
To  sad  Avernus,  (whither  it  must  go) 
What  captives  holdst  thou  in  thy  sable  cave? 

Bar.  Go  in,  and  free  them  all;  thou  hast  the 
day. 

Ralph.    Go,  squire  and  dwarf,  search  in  this 
dreadful  cave, 
And    free    the  wretched   prisoners   from    their 
bonds. 

[Exeunt  Tim  and  George,  who  presently 

re-enter, 
[at.    Cony,  I  can  tell  thee,  the  gentlemen 
like  Ralph. 

Wife.    Ay,  George,  I  see  it  well  enough. — 
Gentlemen,  I  thank  you  all  heartily  for  gracing 
my  man  Ralph;   and  I  promise  you,  you  shall 
see  him  oftener.] 
Bar.    Mercy,  great  knight!     I  do  recant  my 
ill, 
And  henceforth  never  gentle  blood  will  spill. 
Ralph.     I    give   thee   mercy;    but   yet    shalt 
thou  swear 
Upon  my  Burning  Pestle,  to  perform 
Thy  promise  uttered. 
Bar.   I  swear  and  kiss.       [Kisses  the  Pestle. 

Ralph.    Depart,  then,  and  amend. 

[Exit  Barber. 
Come,  squire  and  dwarf;  the  sun  grows  toward 

his  set. 
And  we  have  many  more  adventures  yet. 

[Exeunt, 
[at.     Now  Ralph  is  in  this  humour,  I  know 
he  would  ha'  beaten  all  the  boys  in  the  house, 
if  they  had  been  set  on  him. 

Wife.  Ay,  George,  but  it  is  well  as  it  is:  I 
warrant  you,  the  gentlemen  do  consider  what 
it  is  to  overthrow  a  giant.] 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE— PROSE 


SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY  (1554-1566) 

FROM  THE  COUNTESS  OF  PEMBROKE'S 
ARCADIA* 

To  My  Dear  Lady  and  Sister,  the  Countess  of 

Pembroke: 

Here  now  have  yoin,  most  dear,  and  most 
worthy  to  be  most  dear,  Lady,  this  idle  work  of 
mine,  which,  I  fear,  like  the  spider's  web,  will 
be  thought  fitter  to  be  swept  away  than  worn 
to  any  other  purpose.  For  my  part,  in  very 
truth,  as  the  cruel  fathers  among  the  Greeks 
were  wont  to  do  to  the  babes  they  would  not 
foster,  I  could  well  find  in  my  heart  to  cast 
out  in  some  desert  of  forgetfulness  this  child, 
which  I  am  loath  to  father.  But  you  desired 
me  to  do  it;  and  your  desire,  to  my  heart,  is 
an  absolute  commandment.  Now  it  is  done 
only  for  you,  only  to  you.  If  you  keep  it  to 
yourself,  or  to  such  friends  as  will  weigh  errors 
in  the  balance  of  goodwill,  I  hope,  for  the 
father's  sake,  it  will  be  pardoned,  perchance 
made  much  of,  though  in  itself  it  have  de- 
formities; for,  indeed,  for  severer  eyes  it  is 
not,  being  but  a  trifle,  and  that  triflingly  han- 
dled. Your  dear  self  can  best  witness  the  man- 
ner, being  done  in  loose  sheets  of  paper,  most 
of  it  in  your  presence,  the  rest  by  sheets  sent 
unto  you  as  fast  as  they  were  done.  In  sum, 
a  young  head,  not  so  well  stayed!  as  I  would  it 
were,  and  shall  be  when  God  will,  having 
many,  many  fancies  begotten  in  it,  if  it  had 
not   been  in  some  way   delivered,  would  have 

1  steadied 

♦  Sidney  did  not  moan  to  "walk  al)road"  into  print 
with  ills  book.  This  wili  partly  explain  the 
loose  style  in  which  it  is  written.  But  Eliza- 
betiian  prose  in  general  was  much  inferior  to 
Elizabethan  poetry.  Scholars— the  writer 
class — still  clung  to  Latin,  and  even  Bacon's 
vigorous  Enclisb  is  marred  l)y  Latinisms ; 
men  of  action,  like  Raleigh,  wrote  in  Eng- 
lish, but  naturally  were  little  concerned  for 
style ;  while  the  work  of  conscious  stylists, 
like  Lyiy  and  Sidney,  suffered  from  "Euphu- 
ism," that  fashion  of  affectation  and  conceits 
that  80  weakened  the  prose  of  the  age.  (Knif. 
Lit.,  p.  128.)  The  brief  selection  given  here 
lacks  narrative  interest,  but  will  exemplify 
this  curious  style  and  also  give  a  glimpse  of 
that  Arcadia  which  has  been  idealized  In 
poetry  and  romance  into  an  Imaginary  para- 
dise of  the  simple,  natural  life. 


grown  a  monster,  and  more  sorry  I  might 
that  they  came  in  than  that  they  gat  out.  Bui 
his  chief  safety  shall  be  the  not  walkinj 
abroad,  and  his  chief  protection  the  bearing 
the  livery  of  your  name,  which,  if  my  goodwil 
do  not  deceive  me,  is  worthy  to  be  a  sanctuarj 
for  a  greater  offender.  This  say  I  because  I 
know  thy  virtue  so;  and  this  say  I  because  I 
know  it  may  be  ever  so,  or,  to  say  better,  be- 
cause it  will  be  ever  so.  Read  it  then,  at  your 
idle  times,  and  the  follies  your  good  judgment 
will  find  in  it  blame  not,  but  laugh  at;  and  so, 
looking  for  no  better  stuff  than,  as  in  a  haber- 
dasher's  shop,  glasses  or  feathers,  you  will 
continue  to  love  the  writer,  who  doth  exceed- 
ingly love  you,  and  most,  most  heartily  prays 
you  may  long  live  to  be  a  principal  ornament 
to  the  family  of  the  Sidneys. 

Your  loving  Brother, 

Philip  Sidney. 

From  Book  I 

It  was  in  the  time  that  the  earth  begins  to 
put  on  her  new  apparel  against  the  approach  of 
her  lover,  and  that  the  sun  running  a  most 
even  course  becomes  an  indifferent  arbiter  be- 
tween the  night  and  the  day,  when  the  hope- 
less shepherd  Strephon  was  come  to  the  sands 
which  lie  against  the  island  of  Cithera,t  where, 
viewing  the  place  with  a  heavy  kind  of  de- 
light, and  sometimes  casting  his  eyes  to  the 
isleward,  he  called  his  friendly  rival  the  pastorz 
Claius  unto  him;  and,  setting  first  down  in  his 
darkened  countenance  a  doleful  copy  of  what 
lie  would  8peak,t 

"O  my  Claius,"  said  he,  "hither  we  are 
now  come  to  pay  the  rent  for  which  we  are  so 
called  unto  by  overbusy  remembrance;  remem- 
brance, restless  remembrance,  which  claims  not 
only  this  duty  of  us,  but  for  it  will  have  us 

2  shepherd 

t  As  the  native  Isle  of  Aphrodite,  this  is  a  fitting 
place  for  Urania,  the  "heavenly,"  to  depart 
to.  It  lies  south  of  Greece,  and  Arcadia  Is  a 
country  of  Greece  ;  but  in  Arcadian  romances 
geography   matters   little. 

X  A  good  example  of  the  "conceits"  which  marked 
the  prose  and  often  the  poetry  of  this  period. 
See  Kn<i.  Lit.,  p.  129. 


206 


SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY 


207 


forget  ourselves.  I  pray  you,  when  we  were 
amid  our  flock,  and  that,3  of  other  shepherds, 
some  were  running  after  their  slieep,  strayed 
beyond  their  bounds,  some  delighting  their 
eyes  with  seeing  them  nibble  upon  the  short 
and  sweet  grass,  some  medicining  their  sick 
ewes,  some  setting  a  bell  for  an  ensign  of  a 
sheepish  squadron,  some  with  more  leisure  in- 
venting new  games  for  exercising  their  bodies, 
and  sporting  their  wits, — did  remembrance 
grant  us  an  holiday,  either  for  pastime  or  de- 
votion, nay,  either  for  necessary  food  or 
natural  rest,  but  that  still  it  forced  our 
thoughts  to  work  upon  this  place,  where  we 
last — alas,  that  the  word  'last'  should  so  long 
last — did  grace  our  eyes  upon  her  ever-flour- 
ishing beauty;  did  it  not  still  cry  within  us: 
'Ah,  you  base-minded  wretches!  are  your 
thoughts  so  deeply  bemired  in  the  trade  of 
ordinary  worldlings,  as,  for  respect  of  gain 
some  paltry  wool  may  yield  you,  to  let  so  much 
time  pass  without  knowing  perfectly  her  es- 
tate, especially  in  so  troublesome  a  season;  to 
leave  that  shore  unsaluted  from  whence  you 
may  see  to  the  island  where  she  dwelleth;  to 
leave  those  steps  unkissed  wherein  Urania 
printed  the  farewell  of  all  beauty?' 

* '  Well,  then,  remembrance  commanded,  we 
obeyed,  and  here  we  find  that  as  our  remem- 
brance came  ever  clothed  unto  us  in  the  form 
of  this  place,  so  this  place  gives  new  heat  to 
the  fever  of  our  languishing  remembrance. 
Yonder,  my  Claius,  Urania  alighted;  the  very 
horse  methought  bewailed  to  be  so  disbur- 
dened; and  as  for  thee,  poor  Claius,  when  thou 
wentest  to  help  her  down,  I  saw  reverence  and 
desire  so  divide  thee  that  thou  didst  at  one 
instant  both  blush  and  quake,  and  instead  of 
bearing  her  wert  ready  to  fall  down  thyself. 
There  she  sate,  vouchsafing*  my  cloak  (then 
most  gorgeous)  under  her;  at  yonder  rising  of 
the  ground  she  turned  herself,  looking  back 
toward  her  wonted  abode,  and  because  of  her 
parting,  bearing  much  sorrow  in  her  eyes,  the 
lightsomeness  whereof  had  yet  so  natural  a 
cheerfulness  as  it  made  even  sorrow  seem  to 
smile;  at  the  turning  she  spake  to  us  all,  open- 
ing the  cherry  of  her  lips,  and,  Lord!  how 
greedily  mine  ears  did  feed  upon  the  sweet 
v.ords  she  uttered!  And  here  she  laid  her 
hand  over  thine  eyes,  when  she  saw  the  tears 
springing  in  them,  as  if  she  would  conceal  them 
from  others  and  yet  herself  feel  some  of  thy 
sorrow.  But  woe  is  me!  yonder,  yonder  did 
she  put  her  foot  into  the  boat,  at  that  instant. 


s  when 
4  allowinx 


others 


as  it  were,  t'.ividing  her  heavenly  beauty  be- 
tween the  earth  and  the  sea.  But  when  she 
was  embarked  did  you  not  mark  how  the  winds 
whistled,  and  the  seas  danced  for  joy,  how  the 
sails  did  swell  with  pride,  and  all  because  they 
had  Urania?  O  Urania,  blessed  be  thou, 
Urania,  the  sweetest  fairness  and  fairest 
sweetness ! ' ' 

With  that  word  his  voice  brake  so  with  sob- 
bing that  he  could  say  no  farther;  and  Claius 
thus  answered,  "Alas,  my  Strephon,"  said  he, 
"what  needs  this  score  to  reckon  up  only  our 
losses?  What  doubt  is  there  but  that  the 
sight  of  this  place  doth  call  our  thoughts  to 
appear  at  the  court  of  affection,  held  by  that 
racking  steward  Remembrance?  As  well  may 
sheep  forget  to  fear  when  they  spy  wolves,  as 
we  can  miss  such  fancies,  when  we  see  any 
place  made  happy  by  her  treading.  Who  can 
choose  that  saw  her  but  think  where  she  stayed, 
where  she  walked,  where  she  turned,  where  she 
spoke?  But  what  is  all  this?  Truly  no  more 
but,  as  this  place  served  us  to  think  of  those 
things,  so  those  things  serve  as  places  to  call 
to  memory  more  excellent  matters.  No,  no, 
let  us  think  with  consideration,  and  consider 
with  acknowledging,  and  acknowledge  with 
admiration,  and  admire  with  love,  and  love 
with  joy  in  the  midst  of  all  woes;  let  us  in 
such  sort  think,  I  say,  that  our  poor  eyes  were 
so  enriched  as  to  behold,  and  our  low  hearts  so 
exalted  as  to  love,  a  maid  who  is  such,  that  as 
the  greatest  thing  the  world  can  show  is  her 
beauty,  so  the  least  thing  that  may  be  praised 
in  her  is  her  beauty.  Certainly,  as  her  eye- 
lids are  more  pleasant  to  behold  than  two 
white  kids  climbing  up  a  fair  tree,  and  browsing 
on  his  tenderest  branches,  and  yet  are  nothing 
compared  to  the  day-shining  stars  contained  in 
them;  and  as  her  breath  is  more  sweet  than  a 
gentle  southwest  wind,  which  comes  creeping 
over  flowery  fields  and  shadowed  waters  in  the 
extreme  heat  of  summer,  and  yet  is  nothing 
compared  to  the  honey-flowing  speech  that 
breath  doth  carry, — no  more  all  that  our  eyes 
can  see  of  her — though  when  they  have  seen 
her,  what  else  they  shall  ever  see  is  but  dry 
stubble  after  clover-grass — is  to  be  matched 
with  the  flock  of  unspeakable  virtues  laid  up 
delightfully  in  that  best  builded  fold. 

"But,  indeed,  as  we  can  better  consider  the 
sun's  beauty  by  marking  how  he  gilds  these 
waters  and  mountains  than  by  looking  upon 
his  own  face,  too  glorious  for  our  weak  eyes; 
so  it  may  be  our  conceits — not  able  to  bear  her 
sun-staining  excellency — will  better  weigh  it 
by  her  works  upon  some  meaner  subject  em- 
ployed.     And,    alas,    who    can    better    witness 


208 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


that  than  we,  whose  experience  is  grounded 
upon  feeling!  Hath  not  the  onlyo  love  of  her 
made  us,  being  silly  ignorant  shepherds,  raise 
up  our  thoughts  above  the  ordinary  level  of 
the  world,  so  as  great  clerks^  do  not  disdain 
our  conference  ?8  Hath  not  the  desire  to  seem 
worthy  in  her  eyes  made  us,  when  others  were 
sleeping,  to  sit  viewing  the  course  of  the 
heavens;  when  others  were  running  at  base,9  to 
run  over  learned  writings;  when  others  mark 
their  sheep,  we  to  mark  our  selves?  Hath  not 
she  thrown  reason  upon  our  desires,  and,  as  it 
were,  given  eyes  unto  Cupid?  Hath  in  any, 
but  in  her,  love-fellowship  maintained  friend- 
ship between  rivals,  and  beauty  taught  the 
beholders  chastity?"  .    .    . 

[The  shepherds  rescue  the  shipwrecked  Musi- 
dorus  and  undertake  to  lead  him  to  the  home 
of  a  hospitable  man  in  their  native  country  of 
Arcadia.] 

So  that  the  third  day  after,  in  the  time  that 
the  morning  did  strow  roses  and  violets  in  the 
heavenly  floor  against  the  coming  of  the  sun, 
the  nightingales,  striving  one  with  the  other 
which  could  in  most  dainty  variety  recount 
their  wrong-caused  sorrow,  made  them  put  ofl: 
their  sleep;  and,  rising  from  under  a  tree, 
which  that  night  had  been  their  pavilion,  they 
went  on  their  journey,  which  by-and-by  wel- 
comed Musidorus'  eyes  with  delightful  pros- 
pects. There  were  hills  which  garnished  their 
proud  heights  with  stately  ttees;  humble  val- 
leys whose  base  estate  seemed  comforted  with 
the  refreshing  of  silver  rivers;  meadows  enam- 
elled with  all  sorts  of  eye-pleasing  flowers; 
thickets  which,  being  lined  with  most  pleasant 
shade,  were  witnessed  so  to,  by  the  cheerful 
disposition  of  many  well-tuned  birds;  each  pas- 
ture stored  with  sheep,  feeding  with  sober  se- 
curity, while  the  pretty  lambs,  with  bleating 
oratory,  craved  the  dam's  comfort;  here  a 
shepherd's  boy  piping,  as  though  he  should 
never  be  old;  there  a  young  shepherdess  knit- 
ting, and  withal  singing:  and  it  seemed  that 
her  voice  comforted  her  hands  to  work,  and 
her  hands  kept  time  to  her  voice- music. 

As  for  the  houses  of  the  country — for  many 
houses  cam«  under  their  eye — they  were  all 
scattered,  no  two  being  one  by  the  other,  and 
yet  not  so  far  oflf  as  that  it  barred  mutual 
succor;  a  show,  as  it  were,  of  an  accompan- 
able'" solitariness,  and  of  a  civil  wildness. 

"1  pray  you,"  said  Musidorus,  then  first  un- 
sealing his  long-silont  lips,  "what  countries  be 


7  Hcholarn 
H  convt'rsntion 


n  prlflonfir's  base 
i<>  compftnionable 


these  we  pass  through,  which  are  so  diverse  in 
show,  the  one  wanting  no  store,  the  other  hav- 
ing no  store  but  of  want?" 

"The  country,"  answered  Claius,  "where 
you  were  cast  ashore,  and  now  are  passed 
through,  is  Laconia,  not  so  poor  by  the  bar- 
renness of  the  soil — though  in  itself  not  pass- 
ing fertile — as  by  a  civil  war,  which  being 
these  two  years  within  the  bowels  of  that  es- 
tate, between  the  gentlemen  and  the  peasants — • 
by  them  named  Helots — hath  in  this  sort,  as  it 
were,  disfigured  the  face  of  nature  and  made 
it  so  unhospitable  as  now  you  have  found  it; 
the  towns  neither  of  the  one  side  nor  the  other 
willingly  opening  their  gates  to  strangers,  nor 
strangers  willingly  entering,  for  fear  of  being 
mistaken.  But  this  country  where  now  you  set 
your  foot,  is  Arcadia;  and  even  hard  by  is 
the  house  of  Kalander,  whither  we  lead  you. 
This  country  being  thus  decked  with  peace,  and 
the  child  of  peace,  good  husbandry,  these 
houses  you  see  so  scattered  are  of  men,  as  we 
two  are,  that  live  upon  the  commodity  of  their 
sheep,  and  therefore,  in  the  division  of  the  Ar- 
cadian estate,  are  termed  shepherds — a  happy 
people,  wanting  little  because  they  desire  not 
much. ' ' 

SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH 
(1552?-1618) 

THE  LAST  FIGHT  OF  THE  EEVENGE.* 

The  Lord  Thomas  Howard,  with  six  of  her 
Majesty's  ships,  six  victuallers  of  London,  the 
bark  Raleigh,  and  two  or  three  pinnaces,  rid- 
ing at  anchor  near  unto  Flores,  one  of  the 
westerly  islands  of  the  Azores,  the  last  of 
August  in  the  afternoon,  had  intelligence  by 
one  Captain  Middleton,  of  the  approach  of  tlu- 
Spanish  Armada.i  Which  Middleton,  being  in 
a  very  good  sailer,  had  kept  them  company 
three  days  before,  of  good  purpose  both  to  dis- 

1  Armada  =  fleet ;    armado  =  8ingle  warship. 

»  In  the  fall  of  l.")91  a  small  fleet  of  Kuglish  ves- 
sels lay  at  the  Azores  to  intercept  the  Spanish 
treasure-ships  from  the  Indies.  On  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  Spanish  war-vessels  sent  to 
convoy  the  treasure-sliips,  the  English  vessels 
took  to  flight,  with  the  exception  of  the 
Revenue,  the  Vice  Admiral  of  the  fleet,  com- 
manded by  Sir  Richard  Grenvllle.  The  story 
of  the  fight  of  the  Kcnnye  was  written  by 
Raleigh,  a  cousin  of  (Jrenville's,  and  pul)- 
lished  anonymously  In  l.'i!)!  ;  it  was  included, 
eight  years  later.  In  Ilakhiyt's  Voyaa^x-  Kn- 
con  also  celebrated  the  fight  as  "a  defeat 
exceeding  a  victory."  "memorable  even  be- 
yond credit  and  to  the  hight  of  some  heroical 
fable,"  In  which  "the  ship  for  the  swan  of 
fifteen  hours  sat  like  a  stag  amongst  hounds 
at  the  bay.  and  was  sieged  and  fought  with  in 
turn  by  fifteen  great  ships  of  Spain."  See 
also  Fronde's  essay  on  KiipUiiifl's  l-'nrfloUrn 
Worthien.  and  Tennyson's  bnllnd.  Ttir  Rerengr. 


SIK  WALTEK  RALEIGH 


209 


cover  their  forces  the  more,  as  also  to  give  ad- 
vice to  my  Lord  Thomas  of  their  approach. 

He  had  no  sooner  delivered  the  news  but  the 
Heet  was  in  sight.  Many  of  our  ships'  com- 
panies were  on  shore  in  the  island,  some  provid- 
ing ballast  for  their  ships,  others  filling  of 
water  and  refreshing  themselves  from  the  land 
with  such  things  as  they  could  either  for  money 
or  by  force  recover.-  By  reason  whereof  our 
ships  being  all  pestered,  and  rummaging  every 
thing  out  of  order.t  very  light  for  want  of  bal- 
last, and  that  which  was  most  to  our  disad- 
vantage, the  one  half  of  the  men  of  every  ship 
sick  and  utterly  unserviceable.  For  in  the 
Beienye  there  were  ninety  diseased;  in  the 
Bonaventurc,  not  so  many  in  health  as  could 
handle  her  mainsail — for  had  not  twenty  men 
been  taken  out  of  a  bark  of  Sir  George  Gary  's, 
his  being  commanded  to  be  sunk,  and  those 
appointed  to  her,  she  had  hardly  ever  recov- 
ered3  England.  The  rest,  for  the  most  part, 
were  in  little  better  state. 

The  names  of  her  Majesty's  ships  were 
these,  as  followeth:  the  Defiance,  which  was 
Admiral,  the  Bevenge,  Vice  Admiral,  the  Bona- 
venture,  commanded  by  Captain  Crosse,  the 
Lion,  by  George  Fenner,  the  Foresight,  by 
Thomas  Vavisour,  and  the  Crane,  by  DuflSeld; 
the  Foresight  and  the  Crane  being  but  small 
ships  only — the  other  were  of  middle  size.  The 
rest,  besides  the  bark  Ealeigh,  commanded  by 
Captain  Thin,  were  victuallers,  and  of  small 
force  or  none. 

The  Spanish  fleet,  having  shrouded  their  ap- 
proach by  reason  of  the  island,  were  now  so 
soon  at  hand  as*  our  ships  had  scarce  time  to 
weigh  their  anchors,  but  some  of  them  were 
driven  to  let  slip  their  cables  and  set  sail.  Sir 
Richard  Grenville  was  the  last  weighed,  to 
recover  the  men  that  were  upon  the  island, 
which  otherwise  had  been  lost.  The  Lord 
Thomas  with  the  rest  very  hardly  recovered  the 
wind,  which  Sir  Richard  Grenville  not  being 
able  to  do,  was  persuadeds  by  the  master  and 
others  to  cut«  his  mainsail  and  east^  about,  and 
to  trust  to  the  sailing  of  his  ship:  for  the 
squadron  of  Seville  were  on  his  weather  bow. 
But  Sir  Richard  utterly  refused  to  turn  fron\ 
the  enemy,  alleging  that  he  would  rather  choose 
to  die,  than  to  dishonor  himself,  his  country, 
and  her  Majesty's  ship,  persuading  his  com- 
pany  that   he   would   pass     through     the    two 

2  obtain  5  advised 

^  rpg.iined  e  spread 

*  that  7  turn 

t  I.  e.,  were  all  cumbered,  and  badly  stowed.  The 
syntax  of  this  sentence,  as  of  others  that  fol- 
low, is  very  faulty.  Cp.  note  on  the  stvle  of 
the  preceding  selection. 


squadrons  in  despite  pi  them,  and  enforce  those 
of  Seville  to  give  him  way.  Which  he  per- 
formed upon  divers  of  the  foremost,  who,  as 
the  mariners  term  it,  sprang  their  luff,^  and 
fell  under  the  lee  of  the  Bevenge.  But  the 
other  course  had  been  the  better,  and  might 
right  well  have  been  answered  in  so  great  an 
impossibility  of  prevailing.  Notwithstanding 
out  of  the  greatness  of  his  mind  he  could  not 
be  persuaded.J 

In  the  meanwhile,  as  he  attended  those 
which  were  nearest  him,  the  great  San  Philip, 
being  in  the  wind  of  him,  and  coming  towards 
him,  becalmed  his  sails  in  such  sort  as  the  ship 
could  neither  weigh  nor  feel  the  helm:  so  huge 
and  high  carged"  was  the  Spanish  ship,  being 
of  a  thousand  and  five  hundred  tons;  who 
afterlaid  the  Bevenge  aboard.io  When  he  was 
thus  bereft  of  his  sails,  the  ships  that  were  un- 
der his  lee,  luffing  up,  also  laid  him  aboard ; 
of  which  the  next  was  the  admiral  of  the  Bis- 
cayans,  a  very  mighty  and  puissant  ship  com- 
manded by  Brittan  Dona.  The  said  Philip 
carried  three  tier  of  ordinance  on  a  side,  and 
eleven  pieces  in  every  tier.  She  shotn  eight 
forthright  out  of  her  chase,i2  besides  those  of 
her  stern  ports. 

After  the  Bevenge  was  entangled  with  this 
Philip,  four  other  boarded  her,  two  on  her  lar- 
board, and  two  on  her  starboard.  The  fight 
thus  beginning  at  three  of  the  clock  in  the 
afternoon  continued  very  terrible  all  that  even- 
ing. But  the  great  San  Philip,  having  re- 
ceived the  lower  tier  of  the  Bevenge,  dis- 
charged with  crossbarshot,  shifted  herself  with 
all  diligence  from  her  sides,  utterly  misliking 
her  first  entertainment.  Some  say  that  the 
ship  foundered,  but  we  cannot  report  it  for 
truth,  unlesa  we  were  assured. 

The  Spanish  ships  were  filled  with  companies 
of  soldiers,  in  some  two  hundred  besides  the 
mariners,  in  some  five,  in  others  eight  hundred. 
In  ours  there  were  none  at  all  besides  the 
mariners,  but  the  servants  of  the  commanders 
and  some  few  voluntary  gentlemen  only. 

After  many  interchanged  volleys  of  great 
ordinance  and  small  shot,  the  Spaniards  delib- 
I  erated  to  enter  the  Bevenge,  and  made  divers 
I  attempts,  hoping  to  force  her  by  the  multitudes 
j  of  their  armed  soldiers  and  musketeers,  but 
I  were  still  repulsed  again  and  again,  and  at  all 


8  kept  close  to  the  wind 

by    means   o  f  t  h  e 
helm 

9  Or  cargued   (a  nautic- 

al   term    pf    uncer- 
tain  meaning,    pos- 
t  He  was  a  fierce  man. 


slblv  high-carved  or 
built) 

10  came      alongside      of 
(from  behind) 

11  could   shoot 

12  a  joint  in  the  stern 
of  nature   very  severe." 

who  in  his  day  had  the  reputation  of  eating 
the  wine-glasses  after  he  drank  the  wine. 


210 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


times  beaten  back  into  their  o^Yn  sliips  or  into 
the  seas.  In  the  beginning  of  the  fight,  the 
George  Noble  of  London,  having  received  some 
shot  through  her  by  the  armados,  fell  under 
the  lee  of  the  Revenge,  and  asked  Sir  Eichard 
what  he  would  command  him,  being  but  one  of 
the  victuallers  and  of  small  force.  Sir  Richard 
bade  him  save  himself,  and  leave  him  to  his 
fortune. 

After  tlie  fight  had  thus  without  intermission 
continued  while  the  day  lasted  and  some  hours 
of  the  night,  many  of  our  men  were  slain  and 
hurt,  and  one  of  the  great  galleons  of  the  Ar- 
mada and  the  admiral  of  the  Hulksis  both 
sunk,  and  in  many  other  of  the  Spanish  ships 
great  slaughter  was  made.  Some  write  that 
Sir  Eichard  was  very  dangerously  hurt  almost 
in  the  beginning  of  the  fight,  and  lay  speech- 
less for  a  time  ere  he  recovered.  But  two  of 
the  Revenge's  owti  company  brought  home  in  a 
ship  of  lime  from  the  islands,  examined  by 
some  of  the  Lords  and  others,  affirmed  that  he 
was  never  so  wounded  as  that  he  forsook  the 
upper  deck,  till  an  hour  before  midnight;  and 
then  being  shot  into  the  body  with  a  musket,  as 
he  was  a-dressingi*  was  again  shot  into  the 
head,  and  withal  his  chirurgeoni5  wounded  to 
death.  This  agreeth  also  with  an  examination, 
taken  by  Sir  Francis  Godolphin,  of  four  other 
mariners  of  the  same  ship  being  returned, 
which  examination  the  said  Sir  Francis  sent 
unto  master  William  Killigrew,  of  her  Ma- 
jesty's Privy  Chamber. 

But  to  return  to  the  fight,  the  Spanish  ships 
which  attempted  to  board  the  Jlevenge,  as  they 
were  wounded  and  beaten  off,  so  always  others 
came  in  their  places,  she  having  never  less  than 
two  mighty  galleons  by  her  sides  and  aboard 
her.  So  that  ere  the  morning  frftn  three  of 
the  clock  the  day  before,  there  had  fifteen  sev- 
eral armados  assailed  her;  and  all  so  ill  ap- 
proved their  entertainment,  as  they  were  by  the 
break  of  day  far  more  willing  to  hearken  to 
a  composition!"  than  hastily  to  make  any  more 
assaults  or  entries.  But  as  the  day  increased, 
so  our  men  decreased ;  and  as  the  light  grew 
more  and  more,  by  so  much  more  grew  our  dis- 
comforts. For  none  apjieared  in  sight  but  ene- 
mies, saving  one  small  ship  called  the  Pilgrim, 
commanded  by  Jacob  Whiddon,  who  hovered  all 
night  to  see  the  success; it  but  in  the  morning, 
bearing  with  the  Hcvrvge,  was  hunted  like  a 
hare  among  many  ravenous  hounds,  but  escaped. 

AH  the  powder  of  the  Revenue  to  the  last 
barrel   was   now   spent,   all  her  pikes  broken, 


18  hfavy  Bhips 
I*  havInT    th*>    wound 
drcHsocI 


IB  also  his  flurgeoD 
i«  astrfenipnt,    trrms 
IT  otitcomo 


forty  of  her  best  men  slain,  and  the  most  part 
of  the  rest  hurt.  In  the  beginning  of  the  fight 
she  had  but  one  hundred  free  from  sickness, 
and  fourscore  and  ten  sick,  laid  in  hold  upon 
the  ballast.  A  small  troop  to  man  such  a  ship, 
and  a  weak  garrison  to  resist  so  mighty  an 
army!  By  those  hundred  all  Avas  sustained, 
the  volleys,  boardings,  and  enterings  of  fifteen 
ships  of  war,  besides  those  which  beat  her  at 
large.  On  the  contrary  the  Spanish  were  al- 
ways supplied  with  soldiers  brought  from  every 
squadron,  all  manner  of  arms  and  powder  at 
will.  Unto  ours  there  remained  no  comfort 
at  all,  no  hope,  no  supply  either  of  ships,  men, 
or  weapons;  the  masts  all  beaten  overboard, 
all  her  tackle  cut  asunder,  her  upper  Avork  alto- 
gether razed;  and,  in  effect,  evened  she  was 
with  the  water,  butis  the  very  foundation  or 
bottom  of  a  ship,  nothing  being  left  overhead 
either  for  flight  or  defence. 

Sir  Richard  finding  himself  in  this  distress, 
and  unable  any  longer  to  make  resistance,  hav- 
ing endured  in  this  fifteen  hours'  fight  the  as- 
sault of  fifteen  several  armados,  all  by  turns 
aboard  him,  and  by  estimation  eight  hundred 
shot  of  great  artillery,  besides  many  assaults 
and  entries,  and  that  himself  and  the  ship  must 
needs  be  possessed  by  the  enemy,  who  were  now 
cast  in  a  ring  round  about  him,  the  Rcvciu/c 
not  able  to  move  one  way  or  otlier  but  as  she 
was  moved  by  the  waves  and  billows  of  tlie 
sea, — commanded  the  master  gunner,  whom  he 
knew  to  be  a  most  resolute  man,  to  s})lit  and 
sink  the  ship,  that  thereby  nothing  might  re- 
main of  glory  or  victory  to  the  Spaniards,  see- 
ing in  so  many  hours'  fight,  and  with  so  great 
a  navy,  they  were  not  able  to  take  her^  liaving 
had  fifteen  hours'  time,  fifteen  thousand  men, 
and  fifty  and  three  sail  of  men-of-war  to  j>er- 
form  it  withal;  and  persuaded  the  company,  or 
as  many  as  he  could  induce,  to  yield  themselves 
unto  God,  and  to  the  mercy  of  none  else,  but, 
as  they  had,  like  valiant  resolute  men,  rej)ulsed 
so  nmny  enemies,  they  should  not  now  shorten 
tlie  honor  of  their  nation  by  prolonging  their 
own  lives  for  a  few  hours  or  a  few  days. 

The  master  gunner  readily  condescended, i» 
and  divers  others.  But  the  Cajitain  and  the 
Master  were  of  another  opinion  and  besought 
Sir  Eichard  to  have  care  of  them,  alleging  tiiat 
the  Spaniard  would  be  as  ready  to  entertain  a 
composition  as  they  were  willing  to  offer  the 
same,  and  that  there  being  divers  suflicient  and 
valiant  men  yet  living,  and  whose  wounds  were 
not  mortal,  they  might  do  their  country  and 
prince  acceptable  service  hereafter.    And  (that 


18  nothing  but 


JO  r  greed 


iSlE  WALTER  EALEIGH 


211 


where  Sir  Kicharcl  had  alleged  that  the  Span- 
iards should  never  glory  to  have  taken  one  ship 
of  her  Majesty's,  seeing  that  they  had  so  long 
and  so  notably  defended  themselves)  they  an- 
swered that  the  ship  had  six  foot  of  water  in 
hold,  three  shot  under  water  which  were  so 
weakly  stopped  as,  with  the  first  working  of 
the  sea,  she  must  needs  sink,  and  was  besides 
so  crushed  and  bruised  as  she  could  never  be 
removed  out  of  the  place. 

And  as  the  matter  was  thus  in  dispute,  and 
Sir  Eichard  refusing  to  hearken  to  any  of  those 
reasons,  the  Master  of  the  Kcvenge  (while  the 
Captain  won  unto  him  the  greater  party)  was 
convoyed  aboard  the  General  Don  Alfonso  Bas- 
san.  Who  finding  none  over  hasty  to  enter  the 
Bevenge  again,  doubting  lest  Sir  Eichard  would 
have  blown  them  up  and  himself,  and  perceiv- 
ing by  the  report  of  the  Master  of  the  Bevenge 
his  dangerous  disposition,  yielded  that  all  their 
lives  should  be  saved,  the  company  sent  for 
England,  and  the  better  sort  to  pay  such  rea- 
sonable ransom  as  their  estate  would  bear,  and 
in  the  mean  season  to  be  free  from  galley  or 
imprisonment.  To  this  he  so  much  the  rather 
condescended,  as  well,  as  I  have  said,  for  fear 
of  further  loss  and  mischief  to  themselves,  as 
also  for  the  desire  he  had  to  recover  Sir  Eich- 
ard Grenville;  whom  for  his  notable  valor  he 
seemed  greatly  to  honor  and  admire. 

When   this    answer   was   returned,   and   that 
safety  of  life  was  promised,  the  common  sort 
being  now  at  the  end  of  their  peril,  the  most 
drew  back  from  Sir  Eichard  and  the  gunner, 
being   no   hard   matter   to   dissuade  men   from 
death  to  life.     The  master  gu/uner  finding  him- 
self and  Sir  Eichard  thus  prevented  and  mas- 
tered by  the  greater  number,  would  have  slain 
himself  with  a  sword  had  he  not  been  by  force 
withheld  and  locked  into  his  cabin.     Then  the 
General  sent  many  boats  aboard  the  Bevenge, 
and  divers  of  our  men,  fearing  Sir  Eichard 's 
disposition,  stole  away  aboard  the  General  and 
other   ships.      Sir    Eichard,    thus    overmatched, 
was  sent  unto  by  Alfonso  Bassan  to  remove  out 
of  the  Bevenge,  the  ship  being  marvellous  un- 
savory,  filled   with   blood   and   bodies   of   dead 
and  wounded  men  ILke  a   slaughter-house.    Sir 
Richard   answered   that  he   might   do  with  his 
body  what  he  list,"o  for  he  esteemed  it  not ;  and 
as     he     was     carried     out     of     the     ship     he 
swoonded,2i    and    reviving    again     desired     the 
company  to  pray  for  him.     The  General  used 
Sir  Richard  with  all  humanity,  and  left  noth- 
ing unattempted  that  tended  to  his  recovery, 
highly  commending  his  valor   and  worthiness, 


and  greatly  bewailed  the  danger  wherein  he 
was,  being  unto  them  a  rare  spectacle,  and  a 
resolution  seldom  approved,22  to  see  one  ship 
turn  toward  so  many  enemies,  to  endure  the 
charge  and  boarding  of  so  many  huge  armados, 
and  to  resist  and  repel  the  assaults  and  entries 
of  so  many  soldiers.  All  which,  and  more,  is 
confirmed  by  a  Spanish  captain  of  the  same 
Armada,  and  a  present  actor  in  the  fight,  who, 
being  severed  from  the  rest  in  a  storm,  was  by 
the  Lion  of  London,  a  small  ship,  taken,  and 
is  now  prisoner  in  London. 

The  General  Commander  of  the  Armada  was 
Don  Alfonso  Bassan,  brother  to  the  Marquis 
of  Santa  Cruce.  The  Admiral  of  the  Biscayan 
squadron  was  Britan  Dona;  of  the  squadron 
of  Seville,  Marquis  of  Arumburch.  The  Hulks 
and  Fly-boats23  were  commanded  by  Luis 
Cutino.  There  were  slain  and  drowned  in  this 
fight  well  near  two  thousand  of  the  enemies, 
and  two  especial  Commanders,  Don  Luis  de 
Sant  John,  and  Don  George  de  Prunaria.  de 
Malaga,  as  the  Spanish  Captain  confesseth,  be- 
sides divers  others,  of  special  account,  whereof 
as  yet  report  is  not  made. 

The  admiral  of  the  Hulks  and  the  Ascension 
of  Seville  were  both  sunk  by  the  side  of  the 
Bevenge ;  one  other  recovered  the  road  of  Saint 
Michaels,  and  sunk  also  there;  a  fourth  ran 
herself  with  the  shore  to  save  her  men.  Sir 
Eichard  died,  as  it  is  said,  the  second  or  third 
day  aboard  the  General,  and  was  by  them 
greatly  bewailed.  W^hat  became  of  his  body, 
whether  it  was  buried  in  the-  sea  or  on  the  land 
we  know  not:  the  comfort  that  remaineth  to  his 
friends  is,  that  he  hath  ended  his  life  honor- 
ably in  respect  of  the  reputation  won  to  his 
nation  and  country,  and  of  the  same  to  his 
posterity,  and  that,  being  dead,  he  hath  not 
outlived  his  own  honor.l 


22  experienced 

23  Dutch  boats  that  had 


20  pleased 


21  swooned 


been  impressed  into 
the  Spanish  service. 
§  The  account  of  his  death  by  another  contempo- 
rary, Jan  Huyghen  van  Linschoten.  runs  thus  : 
"He  was  borne  into  the  ship  calh-d  tlie  Saint 
Paul,  wherein  was  the  Admirai  of  the  Fleet, 
Don  Alonso  de  Barsan.  There  his  wounds 
were  dressed  by  the  Spanish  surgeons,  but 
Don  Alonso  himself  would  neither  see  him 
nor  speak  with  him.  All  the  rest  of  the 
captains  and  gentlemen  went  to  visit  him 
and  to  comfort  him  in  his  hard  fortune,  won- 
dering at  his  courage  and  stout  heart,  for 
that  he  shewed  not  any  sign  of  faintness  nor 
changing  of  color.  P.ut  feeling  the  hour  of 
death  to  approach,  he  spake  these  words  in 
Spanish,  and  said :  'Here  die  I.  Richard 
Orenville.  with  a  Joyful  and  quiet  mind,  for 
that  I  have  ended  my  life  as  a  true  soldier 
ought  to  do  that  hath  fought  for  his  country, 
queen,  religion,  and  honor,  whereby  my  soul 
most  jovful  departeth  out  of  this  body,  and 
shall  always  leave  behind  it  an  eTerlasting 
fame  of  a  valiant  and  true  soldier  that  hath 
done  his  duty  as  he  was  bound  to  do.'  " 


212 


THE  ELIZABETHAN   AGE 


FRANCIS  BACON  (1561-1626) 

ESSAYS* 

Of  Studies 

Studies  serve  for  delight,  for  ornament,  and 
for  ability.  Their  chief  use  for  delight  is  in 
privateness  and  retiring;  for  ornament,  is  in 
discourse;  and  for  ability,  is  in  the  judgment 
and  disposition  of  business.  For  expert  men 
can  execute,  and  perhaps  judge  of  particulars, 
one  by  one;  but  the  general  counsels,  and  the 
plots  and  marshalling  of  affairs,  come  best 
from  those  that  are  learned.  To  spend  too 
much  time  in  studies  is  sloth;  to  use  them  too 
much  for  ornament,  is  affectation;  to  make 
judgment  wholly  by  their  rules,  is  the  humour 
of  a  scholar.  They  perfect  nature,  and  are 
perfected  by  experience:  for  natural  abilities 
are  like  natural  plants,  that  need  pruning  by 
study;  and  studies  themselves  do  give  forth 
directions  too  much  at  large,  except  they  be 
bounded  ini  by  experience.  Crafty  mon^  con- 
temn studies,  simple  men  admire'  them,  and 
wise  men  use  them;  for  they  teach  not  their 
own  use;  but  that  is  a  wisdom  without*  them, 
and  above  them,  won  by  observation.  Bead  not 
to  contradict  and  confute;  nor  to  believe  and 
take  for  granted;  nor  to  find  talk  and  dis- 
course; but  to  weigh  and  consider.  Some 
books  are  to  be  tasted,t  others  to  be  swallowed, 
and  some  few  to  be  chewed  and  digested;  that 
is,  some  books  are  to  be  read  only  in  parts; 
others  to  be  read,  but  not  curiously;  and  some 
few  to  be  read  wholly,  and  with  diligence  and 
attention.  Some  books  also  may  be  read  by 
deputy,  and  extracts  made  of  them  by  others; 
but  that  would  \>e  only  in  the  less  important 
arguments,  and  the  meaner  sort  of  books;  else 
distilled  books  are  like  common  distilled  wa- 
ters, flashy'  things.  Reading  maketh  a  full 
man;  conference^  a  ready  man;  and  writing  an 
exact  man.  And  therefore,  if  a  man  write  lit- 
tle, he  had  need  have  a  great  memory;  if  he 

1  checked  n  wonder  at 

2  craftHmen.  men  of  prac-       4  outside  of 

tieal    Hkill  (much       r>  insipid 

like    "expert    men"       « conversation 

above) 

♦The  flrnt  edition  of  Hacon's  Khhuhk  ((en  in 
numlier)  was  printed  in  1.507;  revised  an<i 
enlarged  editions  appeared  in  1G12  and  10-r>. 
The  first  two  essays  ^iven  here  were  in  tlie 
first  edition,  the  next  two  in  the  second,  tlie 
last  two  in  the  third ;  l)ut  aii  follow  tlie  texf 
of  the  third.  The  spelllnR  is  modernized,  the 
paragraphing  not;  as  the  essays  consist  often  | 
of  detached  thoughts,  a  change  of  thought  i 
may  be  expected  at  any  point. 

t  Of  the  six  sentences  beginning  here  Macaulay 
said  ;  "We  do  not  believe  Tnucydldes  himself 
has  anywhere  compressed  so  much  thought  in 
•o  small  a  space."  ! 


confer  little,  he  had  need  have  a  present  wit: 
and  if  he  read  little,  he  had  need  have  mucli 
cunning,  to  seem  to  know  that^  he  doth  not. 
Histories  make  men  wise;  poets  witty ;»  the 
mathematics  subtile;  natural  philosophy  deep; 
moral  grave;  logic  and  rhetoric  able  to  con- 
tend. Abeunt  studia  in  mores fi.  Nay,  there 
is  no  stondio  or  impediment  in  the  wit  but  may 
be  wrought  outu  by  fit  studies;  like  as  dis- 
eases of  the  body  may  have  appropriate  exer- 
cises. Bowling  is  good  for  the  stoneis  and 
reins;  shootingi-t  for  the  lungs  and  breast;  gen- 
tle walking  for  the  stomach;  riding  for  the 
head ;  and  the  like.  So  if  a  man 's  wit  be  wan- 
dering, let  him  study  the  mathematics;  for  in 
demonstrations,  if  his  wit  be  called  away  never 
so  little,  he  must  begin  again.  If  his  Avit  be 
not  apt  to  distinguish  or  find  differences,  let 
him  study  the  Schoolmen  ;i*  for  they  are  ci/miiii 
scctores.  If  he  be  not  apt  to  beat  over  matters, 
and  to  call  up  one  thing  to  prove  and  illustrate 
another,  let  him  study  the  lawyers'  cases.  So 
every  defect  of  the  mind  may  have  a  special 
receipt. 

Of  Discourse 

Some  in  their  discoursei  desire  rather  com- 
mendation of  wit,  in  being  able  to  hold  all 
arguments,  than  of  judgment,  in  discerning 
what  is  true;  as  if  it  were  a  praise  to  know 
M'hat  might  be  said,  and  not  what  should  be 
thought.  Some  have  certain  common  places 
and  themes  wherein  they  are  good,  and  want 
variety;  which  kind  of  poverty  is  for  the  most 
part  tedious,  and  when  it  is  once  perceived, 
ridiculous.  The  honorablest  part  of  talk  is  to 
give  the  occasion;  and  again  to  moderate  and 
pass  to  somewhat  else;  for  then  a  man  leads 
the  dance.  It  is  good,  in  discourse  and  speech 
of  conversation,  to  vary  and  intermingle  speech 
of  the  present  occasion  Avith  arguments,  tales 
with  reasons,  asking  of  questions  with  telling 
of  opinions,  and  jest  with  earnest:  for  it  is  a 
dull  thing  to  tire,  and,  as  Ave  say  now,  to  jade 
any  thing  too  far.  As  for  jest,  there  be  cer- 
tain things  Avhich  ouglit  to  be  privilegcil  from 
it;  namely,  religion,  matters  of  state,  great  per- 
sons, any  man's  i)re,sent  business  of  importance, 
and  any  case  that  deserveth  pity.  Yet  there  be 
some  that   think   their  Avits  have  been  asleep, 


7  that  which 
s  Imaginative 
0  "Studies  are  transmu- 
ted into  character." 

10  stand,  ob.slacle 

11  removed 

12  gravel    (a   disease   of 


I  conversation 


the  kidneys,  or 

reins) 
1.1  archery 
14  medieval    theologians, 

who  were  "splitter? 

o  f     cumin  -  seeds,' 

halr-splltters 


FRANCIS  BACON 


213 


except  they  dart  out  somewhat  that  is  piquant, 
and  to  the  quick.  That  is  a  vein  which  would2 
be  bridled; 

Farce,  puer,  stimviis,  et  fortius  uiere  lorxs.^ 

And  generally,  men  ought  to  find  the  diflfer- 
ence  between  saltness  and  bitterness.  Cer- 
tainly, be  that  hath  a  satirical  vein,  as  he  mak- 
eth  others  afraid  of  his  wit,  so  he  had  need  be 
afraid  of  others'  memory.  He  that  question- 
eth  much  shall  learn  much,  and  content  much; 
but  especially  if  he  apply*  his  questions  to  the 
skill  of  the  persons  whom  he  asketh;  for  he 
shall  give  them  occasion  to  please  themselves 
in  speaking,  and  himself  shall  continually 
gather  knowledge.  But  let  his  questions  not  be 
troublesome;  for  that  is  fit  for  a  poser.3  And 
let  him  be  sure  to  leave  other  men  their  turns 
to  speak.  Nay,  if  there  be  any  that  would 
reign  and  take  up  all  the  time,  let  him  find 
means  to  take  them  off,  and  to  bring  others  on; 
as  musicians  use  to  do  with  those  that  dance 
too  long  galliards.s  If  you  dissemble  some- 
times youT  knowledge  of  that  you  are  thought 
to  know,  you  shall  be  thought  another  time  to 
know  that  you  know  not.  Speech  of  a  man's 
self  ought  to  be  seldom,  and  well  chosen.  I 
knew  one  was  wont  to  say  in  scorn,  Ke  must 
needs  be  a  wise  man,  he  speaks  so  much  of  him- 
self: and  there  is  but  one  case  wherein  a  man 
may  commend  himself  with  good  grace;  and 
that  is  in  commending  virtue  in  another;  espe- 
cially if  it  be  such  a  virtue  whereunto  himself 
pretendeth.  Speech  of  touch  towards  others 
should  be  sparingly  used;  for  discourse  ought 
to  be  as  a  field,  without  coming  home  to  any 
man.  I  knew  two  noblemen,  of  the  west  part 
of  England,  whereof  the  one  was  given  to 
scoflF,  but  kept  ever  royal  cheer  in  his  house; 
the  other  would  ask  of  those  that  had  been  at 
the  other's  table.  Tell  truly,  was  there  never  a 
flout  or  dr\f  blow  given?  To  which  the  guest 
would  answer.  Such  and  such  a  thing  passed. 
The  lord  would  say,  I  thought  he  would  mar  a 
good  dinner.  Discretion  of  speech  is  more  than 
eloquence;  and  to  speak  agreeably  to  him  with 
whom  we  deal,  is  more  than  to  speak  in  good 
words  or  in  good  order.  A  good  continued 
speech,  without  a  good  speech  of  interlocution, 
shows  slowness:  and  a  good  reply  or  second 
speech,  without  a  good  settled  speech,  showeth 
shallowness  and  weakness.  As  we  see  in  beasts, 
that  those  that  are  weakest  in  the  coarse  are 


2  should 

3  "Spare  the  whip,  boy. 

and  hold  more  flrm- 
ly  the  reins."  Ovid, 
Met.  ii,  127. 


*  adapt 

5  examiner 

6  A  lively  French  dance 

for  two, 

7  hard 


yet  nimblest  in  the  turn;  as  it  is  betwixt  the 
greyhound  and  the  hare.  To  use  too  many  cir- 
cumstances ere  one  come  to  the  matter,  is 
wearisome;    to  use  none  at  all,  is  blunt. 

Of  Friendship 

It  had  been  hard  for  himi  that  spake  it  to 
have  put  more  truth  and  untruth  together  in 
few  words,  than  in  that  speech.  Whosoever  is 
delighted  in  solitude  is  either  a  wild  beast  or 
a  god.  For  it  is  most  true  that  a  natural  and 
secret  hatred  and  aversation  towardsz  society 
in  any  man,  hath  somewhat  of  the  savage 
beast ;  but  it  is  most  untrue  that  it  should  have 
any  character  at  all  of  the  divine  nature;  ex- 
cept it  proceed,  not  out  of  a  pleasure  in  soli- 
tude, but  out  of  a  love  and  desire  to  sequester 
a  man's  self  for  higher  conversation:  such  as 
is  found  to  have  been  falsely  and  feignedly  in 
some  of  the  heathen;  as  Epimenides  the  Can- 
dian,  Numa  the  Eoman,  Empedocles  the  Sicil- 
ian, and  Apollonius  of  Tyana;*  and  truly  and 
really  in  divers  of  the  ancient  hermits  and  holy 
fathers  of  the  chnreh.  But  little  do  men  per- 
ceive what  solitude  is,  and  how  far  it  extend- 
eth.  CFor  a  crowd  is  not  company;  and  faces 
are  but  a  gallery  of  pictures;  and  talk>hut  a 
tinkling  cymbal,  where  there  is  no  love.  )  The 
Latin  adage  meeteths  with  it  a  little:  Magna 
civitas,  magna  solitudo;*  because  in  a  great 
town  friends  are  scattered ;  so  that  there  is  not 
that  fellowship,  for  the  most  part,  which  is  in 
less  neighborhoods.  But  we  may  go  further, 
and  affirm  most  truly  that  it  is  a  meres  and 
miserable  solitude  to  want  true  friends;  with- 
out which  the  world  is  but  a  wilderness;  and 
even  in  this  sense  also  of  solitude,  whosoever 
in  the  frame  of  his  nature  and  aflfections  is 
unfit  for  friendship,  he  taketh  it  of  the  beast, 
and  not  from  humanity. 

A  principal  fruit  of  friendship  is  the  ease 
and  discharge  of  the  fulness  and  swellings  of 
the  heart,  which  passions  of  all  kinds  do  cause 
and  induce.  We  know  diseases  of  stoppings 
and  suffocations  are  the  most  dangerous  in  the 
body;  and  it  is  not  much  otherwise  in  the 
mind;  you  may  take  sarza«  to  open  the  liver, 
steel  to  open  the  spleen,  flowers^  of  sulphur  for 
the  lungs,  castoreum  for  the  brain;  but  no  re- 
ceipt openeth  the  heart,  but  a  true  friend;  to 

1  Aristotle,  Politics,  i.  2.       s  pure,  complete 

2  aversion  for  o  sarsaparilla 

s  agrees  7  flower  (i.  e.,  flour,  ed. 

4  "A    great    town    is    a  1639} 

great  solitude." 

•  Epimenides,  the  Cretan  poet,  was  said  to  have 
slept  in  a  cave  for  fifty-seven  years ;  Xuma 
was  instructed  by  the  Miise  Egeria  in  a  sacred 
grove ;  Empedocles  surrounded  himself  with 
mystery  ;  Apollcmius  was  an  ascetic. 


214: 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


whom  you  may  impart  griefs,  joys,  fears, 
hopes,  suspicions,  counsels,  and  whatsoever 
lieth  upon  the  heart  to  oppress  it,  in  a  kind  of 
civil  shrift  or  confession. 

It  is  a  strange  thing  to  observe  how  high  a 
rate  great  kings  and  monarchs  do  set  upon  this 
fruit  of  friendship  whereof  we  speak:  so  great, 
as8  they  purchase  it  many  times  at  the  hazard 
of  their  own  safety  and  greatness.  For  princes, 
in  regard  of  the  distance  of  their  fortune  from 
that  of  their  subjects  and  servants,  cannot 
gather  this  fruit,  except  (to  make  themselves 
capable  thereof)  they  raise  some  persons  to  be 
as  it  were  companions  and  almost  equals  to 
themselves,  which  many  times  sorteth  too  incon- 
venience. The  modern  languages  give  unto 
such  persons  the  name  of  favorites,  or  priva- 
does;  as  if  it  were  matter  of  grace,  or  con- 
versation. But  the  Eoman  name  attaineth  the 
true  use  and  cause  thereof,  naming  them  par- 
ticipes  curarumjio  for  it  is  that  which  tieth 
the  knot.  And  we  see  plainly  that  this  hath 
been  done,  not  by  weak  and  passionate  princes 
only,  but  by  the  wisest  and  most  politic  that 
ever  reigned;  who  have  oftentimes  joined  to 
themselves  some  of  their  servants;  whom  both 
themselves  have  called  friends,  and  allowed 
others  likewise  to  call  them  in  the  same  man- 
ner; using  the  word  which  is  received  between 
private  men. 

L.  Sylla,  when  he  commanded  Rome,  raised 
Pompey  (after  surnamed  the  Great)  to  that 
height,  that  Pompey  vaunted  himself  for  Syl- 
la's  over-match.  For  when  he  had  carried  the 
consulship  for  a  friend  of  his,ii  against  the 
pursuit  of  Sylla,  and  that  Sylla  did  a  little 
resent  thereat,  and  began  to  speak  great,  Pom- 
pey turned  upon  him  again,  and  in  effect  bade 
him  be  quiet;  for  that  more  vien  adored  the 
sun  rising  than  the  sun  setting.  "With  Julius 
Caesar,  Decimus  Brutus  had  obtained  that  in- 
terest, asi2  he  set  him  down  in  his  testament 
for  heir  in  remainder  after  his  nephew.  And 
this  was  the  man  that  had  power  with  him  to 
draw  him  forth  to  his  death.  For  when  Caesar 
would  have  discharged  the  senate,  in  regard  of 
some  ill  presages,  and  specially  a  dream  of 
Calpurnia;  this  man  lifted  him  gently  by  the 
arm  out  of  his  chair,  telling  him  he  hoped  he 
would  not  dismiss  the  senate  till  his  wife  had 
dreamt  a  better  dream.  And  it  seemeth  his 
favor  was  so  great,  as  Antonius,  in  a  letter 
which  is  recited  verbatim  in  one  of  Cicero's 
Philippics,  calleth  him  venefica,  witch;  as  if  he 


8  that 

•  results  In 

10  "partnors  of  cares" 


11  Lepldus 

iiHuch  Interest  that 


had  enchanted  Caesar.  Augustus  raised  Agrippa 
(though  of  mean  birth)  to  that  height,  as  when 
he  consulted  with  Maecenas  about  the  mar- 
riage of  his  daughter  Julia,  Msecenas  took  the 
liberty  to  tell  him,  that  he  must  either  marry 
his  daughter  to  Agrippa,  or  take  atvay  his  life; 
there  was  no  third  way,  he  had  made  him  so 
great.  With  Tiberius  Caesar,  Sejanus  had  as- 
cended to  that  height,  as  they  two  were  termed 
and  reckoned  as  a  pair  of  friends.  Tiberius 
in  a  letter  to  him  saith.  Ewe  pro  amicitid 
nostra  non  occultavi;^^  and  the  whole  senate 
dedicated  an  altar  to  Friendship,  as  to  a  god- 
dess, in  respect  of  the  great  dearness  of  friend- 
ship between  them  two.  The  like  or  more  was 
between  Septimius  Severus  and  Plautianus. 
For  he  forced  his  eldest  son  to  marry  the 
daughter  of  Plautianus ;  and  would  often  main- 
tain Plautianus  in  doing  affronts  to  his  son; 
and  did  write  also  in  a  letter  to  the  senate,  by 
these  words:  I  love  the  man  so  well,  as  I  wish 
he  may  over-live  me.  Now  if  these  princes  had 
been  as  a  Trajan  or  a  Marcus  Aurelius,  a  man 
might  have  thought  that  this  had  proceeded  of 
an  abundant  goodness  of  nature;  but  being 
men  so  wise,  of  such  strength  and  severity  of 
mind,  and  so  extreme  lovers  of  themselves,  as 
all  these  were,  it  proveth  most  plainly  that 
they  found  their  own  felicity  (though  as  great 
as  ever  happened  to  mortaJ  men)  but  as  an 
half  piece,!*  except  they  mought  have  a  friend 
to  make  it  entire;  and  yet,  which  is  more,  they 
were  princes  that  had  wives,  sons,  nephews; 
and  yet  all  these  could  not  supply  the  comfort 
of  friendship. 

It  is  not  to  be  forgotten  what  Comineus  ob- 
serveth  of  his  first  master,  Duke  Charles  the 
Hardy;  namely,  that  he  would  communicate  his 
secrets  Mith  none ;  and  least  of  all,  those  secrets 
which  troubled  him  most.  Whereupon  he  goeth 
on  and  saith  that  towards  his  latter  time  that 
closeness  did  impair  and  a  little  perish  his  un- 
derstanding. Surely  Comineus  mought  have 
made  the  same  judgment  also,  if  it  had  pleased 
him,  of  his  second  master,  Louis  the  Eleventh, 
whose  closeness  was  indeed  his  tormentor.  The 
parable  of  Pythagoras  is  dark,  but  true;  Cor 
ne  edito:  Eat  not  the  heart.  Certainly,  if  a 
man  would  give  it  a  hard  phrase,  those  that 
want  friends  to  open  themselves  unto  are  can- 
nibals of  their  own  hearts.  But  one  thing  is 
most  admirableis  (wherewith  I  will  conclude 
this  first  fruit  of  friendship),  which  is,  that 
this    communicating    of    a    man 's    self    to    his 


18  "Because  of  our 
friendship  I  have 
not  concealed  this." 


14a  half-coin  (which 
sometimes  clrcnlft* 
ted) 

15  wonderful 


FRANCIS  BACON 


215 


friend  works  two  contrary  effects;  for  it  re- 
doubleth  joys,  and  cutteth  griefs  in  halves. 
For  there  is  no  man  that  imparteth  his  joys 
to  his  friend,  but  he  joyeth  the  mote;  and 
no  man  that  imparteth  his  griefs  to  his  friend, 
biit  he  grieveth  the  less.  So  that  it  is,  in  truth, 
of  18  dpet-atioh  tlpOfl  a  man's  mind,  of  like 
virtue  as  the  alchemists  ttsei*  to  attribute  to 
their  stoneis  for  mah*8  body;  that  It  worketh 
allis  contrary  effects,  biit  still  to  the  good  and 
benefit  of  nature.  But  yet  without  praying  in 
aid  of2o  alchemists,  there  is  a  manifest  Image 
of  this  in  the  ordinary  course  of  nature.  For 
in  bodies,  union  strengtheneth  and  cherisheth 
any  natural  action;  and  on  the  other  side 
weakeneth  and  dulleth  any  violent  impression: 
and  even  so  is  it  of  minds. 

The  second  fruit  of  friendship  is  healthful 
and  sovereign  for  the  understanding,  as  the  first 
is  for  the  affeetions.21  For  friendship  maketh 
indeed  a  fair  day  in  the  affections,  from  storm 
and  tempests;  but  it  maketh  daylight  in  the 
understanding,  out  of  darkness  and  confusion 
of  thoughts.  Neither  is  this  to  be  understood 
only  of  faithful  counsel,  which  a  man  receiveth 
from  his  friend;  but  before  you  come  to  that, 
certain  it  is  that  whosoever  hath  his  mind 
fraught  with  many  thoughts,  his  wits  and  un- 
derstanding do  clarify  and  break  up,  in  the 
communicating  and  discoursing  with  another; 
he  tosseth  his  thoughts  more  easily;  he  mar- 
shalleth  them  more  orderly;  he  seeth  how  they 
look  when  they  are  turned  into  words:  finally, 
he  waxeth  wiser  than  himself;  and  that  more 
by  an  hour's  discourse  than  by  a  day's  medi- 
tation. It  was  well  said  of  Themistocles  to 
the  king  of  Persia,  That  speech  teas  like  cloth 
of  Arras  opened  and  put  abroad,  whereby 
the  imagery  doth  appear  in  figure;  whereas  in 
thoughts  they  lie  but  as  in  packs.  Neither  is 
this  second  fruit  of  friendship,  in  opening  the 
understanding,  restrained  only  to  such  friends 
as  are  able  to  give  a  man  counsel;  (they  in- 
deed are  best;)  but  even  without  that,  a  man 
learneth  of  himself,  and  bringeth  his  own 
thoughts  to  light,  and  whetteth  his  wits  as 
against  a  stone,  which  itself  cuts  not.  In  a 
word,  a  man  were  better  relate22  himself  to  a 
statue  or  picture,  than  to  suffer  his  thoughts 
to  pass  in  smother. 

Add  now,  to  make  this  second  fruit  of  friend- 
ship complete,  that  other  point  which  lieth  more 
open  and  faUeth  within  vulgar 23  observation; 


ifi  in  ita 
1'  are  wont 

18  T  h  c     "philosopher's 

stono." 

19  wholly 


20  calling  upon   (a  legal 

term) 

21  feelings 

22  unbosom 

23  common 


which  is  faithful  counsel  from  a  friend.  Her- 
aclitus  saith  well  in  one  of  his  enigmas,  Dry 
light  is  ever  the  best.  And  certain  it  is,  that 
the  light  that  a  man  receiveth  by  counsel  from 
another  is  drier  and  purer  than  that  which 
conieth  from  his  own  understanding  and  judg- 
ment; which  is  ever  infused  and  drenched  in 
his  affections  and  customs.  80  aB24  there  is  as 
much  difference  between  the  counsel  that  a 
friend  giveth,  and  that  a  man  giveth  himself, 
as  there  is  between  the  counsel  of  a  friend 
and  of  a  flatterer.  For  there  is  no  such  flat- 
terer as  is  a  man's  self;  and  there  is  no  such 
remedy  against  flattery  of  a  man's  self  as  the 
liberty  of  a  friend.  Counsel  is  of  two  sorts: 
the  one  concerning  manners,  the  other  concern- 
ing business.  For  the  first,  the  best  preserva- 
tive to  keep  the  mind  in  health  is  the  faithful 
admonition  of  a  friend.  The  caUing  of  a 
man's  self  to  a  strict  account  is  a  medicine, 
sometime  too  piercing  and  corrosive.  Beading 
good  books  of  morality  is  a  little  flat  and  dead. 
Observing  our  faults  in  others  is  sometimes 
improper  for  our  case.  But  the  best  recipe 
(best,  I  say,  to  work,  and  best  to  take)  is  the 
admonition  of  a  friend.  It  is  a  strange  thing 
to  behold  what  gross  errors  and  extreme  ab- 
surdities many  (especially  of  the  greater  sort) 
do  commit,  for  want  of  a  friend  to  tell  them 
of  them;  to  the  great  damage  both  of  their 
fame  and  fortune:  for,  as  St.  James  saith,25 
they  are  as  men  that  look  sometimes  into  a 
glass,  and  presently  forget  their  own  shape 
and  favor  26  As  for  business,  a  man  may 
think,  if  he  will,  that  two  eyes  see  no  more 
than  one;  or  that  a  gamester  seeth  always 
more  than  a  looker-on;  or  that  a  man  in  anger 
is  as  wise  as  he  that  hath  said  over  the  four 
and  twenty  letters;*  or  that  a  musket  may 
be  shot  off  as  well  upon  the  arm  as  upon  a 
rest;  and  such  other  fond  and  high  imagina- 
tions, to  think  himself  all  in  all.  But  when  all 
is  done,  the  help  of  good  counsel  is  that  which 
setteth  business  straight.  And  if  any  man 
think  that  he  will  take  counsel,  but  it  shall  be 
by  pieces;  asking  counsel  in  one  business  of 
one  man,  and  in  another  business  of  another 
man;  it  is  well  (that  is  to  say,  better  perhaps 
than  if  he  asked  none  at  all)  ;  but  he  runneth 
two  dangers:  one,  that  he  shall  not  be  faith- 
fully counselled;  for  it  is  a  rare  thing,  except 
it  be  from  a  perfect  and  entire  friend,  to  have 
counsel  given,  but  such  as  shall  be  bowed  and 

24  so  that  26  features 

25Epigtt€  I,  23 

*  The  number  in  the  Greek  alphabet,  as  also  m 
the  English  when  J  and  V  were  not  differen- 
tiated from  I  and  V. 


216 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


^ 


crooked  to  some  ends  which  he  hath  that  giveth 
it.  The  other,  that  he  shall  have  counsel 
given,  hurtful  and  unsafe  (though  with  good 
meaning),  and  mixed  partly  of  mischief  and 
partly  of  remedy;  even  as  if  you  would  call  a 
physician  that  is  thought  good  for  the  cure  of 
the  disease  you  complain  of,  but  is  unac- 
quainted with  your  body;  and  therefore  may 
put  you  in  way  for  a  present  cure,  but  over- 
throweth  your  health  in  some  other  kind;  ami 
so  cure  the  disease  and  kill  the  patient.  But  a 
friend  that  is  wholly  acquainted  with  a  man's 
estate  will  beware,  by  furthering  any  present 
business,  how  he  dasheth  upon  other  incon- 
venience. And  therefore  rest  not  upon  scat- 
tered counsels;  they  will  rather  distract  and 
mislead,  than  settle  and  direct. 

After  these  two  noble  fruits  of  friendship 
(peace  in  the  affections,  and  support  of  the 
judgment),  followeth  the  last  fruit;  which  is 
like  the  pomegranate,  full  of  many  kernels; 
I  mean  aid  and  bearing  a  part  in  all  actions 
and  occasions.  Here  the  best  way  to  represent 
to  life  the  manifold  use  of  friendship  is  to 
cast27  and  see  how  many  things  there  are  which 
a  man  cannot  do  himself;  and  then  it  will  ap- 
pear that  it  was  a  sparing  speech  of  the  an- 
cients, to  say,  that  a  friend  is  another  himself; 
for  that  a  friend  is  far  more  than  himself. 
Men  have  their  time,-i8  and  die  many  times  in 
desire  of2»  some  things  which  they  principally 
take  to  heart;  the  bestowing  of  a  child,3o  the 
finishing  of  a  work,  or  the  like.  If  a  man 
have  a  true  friend,  he  may  rest  almost  secure 
that  the  care  of  those  things  will  continue  after 
him.  So  that  a  man  hath,  as  it  were,  two 
lives  in  his  desires.  A  man  hath  a  body,  and 
that  body  is  confined  to  a  place;  but  where 
friendship  is,  all  offices  of  life  are  as  it  were 
granted  to  him  and  his  deputy.  For  he  may 
exercise  them  by  his  friend.  How  many  things 
are  there  which  a  man  cannot,  with  any  face 
or  comeliness,  say  or  do  himself?  A  man  can 
scarce  allege  his  own  merits  with  modesty, 
much  less  extol  them;  a  man  cannot  sometimes 
brook  to  supplicate  or  beg;  and  a  number  of 
the  like.  But  all  these  things  are  graceful  in  a 
friend's  mouth,  which  are  blushing  in  a  man's 
own.  So  again,  a  man's  person  hath  many 
proper  relations  which  he  cannot  put  off.  A 
man  cannot  speak  to  his  son  but  as  a  father ;  to 
his  wife  but  as  a  husband;  to  his  enemy  but 
upon  terms :  whereas  a  friend  may  speak  as  the 
case  requires,  and  not  as  it  sorteth  with  the 
person.     But  to  enumerate   these   things  were 


PboDsider 
'appointed  time 


20  often    die    while   still 

desiring 
30  in   marriage 


endless;  I  have  given  the  rule,  where  a  man 
cannot  fitly  play  his  own  part ;  if  he  have  not 
a  friend,  he  may  quit  the  stage. 

Of  Eiches 

I  cannot  call  riches  better  than  the  baggage 
of  virtue.  The  Roman  word  is  better,  impedi- 
menta. For  as  the  baggage  is  to  an  army,  so 
is  riches  to  virtue.  It  cannot  be  spared  nor  left 
behind,  but  it  hindereth  the  march;  yea,  and 
the  care  of  it  sometimes  loseth  or  disturbeth 
the  victory.  Of  great  riches  there  is  no  real 
use,  except  it  be  in  the  distribution;  the  rest 
is  but  conceit.i  So  saith  Solomon,  Where  much 
is,  there  are  many  to  consume  it;  and  what 
hath  the  owner  hut  the  sight  of  it  with  his 
eyes?  The  personal  fruition-  in  any  man 
cannot  reach  to  feel  great  riches:  there  is  a 
custody  of  them;  or  a  power  of  dole  and  do- 
natives of  them;  or  a  fame  of  them;  but  no 
solid  use  to  the  owner.  Do  you  not  see  what 
feigned  prices  are  set  upon  little  stones^  and 
rarities?  and  what  works  of  ostentation  are 
undertaken,  because  there  might  seem  to  be 
some  use  of  great  riches?/ But  then  you  will 
say,  they  may  be  of  u«re  to  buy  men  out  of 
dangers  or  troubles.  As  Solomon  saith,  Eiches 
are  as  a  strong  hold,  in  the  imagination  of  the 
rich  man.  But  this  is  excellently  expressed, 
that  it  is  in  imagination,  and  not  always  in 
fact.  For  certainly  great  riches  have  sold 
more  men  than  they  have  bought  out.  Seek 
not  proud  riches,  but  such  as  thou  mayest  get 
justly,  use  soberly,  distribute  cheerfully,  and 
leave  contentedly.  Yet  have  no  abstract  nor 
friarly  contempt  of  them.  But  distinguish,  as 
Cicero  saith  well  of  Eabirius  Posthumus,  In 
studio  rei  amplificandoe  apparebat,  non  avaritiw 
procdam,  sed  instrumentum  ionitati  quoeri.^ 
Harken  also  to  Solomon,  and  beware  of  hasty 
gathering  of  riches:  Qui  festinat  ad  divitias, 
non  erit  insoiis.^  The  poets  feign  that  when 
Plutus  (which  is  Eiches)  is  sent  from  Jupiter, 
he  limps  and  goes  slowly;  but  when  he  is  sent 
from  Pluto,  he  runs  and  is  swift  of  foot.  Mean- 
ing that  riches  gotten  by  good  means  and 
just  labor  pace  slowly;  but  when  they  come 
by  the  death  of  others  (as  by  the  course  of 
inheritance,  testaments,  and  the  like),  they 
come   tumbling  upon   a   man.     But   it  mought 


1  fancy  s  distribution  and  gift 

2  enjoyment  *  Cp    Utopia   p    118. 

5  "In  his  endeavor  to  incroaso  his  wealth,  it  was 
evident  that  he  sought  not  what  should  l)e  n 
mere  prey  for  avarice,   but  nn   Instrument  of 

0  "VVho  liastens  to  become  rich  shall  not  be  inno- 
cent." 


FRANCIS  BACON 


217 


be  applied  likewise  to  Pluto,  taking  him  for 
the  devil.  For  when  riches  come  from  the 
devil  (as  bj  fraud  and  oppression  and  unjust 
means),  they  come  upon''  speed.  The  ways 
to  enrich  are  many,  and  most  of  them  foul. 
Parsimony  is  one  of  the  best,  and  yet  is  not 
innocent;  for  it  withholdeth  men  from  works 
of  liberality  and  charity.  The  improvement  of 
the  ground  is  the  most  natural  obtaining  of 
riches;  for  it  is  our  great  mother's  blessing, 
the  earth 's ;  but  it  is  slow.  And  yet  where 
men  of  great  wealth  do  stoop  to  husbandry,  it 
multiplieth  riches  exceedingly.  I  knew  a  no- 
bleman in  England,  that  had  the  greatest  audits 
of  any  man  in  my  time;  a  great  grazier,  a 
great  sheepmaster,  a  great  timber  man,  a  great 
collier,  a  great  corn-master,  a  great  lead-man, 
and  so  of  iron,  and  a  number  of  the  like  points  / 
of  husbandry.  So  ass  the  earth  seemed  a  sea 
to  hira,  in  respect  of  the  perpetual  importation. 
It  was  truly  observed  by  one,  that  himself  came 
very  hardly  to  a  little  riches,  and  very  easily 
to  great  riches.  For  when  a  man's  stock  is 
come  to  that,  that  he  can  expect^  the  prime 
of  markets,  and  overcomeio  those  bargains 
which  for  their  greatness  are  few  men's  money, 
and  be  partner  in  the  industries  of  younger 
men,  he  cannot  but  increase  mainly.n  The 
gains  of  ordinary  trades  and  vocations 
are  honest;  and  furthered  by  two  things 
chiefly:  by  diligence,  and  by  a  good  name  for 
good  and  fair  dealing.  But  the  gains  of  bar- 
gains are  of  a  more  doubtful  nature,  when  men 
shall  wait  upon' 2  others'  necessity,  brokeis  by 
servants  and  instruments  to  draw  them  on,  put 
off  others  cunningly  that  would  be  better  chap- 
men,!* and  the  like  practices,  which  are  crafty 
and  naught.15  As  for  the  choppingis  of  bar- 
gains, when  a  man  buys  not  to  hold  but  to  sell 
over  again,  that  commonly  grindeth  double, 
both  upon  the  seller  and  ypon  the  buyer.  Shar- 
ings  do  greatly  enrich,  if  the  hands  be  well 
chosen  that  are  trusted.  Usury  is  the  certain- 
est  means  of  gain,  though  one  of  the  worst; 
as  that  whereby  a  man  doth  eat  his  bread  in 
sudore  vultus  aUeni;^"!  and  besides,  doth  plough 
upon  Sundays.  But  yet  certain  though  it  be, 
it  hath  flaws;  for  thatis  the  scriveners  and 
brokers  do  valuers  unsound  men  to  serve  their 
own  turn.  The  fortune  in  being  the  first  in  an 
invention   or   in   a   privilege   doth   cause   some- 


Twith 
8  so  that 
«  wait  for 

10  command 

11  greatly 

12  must  watch  for 

13  negotiate 
1*  hnvers 

IS  bad 


16  bartering,  dealing  In 

17  "in  the  sweat  of  an- 

other man's  face" 

18  because 

19  represent  them  to  be 

financially  sound 
(for  the  sake  of 
getting  a  commis- 
sion on  the  loan) 


times  a  wonderful  overgrowth  in  riches;  as  it 
was  with  the  first  sugar  man  in  the  Canaries. 
Therefore  if  a  man  can  play  the  true  logician, 
to  have  as  well  judgment  as  invention,  he  may 
do  great  matters;  especially  if  the  times  be  fit. 
He  that  resteth  upon  gains  certain  shall 
hardly2o  grow  to  great  riches;  and  he  that 
puts  all  upon  adventures  doth  oftentimes  break 
and  come  to  poverty:  it  is  good  therefore  to 
guard  adventures  with  certainties,  that  may 
uphold  losses.  Monopolies,  and  coemptionsi  of 
wares  for  re-sale,  where  they  are  not  re- 
strained,22  are  great  means  to  enrich;  espe- 
cially if  the  party  have  intelligence  what 
things  are  like  to  come  into  request,  and  so 
stfli^e  himself  beforehand.  Biches  gotten  by 
^rviee,  though  it  be  of  the  best  rise,23  yet 
when  they  are  gotten  by  flattery,  feeding 
humours,24  and  other  servile  conditions,  they 
may  be  placed  amongst  the  worst.  As  for  fish- 
ing for  testaments  and  executorships  (as  Tac- 
itus saith  of  Seneca,  testamenta  et  orbos  tani' 
qiiam  indagine  capi-^),  it  is  yet  worse,  by  how 
much  men  submit  themselves  to  meaner  per- 
sons than  in  service.  Believe  not  much  them 
that  seem  to  despise  riches;  for  they  despise 
them  that2C  despair  of  th^n;  and  none  worse 
when  they  come  to  them.  Be  not  penny- wise; 
riches  have  wings,  and  sometimes  they  fly  away 
of  themselves,  sometimes  they  must  be  set  fly- 
ing to  bring  in  more.  Men  leave  their  riches 
either  to  their  kindred,  or  to  the  public;  and 
moderate  portions  prosper  best  in  both.  A 
great  state  left  to  an  heir,  is  as  a  lure  to  all 
the  birds  of  prey  round  about  to  seize  on  him, 
if  he  be  not  the  better  stablished  in  years  and 
judgment.  Likewise  glorious2T  gifts  and  foun- 
dations are  like  sacrifices  without  salt;  and  but 
the  painted  sepulchres  of  alms,  which  soon  will 
putrefy  and  corrupt  inwardly.28  Therefore 
measure  not  thine  advancements  by  quantity, 
but  frame  them  by  measure:  and  defer  not 
charities  till  death;  for,  certainly,  if  a  man 
weigh  it  rightly,  he  that  doth  so  is  rather  lib- 
eral of  another  man's  than  of  his  own. 

Ot  Revenge 
Revenge  is  a  kind  of  wild  justice;  which  the 
more  man  's  nature  runs  to,  the  more  ought  law 
to  weed  it  cut.  For  as  for  the  first  wrong,  it 
doth  but  offend  the  law;  but  the  revenge  of 
that  wrong  putteth  the  law  out  of  oflSce.29    Cer- 


20  with  difficulty 

21  cornering 

22  i.  e..  by  law 

23  source 

24  catering  to  whims 

25  -He    took    wills    and 

wardships  as  with  a 
net." 


26  who    (antecedent    is 

they) 

27  valn-glorious 

28  See     Mark     ix,     40 ; 

Matthew    xxili.    27. 

29  i.  e.,  by  assuming  its 

fnnction 


218 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


tainly,  in  taking  revenge,  a  man  is  but  even 
with  liis  enemy;  but  in  passing  it  over,  he  is 
superior;  for  it  is  a  prince's  part  to  pardon. 
And  Solomon,  I  am  sure,  saith,  /*  is  the  glory 
of  a  man  to  pass  by  an  offense.  That  which 
is  past  is  gone,  and  irrevocable;  and  wise  men 
have  enough  to  do  with  things  present  and  to 
come;  therefore  they  do  but  trifle  with  them- 
selves, that  labor  in  past  matters.  There  is 
no  man  doth  a  wrong  for  the  wrong's  sake; 
but  thereby  to  purchase  himself  profit,  or  pleas- 
ure, or  honor,  or  the  like.  Therefore  why 
should  1  be  angry  with  a  man  for  loving  him- 
self better  than  me?  And  if  any  man  should 
do  wrong  merely  out  of  ill-nature,  why,  yet  it  is 
but  like  the  thorn  or  briar,  which  prick  and 
scratch,  because  they  can  do  no  other^^  The 
most  tolerable  sort  of  revenge  is  for  those 
wrongs  which  there  is  no  law  to  remedy;  but 
then  let  a  man  take  heed  the  revenge  be  such 
as  there  is  no  law  to  punish;  else  a  man's 
enemy  is  still  before  hand,  and  it  is  two  for 
one.  Some,  when  they  take  revenge,  are  desir- 
ous the  party  should  know  whence  it  cometh. 
This  is  the  more  generous.  For  the  delight 
seemeth  to  be  not  so  much  in  doing  the  hurt  as 
in  making  the  party  repent.  But  base  and 
crafty  cowards  are  like  the  arrow  that  flieth 
in  the  dark.  Cosmus,  duke  of  Florence,  had  a 
desperate  saying  against  perfidious  or  neglect- 
ing friends,  as  if  those  wrongs  were  unpardon- 
able; You  shall  read  (saith  he)  that  we  are 
commanded  to  forgive  our  enemies;  hut  you 
never  read  that  we  are  commanded  to  forgive 
our  friends.  But  yet  the  spirit  of  Job  was 
in  a  better  tune:  Shall  we  (saith  he)  take 
good  at  God 's  hands,  and  not  he  content  to  take 
evil  also?  And  so  of  friends  in  a  proportion. 
This  is  certain,  that  a  man  that  studieth  re- 
venge, keeps  his  own  wounds  green,  which  oth- 
erwise would  heal  and  do  well.  Public  revenges 
are  for  the  most  part  fortunate  ;3o  as  that  for 
the  death  of  Ca!sar;  for  the  death  of  Pertinax; 
for  the  death  of  Henry  the  Third  of  France; 
and  many  more.  But  in  private  revenges  it  is 
not  so.  Nay  rather,  vindictive  persons  live  the 
life  of  witches;  who,  as  they  are  michievoHS,  so 
end  they  in fortunate. 

Of  Gardens 

God  Almighty  first  planted  a  garden.  And 
indeed  it  is  the  purest  of  human  pleasures,  it 
is  the  greatest  refreshment  to  the  spirits  of 
man ;  without  which  buildings  and  palaces  are 
but  gross  handiworks:  and  a  man  shall  ever  si^e 
that  when  ages  grow  to  civility  and  elegancy, 

30  of  (jood  result 


men  come  to  build  stately  sooner  than  to  gar- 
den finely;  as  if  gardening  were  the  greater 
perfection.  I  do  hold  it,i  in  the  royal  ordering 
of  gardens,  there  ought  to  be  gardens  for  all 
the  months  in  the  year;  in  which  severally 
things  of  beauty  may  be  then  in  season.2  For 
December,  and  January,  and  the  latter  part  of 
November,  you  must  take  such  things  as  are 
green  all  winter:  holly;  ivy;  bays;  juniper; 
cypress-trees;  yew;  pine-apple-trees; 3  fir-trees; 
rosemary;  lavender;  periwinkle,  the  white,  the 
purple,  and  the  blue;  germander;  flags;  or- 
ango-trees;  lemon-trees;  and  myrtles,  if  they 
be  stoved;4  and  sweet  marjoram,  warm  set.'' 
There  followeth,  for  the  latter  part  of  January 
and  February,  the  mezereon-tree,^  wluch  then 
blossoms;  crocus  vernus,7  both  the  yellow  and 
the  grey;  primroses;  anemones;  the  early  tu- 
lippa;  hyacinthus  orientalis;  chamaTris;^  fri- 
tellaria.  For  March,  there  come  violets,  spe- 
cially the  single  blue,  which  are  the  earliest; 
the  yellow  dafl:"odil;  the  daisy;  the  almond- 
tree  in  blossom;  the  peach-tree  in  blossom;  the 
cornelian-tree  in  blossom;  sweet-briar.  In  April 
follow  the  double  white  violet;  the  wall-flower; 
the  stock-gilliflower;  the  cowslip;  flower-de- 
liceSjO  and  lilies  of  all  natures;  rosemary-flow- 
ers; the  tulippa;  the  double  peony;  the  pale 
daffodil;  the  French  honeysuckle;  the  cherry- 
tree  in  blossom;  the  damson  and  plum-trees  in 
blossom ;  the  white  thorn  in  leaf ;  the  lilac-tree. 
In  May  and  June  come  pinks  of  all  sorts,  spe- 
cially the  blush-pink;  roses  of  all  kinds,  except 
the  musk,  which  comes  later;  honeysuckles; 
strawberries;  bugloss;  columbine;  the  French 
marigold;  flos  Africanus;io  cherry-tree  in 
fruit;  ribes;ii  figs  in  fruit;  rasps ;i2  vine-flow- 
ers; lavender  in  flowers;  the  sweet  satyrian,i3 
with  the  white  flower;  herba  muscaria;!*  lilium 
convallium;  the  apple-tree  in  blossom.  In  July 
come  gilliflowers  of  all  varieties;  musk-roses; 
the  lime-tree  in  blossom;  early  pears  and  plums 
in  fruit;  jennetings ;i'>  codlins.  In  August  come 
plums  of  all  sorts  in  fruit;  pears;  apricocks; 
berberries;  filberds;  musk-melons;  monks-hoods, 
of  all  colors.  In  September  come  grapes;  ap- 
ples; poppies  of  all  colors;  peaches;  meloco- 
tones;i«  nectarines;  cornelians;  wardens;  it 
quinces.     In  October  and  the  beginning  of  No- 


1  maintain 

2  Cn.    M'inicr'K   Talc,  iv. 

4,  72  ff. 

3  pines    (conos    b  e 1 n  ff 

cailod   pino-apples) 

4  Itopt  in  a  hot-houRc 
(i  warmly  placed 

0  a  shruli-laurel 

7  spring  crocus 

8  dwarf  iris 


9  flenr-de-lis 

10  African    marigold 

1 1  currants 

12  raspl)errios 

13  orchis 

14  grape  hyacinth 
ir.  early  apples 

IB  a  variety  of  peach 
IT  late  pears 


FRANCIS  BACON 


219 


vember  come  services ;i8  medlars;  bullaees;>» 
roses  cut  or  removed  to  come  late;  holly-hocks; 
and  such  like.  These  particulars  are  for  the 
climate  of  London;  but  my  meaning  is  per- 
ceived, that  you  may  have  ver  peTp€tuum,2o  as 
the  place  affords. 

And  because  the  breath  of  flowers  is  far 
sweeter  in  the  air  (where  it  comes  and  goes 
like  the  warbling  of  music)  than  in  the  hand, 
therefore  nothing  is  more  fit  for  that  delight, 
than  to  know  what  be  the  flowers  and  plants 
that  do  best  perfume  the  air,  Roses,  damask 
and  red,  are  fast2i  flowers  of  their  smells;  so 
that  you  may  walk  by  a  whole  row  of  them, 
and  find  nothing  of  their  sweetness;  yea  though 
it  be  in  a  morning's  dew.  Bays  likewise  yield 
no  smell  as  they  grow.  Bosemary  little;  nor 
sweet  marjoram.  That  which  above  all  others 
yields  the  sweetest  snj^l  in  the  air  is  the  violet, 
specially  the  white  double  violet,  which  comes 


18  s  o  r  b,   mountain-ash, 

rowan 
It  a  plum 


20  "perpetual  spring" 

21  frugal 


twice  a  year;  about  the  middle  of  April,  and 
about  Bartholomew-tide.22  Next  to  that  is  the 
muskrose.  Then  the  strawberry-leaves  dying, 
which  [yield]  a  most  excellent  cordial  smell. 
Then  the  flower  of  the  vines;  it  is  a  little  dustj 
like  the  dust  of  a  bent,23  which  grows  upon 
the  cluster  in  the  first  coming  forth.  Then 
sweet-briar.  Then  wall-flowers,  which  are  very 
delightful  to  be  set  under  a  parlor  or  lower 
chamber  window.  Then  pinks  and  gilliflowers, 
specially  the  matted  pink  and  clove  gilliflower. 
Then  the  flowers  of  the  lime-tree.  Then  the 
honeysuckles,  so  they  be  somewhat  afar  off. 
Of  bean-flowers  I  speak  not,  because  they  are 
field  flowers.  But  those  which  perfume  the  air 
most  delightfully,  not  passed  by  as  the  rest, 
but  being  trodden,  upon  and  crushed,  are  three ; 
that  is,  burnet,  wild-thyme,  and  watermints. 
Therefore  you  are  to  set  whole  alleyss*  of  them, 
to  have  the  pleasure  when  you  walk  or  tread. 


22  August  24 

23  grass-Stalk  or  rush 


24  paths 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY 


CAROLINE  LYRICS 

GEORGE  HEEBEBT  (1593-1633) 

Virtue 


Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky! 

The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night; 
For  thou  must  die. 


Sweet  rose,  whose  hue,  angry  and  brave. 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye, 

Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave, 
And  thou  must  die. 


Sweet  spring,  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie, 

My  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes, 
And  all  must  die. 


Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul. 
Like  seasoned  timber,  never  gives; 

But  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal, 
Then  chiefly  lives. 


THOMAS  CAEEW  (1598?-1639?) 
Song* 


Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows, 
When  June  is  past,  the  fading  rose. 
For  in  your  beauty's  orient  deep 
These  flowers,  as  in  their  causes,  sleep. 


Ask  me  no  more  whither  do  stray 
The  golden  atoms  of  the  day. 
For,  in  pure  love,  heaven  did  prepare 
Those  powders  to  enrich  your  hair. 


*  In  Rtanza  3,  "dividinK"  meaoH  riinnlnR  musical 
divlBions ;  for  "sphere,"  st.  4,  see  note  on  Par. 
Lost.  II,   1030. 


Ask  we  no  more  whither  doth  haste 
The  nightingale  when  May  is  past. 
For  in  your  sweet  dividing  throat 
She  winters  and  keeps  warm  her  note. 

4 

Ask  me  no  more  where  those  stars  light 
That  downwards  fall  in  dead  of  night. 
For  in  your  eyes  they  sit,  and  there 
Fixed  become  as  in  their  sphere. 

6 

Ask  me  no  more  if  east  or  west 
The  phoenix  builds  her  spicy  nest. 
For  unto  you  at  last  she  flies. 
And  in  your  fragrant  bosom  dies. 

SIR  JOHN  SUCKLING  (1609-1642) 
Song  from  Aglaura 
1 
Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover  1 

Prithee,  why  so  pale? 
Will,  when  looking  well  can't  move  her, 
Looking  ill  prevail? 
Prithee,  why  so  pale? 

2 
Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute? 
Will,  when  speaking  well  can't  win  her, 

Saying  nothing  do't? 

Prithee,  wky  so  mute? 

3 
Quit,  quit   for   shame!      This  will   not   move; 

This  cannot  take  her. 
If  of  herself  she  will  not  love, 

Nothing  can  make  her: 

The  devil  take  herl 

RICHARD  LOVELACE  (1618-1658) 

To  LucASTA.     Going  to  the  Wars 
1 
Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind, 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind 

To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 


220 


CAROLINE  LYKICS 


221 


True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase, 

The  first  foe  in  the  field; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

3 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  you,  too,  shall  adore; 
I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 

Loved  I  not  honour  more. 


To  Althea,  fbom  Prison* 

1 

When  Love  with  unconfinM  wings 

Hovers  within  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  the  grates; 
When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair 

And  fettered  to  her  eye. 
The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air 

Know  no  such  liberty. 


When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round 

With   no   allaying   Thames, 
Our   careless  heads  with   roses  bound, 

Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames; 
When  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep. 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free — 
Fishes  that  tipple  in  the  deep 

Know   no   such  liberty. 


When,  like  committed  linnets,  I 

With  shriUer  throat  shall  sing 
The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty. 

And  glories  of  my  King; 
When  I  shall  voice  aloud  how  good 

He  is,  how  great  should  be, 
Enlarg&d  winds,  that  curl  the  flood, 

Know  no  such  liberty. 


Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage; 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love 

And  in  my  soul  am  free, 


•  Lovelace,  the  gallant  cavalier  and  poet,  was.  for 
his  devotion  to  King  Charles,  twice  behind  i 
bars — a  "committed"  song-bird.  In  line  7.  the  i 
original  reading  is  "gods,"  but  the  emenda-  \ 
tion  '"birds"  is  too  plausible  to  be  dlsmis.sed,  i 
especially  in  view  of  the  sequence — birds.  | 
fishes,  winds,  angels.  In  stanza  2,  "allaying" 
means  diluting.  I 


Angels  alone,  that  soar  above. 
Enjoy  such  liberty. 

BOBEBT  HEBBICK  (1591-1674) 

CowxNA's  Going  A-MayingI 

Get  up,  get  up  for  shame,  the  blooming  morn 
Upon  her  wings  presents  the  god  unshorn. 
See  how  Aurora  throws  her  fair 
Fresh-quilted  colours  through  the  airj 
Get  up,  sweet  slug-a-bed,  and  see 
The  dew  bespangling  herb  and  tree. 
Each  flower  has  wept  and  bowed  toward  the 

east 
Above  an  hour  since :  yet  you  not  dress  'd ; 
Nay!  not  so  much  as  out  of  bed! 
When  all  the  birds  have  matins  said  10 

And  sung  their  thankful  hymns,    'tis  sin, 
Nay,  profanation,  to  keep  in, 
Whenas  a  thousand  virgins  on  this  day 
Spring,  sooner  than  the  lark,  to  fetch  in  May. 

Bise  and  put  on  your  foliage,  and  be  seen 
To  come  forth,  like  the  spring-time,  fresh  and 
green. 
And  sweet  as  Flora.     Take  no  care 
For  jewels  for  your  gown  or  hair: 
Fear  not;   the  leaves  will  strew 
Gems  in  abundance  upon  you:  20 

Besides,  the  childhood  of  the  day  has  kept. 
Against  you  come,  some  orient  pearls  unwept; 
Come  and  receive  them  while  the  light 
Hangs  on  the  dew-locks  of  the  night: 
And  Titan  on  the  eastern  hill 
Betires  himself,  or  else  stands  still 
Till  you  come  forth.    Wash,  dress,  be  brief  in 

praying: 
Few  beads  are  best  when  once  we  go  a-Maying. 

Come,  my  Corinna,  come;   and,  coming,  mark 

How  each   field   turns  a   street,  each  street   a 
park  30 

Made  green  and  trimmed  with  trees;  see  hon 
Devotion  gives  each  house  a  bough 
Or  branch:  each  porch,  each  door  ere  this 
An  ark,  a  tabernacle  is, 

Made  up  of  white-thorn,  neatly  interwove; 

As  if  here  were  those  cooler  shades  of  love. 
Can  such  delights  be  in  the  street 
And  open  fields  and  we  not  see't? 
Come,  we'll  abroad;   and  let's  obey 
The  proclamation  made  for  May:  40 


t  The  "god  unshorn"  of  line  2  is  Titan  with  all 
his  beams:  "May"  (14)  is  hawthorne  and 
other  May  blossoms  ;  "beads"  (28)  are  prayers ; 
"green-gown"  (51)  is  a  tumble  on  the 
grass. 


222 


THE  SETENTEENTU  CENTURY 


And  sin  no  more,  as  we  have  done,  by  staying; 
But,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a-Maying. 

There's  not  a  budding  boy  or  girl  this  day 
But  is  got  up,  and  gone  to  bring  in  May. 
A  deal  of  youth,  ere  this,  is  come 
Back,  and  with  white-thorn  laden  home. 
Some  have  despatched  their  cakes  and  cream 
Before  that  we  have  left  to  dream: 
And  some  have  wept,  and  woo  'd,  and  plighted 

troth. 
And   chose   their   priest,   ere   we   can   cast   ofl' 
sloth:  50 

Many  a  green-gown  has  been  given; 
Many  a  kiss,  both  odd  and  even: 
Many  a  glance,  too,  has  been  sent 
From  out  the  eye,  love's  firmament; 
Many  a  jest  told  of  the  keys  betraying 
This   night,    and    locks    picked,   yet    we're   not 
a-Maying. 

Come,  let  us  go  while  we  are  in  our  prime; 

And  take  the  harmless  folly  of  the  time. 
We  shall  grow  old  apace,  and  die 
Before  we  know  our  liberty.  60 

Our  life  is  short,  and  our  days  run 
As  fast  away  as  does  the  sun; 

And,  as  a  vapour  or  a  drop  of  rain. 

Once  lost,  can  ne'er  be  found  again, 
So  when  or  you  or  I  are  made 
A  fable,  song,  or  fleeting  shade. 
All  love,  all  liking,  all  delight 
Lies  drowned  with  us  in  endless  night. 

Then  while  time  serves,   and  we  are   but   de- 
caying, 

Come,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a-Maying.  70 


To  THE  ViEGINS,  TO  MAKE  MuCH  OF  TiME 


Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may. 

Old  time  is  still  a-flying; 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day, 

To-morrow  will  be  dying. 


The  glorious  lamp  of  heaven,  the  sun. 

The  higher  he's  a-getting. 
The  sooner  will  his  race  bo  run, 

And  nearer  he's  to  setting. 


That  age  is  best  which  is  the  first, 
When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer; 

But  being  spent,  the  worse  and  worst 
Times  still  succeed  the  former. 


Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time, 
And  while  ye  may,  go  marry; 

For,  having  lost  but  once  your  prime, 
You  may  forever  tarry. 

To  Electra 


I  dare  not  ask  a  kiss, 
1  dare  not  beg  a  smile. 

Lest  having  that  or  this, 

1  might  grow  proud  the  while. 

2 
No,  no,  the  utmost  share 

Of  my  desire  shall  be 
Only  to  kiss  that  air 

That  lately  kissed  thee. 

How  Roses  Came  Red 


Roses  at  first  were  white, 
Till  they  could  not  agree. 

Whether  my  Sapho's  breast 
Or  they  more  white  should  be. 

2 
But  being  vanquished  quite, 

A  blush  their  cheeks  bespread; 
Since   which,   believe   the  rest, 

The  roses  first  came  red. 


EDMUND  WALLER  (1606-1687) 
Go,  Lovely  Rose 

1 

Go,  lovely  Rose! 

Tell  her  that  wastes  her  time  and  me. 

That  now  she  knows. 

When  I  resemble  her  to  thee. 

How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 


Tell  her  that's  young. 

And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied. 

That  hadst  thou  sprung 

In  deserts,  where  no  men  abide. 

Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 


Small  is  the  worth 

Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired; 

Bi<l  her  come  forth, 

Suflfer  herself  to  be  desired. 

And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 


JOHN  MILTON 


223 


Then  die!   that  she 

The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee; 

How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 

That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair. 

On  a  Girdle 

1 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined, 
Shall  now  my  joyful  temples  bind; 
Xo  monarch  but  would  give  his  crown, 
His  arms  might  do  what  this  has  done. 


It  was  my  heaven 's  extr«nest  sphere. 
The  pale  which  held  that  lovely  deer. 
My  joy,  my  grief,  my  hope,  my  love, 
Did  all  within  this  circle  move. 


A  narrow  compass!  and  yet  there 
Dwelt  all  that 's  good,  and  all  that 's  fair ; 
C'live  me  but  what  this  ribband  bound, 
Take  all  the  rest  the  sun  goes  round. 

HENBY  VAUGHAN  (1622-1695) 

The  Ketreat 

Happy  those  early  days,  when  I 

Shined  in  my  angel  infancy! 

Before  I  understood  this  place 

Appointed  for  my  second  race. 

Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  ought 

But  a  white,  celestial  thought; 

When  yet  I  had  not  walked  above 

A  mile  or  two  from  my  first  love, 

And  looking  back — at  that  short  space — 

Could  see  a  glimpse  of  His  bright  face; 

When  on  some  gilded  cloud  or  flower 

My  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  hour. 

And  in  those  weaker  glories  spy 

Some  shadows  of  eternity; 

Before  I  taught  my  tongue  to  wound 

My  conscience  with  a  sinful  sound. 

Or  had  the  black  art  to  dispense, 

A  several  sin  to  every  sense, 

But  felt  through  all  this  fleshly  dress 

Bright  shoots  of  everlastingness. 

O  how  I  long  to  travel  back, 
And  tread  again  that  ancient  track  1 
That  I  might  once  more  reach  that  plain, 
Where  first  I  left  my  glorious  train; 
Prom  whence  the  enlightened  spirit  sees 


11 


20 


That  shady  city  of  palm  trees. 

But  ah!  my  soul  with  too  much  stay 

Is  dirunk,  and  staggers  in  the  way! 

Some  men  a  forward  motion  love, 

But  I  by  backward  steps  would  move;  30 

And  when  this  dust  falls  to  the  um. 

In  that  state  I  came,  return. 


JOHN  MILTON  (1608-1674) 

ON    THE    MORNING    OF    CHRIST'S 
NATIVITY 

Composed  16S9. 

This  is  the  month,  and  this  the  happy  morn. 
Wherein  the  Son  of  Heaven 's  eternal  King, 
Of  wedded  maid  and  virgin  mother  born, 
Our  great  retlemption  from  above  did  bring; 
For  so  the  holy  sagesi  once  did  sing. 

That  he  our  deadly  forfeit^  should  release, 
And  with  his  Father  work  us  a  perpetual  peace. 

That  glorious  form,  that  light  unsufferable, 
And  that  far -beaming  blaze  of  majesty. 
Wherewith  he  wonts  at  Heaven's  high  council- 
table 
To  sit  the  midst  of  Trinal  Unity,  11 

He  laid  aside;  and  here  with  us  to  be, 

Forsook  the  courts  of  everlasting  day, 
And  chose  with  us  a  darksome  house  of  mortal 
clay. 

Say,  Heavenly  Muse,  shall  not  thy  sacred  vein 

Afford  a  present  to  the  Infant  Godf 

Hast  thou  no  verse,  no  hymn,  or  solemn  strain, 

To  welcome  him  to  this  his  new  abode. 

Now  while  the  heaven,  by  the  sun's  team  un- 

trod. 
Hath    took    no    print    of    the    approaching 

light,  20 

And    all    the    spangled    host    keep    watch    in 

squadrons  bright? 

See  how  from  far  upon  the  eastern  road 
The  star-led  wizards*  haste  with  odours  sweet! 
O  run,  prevents  them  with  thy  humble  ode. 
And  lay  it  lowly  at  his  blessed  feet; 
Have  thou  the  honour  first  thy  Lord  to  greet. 

And  join  thy  voice  unto  the  angel  quire. 
From   out   his   secret   altar   touched   with  hal- 
lowed fire. 


1  The    O I  d    Testament  4  Wise    Men    from    the 

prophets.  East 

2  penalty  for  sin  5  anticipate 

3  was  wont 


224 


THE  SEVKNTEENTH  CENTURY 


The  Hymn 

It  was  the  winter  wild, 

While  the  heaven-born  child  30 

All  meanly  wrapt  iu  the  rude  manger  lies ; 
Nature,  in  awe  to  him. 
Had  doffed  her  gaudy  trim, 

With  her  great  Master  so  to  sympathize: 
It  was  no  season  then  for  her 
To  wanton  with  the  sun,  her  lusty  paramour. 

Only  with  speeches  fair 
She  woos  the  gentle  air 

To  hide  her  guilty  front  with  innocent  snow, 
And  on  her  naked  shame,  *^ 

Pollute  with  sinful  blame, 

The  saintly  veil  of  maiden  white  to  throw; 
Confounded,  that  her  Maker's  eyes 
Should  look  80  near  upon  her  foul  deformities. 

But  he,  her  fears  to  cease, 

Sent  down  the  meek-eyed  Peace: 

She,  crowned  with  olive  green,  came  softly 
sliding 

Down  through  the  turning  sphere,« 

His  ready  harbinger^ 

With  turtles  wing  the  amorous  clouds  divid- 
ing; 

And  waving  wide  her  myrtle  wand,  51 

She  strikes  a  universal  peace  through  sea  and 
land. 

No  war,  or  battle 's  sound. 
Was  heard  the  world  around; 

The  idle  spear  and  shield  were  high  uphung; 
The  hookfeda  chariot  stood 
Unstained  with  hostile  blood; 

The  trumpet  spake  not  to  the  armfed  throng; 
And  kings  sat  still  with  awfuUo  eye. 
As  if  they  surely  knew  their  sovran  Lord  was 
by.  60 

But  peaceful  was  the  night 
Wherein  the  Prince  of  Light 

His  reign  of  peace  upon  the  earth  began: 
The  winds,  with  wonder  whist," 
Smoothly  the  waters  kissed. 

Whispering  new  joys  to  the  mild  ocean, 
Who  now  hath  quite  forgot  to  rave, 
While    birds    of    calm    sit    brooding    on    the 
charmed  wave. 

The  stars,  with  deep  amaze. 
Stand  fixed  in  steadfast  gaze,  '<> 

Bending  one  way  their  precious  influence, 

6  See  note  to  Par.  Lont,       o  The    axles    of   ancient 

II,  1030,  p.  265.  war-charlot8      were 

7  foreriinnor  armed  with  scythes. 

8  turtle-dove  lo  full  of  awe 

11  stilled 


And  will  not  take  their  flight, 
For  all  the  morning  light. 

Or  Luciferi2  that  often  warned  them  thence; 
But  in  their  glimmering  orbs  did  glow, 
Until  their  Lord  himself  bespake  and  bid  them 
go.       .  .^■.  -... 

And  though  the  shady  gloom 
Had  given  day  her  room. 

The  sun  himself  withheld  his  wonted  speed. 
And  hid  his  head  for  shame,  80 

Asi3  his  inferior  flame 

The   new-enlightened   world   no   more   should 
need: 
He  saw  a  greater  Sun  appear 
Than    his    bright    throne    or    burning    axletree 
could  bear. 

The  shepherds  on  the  lawn,i* 
Or  ere  the  point  of  dawn. 

Sat  simply  chatting  in  a  rustic  row; 
Full  little  thought  they  thani- 
That  the  mighty  Panio 

Was  kindly  come  to  live  with  them  below :  90 
Perhaps  their  loves,  or  else  their  sheep. 
Was  all  that  did  their  sillyi^  thoughts  so  busy 
keep. 

When  such  music  sweet 

Their  hearts  and  ears  did  greet 

As  never  was  by  mortal  finger  8trook,i8 
Divinely-warbled  voice 
Answering  the  stringed  noise. 

As  all  their  souls  in  blissful  rapture  took: 
The  air,  such  pleasure  loath  to  lose. 
With  thousand  echoes  still  prolongs  each  heav- 
enly close.  ^^^ 

Nature,  that  heard  such  sound 
Beneath  the  hollow  round 

Of  Cynthia's  seatis  the  airy  region  thrilling, 
Now  was  almost  won 
To  think  her  part  was  done. 

And     that     her    reign     had     here    its    last 
fulfilling: 
She  knew  such  harmony  alone 
Could   hold    all   heaven   and    earth   in   happier 
union. 

At  last  surrounds  their  sight 
A  globe  of  circular  light,  H** 

That  with  long  beams  the  shamefaced  night 
arrayed ; 


12  The  morning  star. 

13  as  If 

14  untitled  ground 

15  then 

16  The  Rod  of  shepherds ; 

here  Christ,  as  the 
Good  Shepherd. 


17  Prom    the   same   root 
as  the  German  iicUg, 
holy ;     here,     Inno- 
cent. 
iR  struck  » 

10  The  moon's  sphere. 


JOHN  MILTON 


225 


The  helmed  cherubim 
And  sworded  seraphim 

Are  seen  in  glittering  ranks  with  wings  dis- 
played, 
Harping  in  loud  and  solemn  quire, 
With    unexpressive^o   notes,   to    Heaven's   new- 
born heir. 

Such  music  (as  'tis  said) 
Before  was  never  made. 

But  when  of  old  the  sons  of  morning  sung,2i 
While  the  Creator  great  120 

His  constellations  set, 

And  the  well-balanced  world  on  hinges  hung. 
And  cast  the  dark  foundations  deep, 
And  bid  the  weltering  waves  their  oozy  chan- 
nel keep. 

King  out,  ye  crystal  spheres! 
Once  bless  our  human  ears 

(If  ye  have  power  to  touch  our  senses  so). 
And  let  your  silver  chime 
Move  in  melodious  time; 

And   let    the   bass   of   heaven's   deep   organ 
blow ; 
And  with  your  ninefold^a  harmony  131 

Make  up  full  consort  to  the  angelic  symphony. 

For  if  such  holy  song 

Enwrap  our  fancy  long. 

Time  will   run   back   and   fetch   the   age    of 
gold; 

And  speckled  Vanity 

Will  sicken  soon  and  die. 

And    leprous    Sin    will    melt    from    earthly 
mould ; 

And  Hell  itself  will  pass  away. 

And  leave  her  dolorous  mansions  to  the  peer- 
ing day.  1*0 

Yea,  Truth  and  Justice  then 
Will  down  return  to  men. 

Orbed    in     a     rainbow;     and,     like     glories 
wearing, 
^lercy  will  sit  between. 
Throned  in  celestial  sheen, 
With   radiant   feet   the   tissued   clouds   down 
steering ; 
And  heaven,  as  at  some  festival. 
Will  open  wide  the  gates  of  her  high  palace- 
hall. 


The  Babe  yet  lies  in  smiling  infancy 
That  on  the  bitter  cross 
Must  redeem  our  loss, 

So  both  himself  and  us  to  glorify: 
Yet  first,  to  those  ychained  in  sleep. 
The   wakeful    trump    of    doom    must    thunder 
through  the  deep,-3 

With  such  a  horrid  clang 
As  on  Mount  Sinai  rang,24 

While   the   red   fire   and   smouldering   clouds 

out brake : 
The  aged  earth,  aghast  160 

With  terror  of  that  blast,25 

Shall  from  the  surface  to  the  centre  shake, 
When,  at  the  world's  last  session, 
The  dreadful  Judge  in  middle  air  shall  spread 

his  throne. 

And  then  at  last  our  bliss 
Full  and  perfect  is,26 

But  now  begins;  for  from  this  happy  day 
The  old  Dragon  under  ground, 
In  straiter  limits  bound. 

Not  half  so  far  casts  his  usurped  sway;     ITO 
And  wroth  to  see  his  kingdom  fail, 
Swinges27  the  scaly  horror  of  his  folded  tail. 

The  oracles  are  dumb; 28 

Xo  voice  or  hideous  hum 

Buns  through  the  arched  roof  in  words  de- 
ceiving. 

Apollo  from  his  shrine 

Can  no  more  divine. 

With  hollow  shriek  the  steep  of  Delphos  leav- 
ing. 

No  nightly  trance,  or  breathed  spell, 

Inspires  the  pale-eyed  priest  from  the  prophetic 
cell.  180 

The  lonely  mountains  o  'er, 
And  the  resounding  shore, 

A  voice  of  weeping  heard  and  loud  lament; 
From  haunted  spring,  and  dale 
Edged  with  poplar  pale, 

The  parting  Genius-9  is  with  sighing  sent; 
With  flower-inwoven  tresses  torn, 
The    Nymphs    in    twilight    shade    of    tangled 
thickets  mourn. 


But  wisest  Fate  says  no, 
This  must  not  yet  be  so; 


20  Inexpressible 

21  "When    the    morning 

stars    sang    togeth- 
er." Job,  iixviii,  7. 


150  ^ 

22  See  note  on  p.  255.  ; 
The  spheres  Wrre  I 
sometimes  held  to  | 
be  only  nine  in  ■ 
number. 


In  consecrated  earth. 
And  on  the  holy  hearth, 

23  ?the  air 

24  When  God  gave  Moses 

the    ten    command- 
ments. 

25  Cp.  1.  156. 

26  will  be 

27  lashes 


190 

28  Christ's  coming  is 

conceived  as  put- 
ting to  naught  the 
heathen     divinities. 

29  singular     of     genii — 

spirits 


226 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY 


The  Lars  and  Lemuresao  luoau  with  midnight 
plaint ; 
In  urns  and  altars  round, 
A  drear  and  dying  sound 

Affrights     the     flamenssi     at     their     service 
quaint ; 
And  the  chill  marble  seems  to  sweat, 
While  each  peculiar  power  forgoes  his  wonted 
seat. 

Peor32  and  Baiilimss 
Forsake  their  temples  dim, 

With  that  twice-battered  god  of  Palestine  ;33 
And  moonM  Ashtaroth,34  200 

Heaven's  queen  and  mother  both, 

Now  sits  not  girt  with  tapers'  holy  shine; 
The  Libyc  Hammonss  shrinks  his  horn; 
In  vain  the  Tyrian  maids  their  wounded  Thaui- 
muz38  mourn. 

And  sullen  Moloch,37  fled. 
Hath  left  in  shadows  dread 

His  burning  idol  all  of  blackest  hue; 
In  vain  with  cymbals'  ring 
They  call  the  grisly  king, 

In  dismal  dance  about  the  furnace  blue;    210 
The  brutish  gods  of  Nile  as  fast, 
Isis38  and  Orus3»  and  the  dog  Anubis,io  haste. 

Nor  is  Osiris  seen 

In  Memphian  grove  or  green. 

Trampling   the   unshowered   grass   with   low- 

ings  loud; 
Nor  can  he  be  at  rest 
Within  his  sacred  chest ;<i 

Naught    but    profoundest    Hell    can    be    his 

shroud ; 
In  vain,  with  timbreled  anthems  dark, 
The   sable-stoled   sorcerers   bear   his   worshiped 

ark. 


He  feels  from  Juda's  land 
The  dreaded  Infant's  hand; 


221 


80  spirltB  of  the  depart-  38  Wife  of  Osiris,  the 
ed  (to  whom  sacri-  god  of  the  Nile, 
flees  w  o  n  Id  no  who  is  below  con- 
longer  be  made)  fused  with  the  buH- 

31  Roman  priests  god  Apis. 

32  Phopniclan    divinities.  no  Their  son. 

3a  Dagon    (/  Hamuel,  v,  40  An     Kgjptian    divin- 

o.t.u^"*-.^        ^.       .  **y  *°  ^^^  for"!  o' 

34  Phoenician  goddess  of  a  dog. 

the  moon.  4i  He   was   captured   by 

35  The  Lgyptian  horned  being   lured   to   en- 

god  Ammon.  ter  a  chest. 

36  Adonis,  a  god  of  the  Syrians,  who  having  been 

slain  by  a   wild  boar,   was  said   to  die  every 
year  and  revive  again. 

37  Chief  god  of  the  Phcenicians ;  his  Image  was  of 

nrass  and  filled  with   fire  and  Into  his  arms 
children  were  thrown  to  be  sacriliced. 


The  rays  of  Bethlehem  blind  his  dusky  eyu; 
Nor  all  the  gods  beside 
Longer  dare  abide. 

Not  Typhon^2  huge  ending  in  snaky  twine: 
Our  Babe,  to  show  his  Godhead  true, 
Can  in  his  swaddling  bands  control  the  damned 
crew. 

So  when  the  sun  in  bed, 

Curtained  with  cloudy  red,  230 

Pillows  his  chin  upon  an  orient  wave, 
The  flocking  shadows  pale 
Troop  to  the  infernal  jail, 

Each  fettered  ghost  slips  to  his  several  grave, 
And  the  yellow-skirted  fays 
Fly  after  the  night-steeds,  leaving  their  moon- 
loved  maze. 

But  see!    the  Virgin  blest 

Hath  laid  her  Babe  to  rest. 

Time  is  our  tedious  song   should   here  have 
ending  : 

Heaven's  youngest-teemfed*3  star  240 

Hath  fixed  her  polished  car, 

Her  sleeping  Lord  with  handmaid  lamp  at- 
tending; 

And  all  about  the  courtly  stable 

Bright-harnessed  angels  sit  in  order  serviceable, 

ON  SHAKESPEARE.     1630 

What  needs  my  Shakespeare  for  his  honoured 

bones 
The  labour  of  an  age  in  pilfed  stones  I 
Or  that  his  hallowed  reliques  should  be  hid 
Under  a  star-ypointing*^  pyramid? 
Dear  son  of  memory,  great  heir  of  fame, 
What  necd'st  thou  such  weak  witness  of  thy 

name? 
Thou  in  our  wonder  and  astonishment 
Hast  built  thyself  a  livelong  monument. 
For  whilst  to  the  shame  of  slow-endeavouring 

art, 
Thy  ersy  numbers  flow,  and  that  each  heart     10 
Hath  from  the  leaves  of  thy  unvalued**  book 
Those  Delphic*^  lines  witli  deep  impression  took; 
Then  thou,  our  fancy  of  itself  bereaving, 
Dost   make  us  marble  with  too  much  conceiv- 
ing;" 
And  so  sepulchred  in  such  {X)mp  dost  Ho, 
That  kings  for  such  a  tomb  wouhl  wish  to  die. 


42  A  mythological  snake- 

like monster. 

43  born     (the     Star     of 

Bethlehem) 

44  The  form  has  no  war- 

rant, but  the  mean- 
ing is  clear. 


45  Invaluable 

40  oracular,  wise 

47  The  thought  Is  not 
very  clear,  but  «p. 
lines  7,  8.  and  H 
Penscroso,  42. 


JOHN  MILTON 


227 


L'ALLEGROi 

Hence,  loathM  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus^  and  blackest  Midnight  born 
In  Stygian  cave  forlorn, 

'Mongst  horrid  shapes  and  shrieks  and  sights 
unholy ! 
Find  out  some  uncouth'  cell, 

"Where  brooding  darkness  spreads  his  jealous 
wings. 
And  the  night-raven  sings; 

There    under    ebon    shades    and    low-browed 
rocks, 
As  ragged  as  thy  locks, 

In  dark  Cimmerian*  desert  ever  dwell.  10 

But  come,  thou  Goddess  fair  and  free. 
In  heaven  yclept  Euphrosyne, 
And  by  men  heart-easing  Mirth; 
Whom  lovely  Venus,  at  a  birth, 
With  two  sister  Graces5  more, 
To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  bore; 
Or  whether  (as  some  sagers  sing) 
The  frolic  wind  that  breathes  the  spring, 
Zephyr,  with  Aurora  playing, 
As  he  met  her  once  a-Maying,  20 

There  on  beds  of  violets  blue 
And  fresh-blown  roses  washed  in  dew, 
Filled  her  with  thee,  a  daughter  fair, 
8o  buxom,7  blithe,  and  debonair. 
Haste  thee,  nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 
Jest,  and  youthful  Jollity, 
Quips  and  crankss  and  wanton  wiles, 
Nods  and  becks^  and  wreathed  smiles, 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's^o  cheek. 
And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek;  30 

Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 
And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 
Come,  and  trip  it  as  you  go. 
On  the  light  fantastic  toe; 
And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee 
The  mountain-nymph,  sweet  Liberty; 
And  if  I  give  thee  honour  due. 
Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew. 
To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 
In  unreprovfed  pleasures  free:  *^ 

To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight, 
And  singing,  startle  the  dull  night. 
From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies. 
Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise; 


1  The  Cheerful  Man. 

2  The    three-headed    dog 

that     guarded     the 
entrance  to  Hades. 

3  unknown 

4  The  Cimmerians  of  fa- 

ble lived  beyond  the 
ocean   streams,   out 
of     reach     of     the 
sun. 
6  Aglaia     and     Thalia, 


goddesses  of  festive 
joy. 

6  more    sagely     (The 

mythology  that  fol- 
lows Is  M  i  1  t  o  n's 
own  Invention). 

7  lithe,   lively 

8  odd  turns  of  speech 

9  beckon ings 

10  Daughter    of    Jupiter 

and  Juno ;  goddess 
of   youth. 


Then  to  coiae"  in  spite  of  sorrow, 
And  at  my  window  bid  good-morrow. 
Through  the  sweet-briar  or  the  vine. 
Or  the  twisted  eglantine;  12 
While  the  cock,  with  lively  din, 
Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin; 
And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn-door. 
Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before: 
Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn 
Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  morn. 
From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill, 
Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill: 
Sometime  walking,  not  unseen, 
By  hedge-row  elms,  on  hillocks  green. 
Bight  against  the  eastern  gate 
Where  the  great  sun  begins  his  state, 
Eobed  in  flames  and  amber  light, 
The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight;i3 
While  the  ploughman,  near  at  hand. 
Whistles  o'er  the  furrowed  land. 
And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe, 
And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe. 
And  every  shepherd  tells  his  talei* 
Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 
Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleas- 
ures. 
Whilst  the  landskip  round  it  measures: 
Russet  lawns  and  fallowsis  grey, 
^\^lere  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray; 
Mountains  on  whose  barren  breast 
The  labouring  clouds  do  often  rest; 
Meadows  trim,  with  daisies  pied. 
Shallow  brooks  and  rivers  wide; 
Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 
Bosomed  high  in  tufted  trees, 
Where  perhaps  some  beauty  lies, 
The  cynosureis  of  neighbouring  eyes. 
Hard  by,  a  cottage  chimney  smokes 
From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks. 
Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis^^  met 
Are  at  their  savoury  dinner  set 
Of  herbs  and  other  country  messes. 
Which  the  neat-handed  Phillisi^  dresses; 
And  then  in  haste  her  bower  she  leaves, 
With  ThestylisiT  to  bind  the  sheaves; 
Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead. 
To  the  tanned  haycock  in  the  mead. 
Sometimes,  with  secure  delight, 
The  upland  hamlets  will  invite, 
When  the  merry  bells  ring  round. 
And  the  jocund  rebecksis  sound 
To  many  a  youth  and  many  a  maid 


SO 


60 


70 


SO 


90 


11  i.  e..  arise  and  go  (to 

the  window) 

12  honeysuckle 

13  decked 

14  counts  his  sheep 

15  untilled  land 


16  center  of  observati'^i 

17  Common      names     of 

rustics   in   pastoral 
poetry. 

18  Instruments  liki-  vio- 

lins. 


228 


THE  SEVENTEEJ^TH  CENTURY 


Dancing  in  the  chequered  shade; 

And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 

On  a  sunshine  holiday, 

Till  the  livelong  daylight  fail: 

Then  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale, 

With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat, 

How  Faery  Mab  the  junkets  eat. 

Shei9  was  pinched  and  pulled,  she  said; 

And  he,  by  Friar  Vo  lantern  led, 

Tells  how  the  drudging  goblins  i  sweat 

To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set. 

When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn, 

His  shadowy  flail  hath  threshed  the  corn 

That  ten  day-labourers  could  not  end; 

Then  lies  him  down,  the  lubber  fiend. 

And,     stretched     out    all    the    chimney's 

length, 
Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength. 
And  crop-full  out  of  doors  he  flings. 
Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 
Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep. 
By  whispering  winds  soon  lulled  asleep. 
Towered  cities  please  us  then, 
And  the  busy  hum  of  men, 
Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold. 
In  weeds22  of  peace  high  triumphszs  hold, 
AVith  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 
Bain  influence,  and  judge  the  prize 
Of  wit  or  arms,  while  both  contend 
To  win  her  grace  whom  all  commend. 
There  let  Hymenz*  oft  appear 
In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear, 
And  pomp  and  feast  and  revelry, 
With  mask25  and  antique  pageantry; 
Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 
On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream. 
Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon, 
If  Jonson's  learned  sockzs  be  on, 
Or  sweetest  Shakespeare,  Fancy's  child. 
Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 
And  ever,  against  eating  cares, 
Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian27  airs. 
Married  to  immortal  verse. 
Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce. 
In  notes  with  many  a  winding  bout28 
Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out. 
With  wanton  heed2»  and  giddy  cunning. 


100 


110 


121 


130 


140 


19  One  of  the  story-tel- 

lers. For  the  pranks 
of  Faery  Mab,  see 
Romeo    and   Juliet, 

I.  iv,  53.  rr. 

20  ?  Will  o'  the  wisp. 

21  It  o  b  i  n     Good  fellow, 

the  mlschipvous 
fairy.  People  placed 
a  bowl  of  cream  at 
the  door  to  Insure 
his  help,  and  to 
prevent  bis  mis- 
chief. 


22  dress 

23  processions,  shows, 

revels 

24  The  god  of  marriage. 

25  A  form  of  entortuln- 

ment. 

26  low-hecIed  shoe,  sym- 

bol  of  comedy 

27  One    of    the    three 

moods    of    Grecian 

music. 
2s  turn 
20  freedom     and     care 

combined 


The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running, 

Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 

The  hidden  soul  of  harmony; 

That  Orpheus'  self  so  may  heave  his  head 

From  golden  slumber  on  a  bed 

Of  heaped  Elysian  flowers,  and  hear 

Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 

Of  Pluto  to  have  quite  set  free 

His  half-regained  Eurydice.  150 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 

Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 

IL  PENSEROSO.i 

Hknce,  vain  deluding  Joys, 

The  brood  of  Folly  without  father  bred! 
How  little  you  bested,2 

Or  fill  the  fixed  mind  with  all  your  toys! 
Dwell  in  some  idle  brain. 

And   fancies   fonds   with  gaudy  shapes  pos- 
sess,* 
As  thick  and  numberless 

As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the  sun-beams, 
Or  likest  hovering  dreams. 

The  fickle  pensioners  of  Morpheus'  train.''    10 
But  hail,  thou  Goddess  sage  and  holy, 
Hail,  divinest  Melancholy! 
Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight, 
And  therefore  to  our  weaker  view 
O'erlaid  with  black,  staid  Wisdom's  hue; 
Black,  but  such  as  in  esteem 
Prince  Memnon's  sister^  might  beseem, 
Or  that  starred  Ethiop  queen^  that  strove 
To  set  her  beauty 's  praise  above  20 

The  sea  nymphs,  and  their  powers  offended. 
Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended: 
Thee  bright-haired  Vesta*  long  of  yore 
To  solitary  Saturn  bore; 
His  daughter  she  (in  Saturn's  reign 
Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain). 
Oft  in  glimmering  bowers  and  glades 
He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 
Of  woody  Ida'so  inmost  grove, 

30  Stones  and  trees  and  beasts  followed  his  music 
and  by  It  he  even  drew  his  wife  Eurydice 
forth  from  Hades,  but  lost  her  because  he 
looked  back  to  see  whether  she  were  coming. 


1  The   Thoughtful    Man. 

2  bestead  (profit) 

3  foolish 

4  captivate 

5  followers    of    the    god 

of  dreams 
e  Memnon   was  king   of 
the    Ethiopians    at 
the  time  of  the  Tro- 
jan wars. 
7  Cassiopea  was  carried 
t         by  Perseus  to  heav- 
en,   where    she    be- 


came a  constella- 
tion. 

8  Goddess  of  the  hearth 
or  of  fire,  possibly 
signifying  genius. 
The  genealogy  Is 
Milton's    Invention. 

» Mt.  Ida  in  Crete,  the 
ancient  kingdom  of 
Saturn,  from  which 
he  was  driven  by 
bis  son  .Tuplter. 


JOHN  MILTON 


229 


Whilst  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove.  30 

Come,  pensive  Nun,  devout  and  pure, 

Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure, 

All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain, 

Flowing  with  majestic  train, 

And  sable  stoleio  of  cypress  lawnii 

Over  thy  decenti2  shoulders  drawn. 

Come,  but  keep  thy  wonted  state, 

With  even  step,  and  musing  gait. 

And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies, 

Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes :  40 

There,  held  in  holy  passion  still. 

Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till 

With  a  sad  leaden  downward  cast 

Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast. 

And  join  with  thee  calm  Peace,  and  Quiet, 

Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet, 

And  hears  the  Muses  in  a  ring 

Aye  round  about  Jove's  altar  sing; 

And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure, 

That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure;         50 

But  first,  and  chiefest,  with  thee  bring 

Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing, 

Guiding  the  fiery-wheelM  throne, 

The  cherub  Contemplation ;  is 

And  the  mute  Silence  histi*  along, 

'Less  Philomel  will  deign  a  song, 

In  her  sweetest,  saddest  plight, 

Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  Night, 

While  Cynthia  checks  her  dragon  yokeis 

Gently  o  'er  the  accustomedis  oak :  60 

Sweet  bird,  that  shunn'st  the  noise  of  folly. 

Most  musical,  most  melancholy! 

Thee,  chauntress,  oft  the  woods  among, 

I  woo  to  hear  thy  even-song; 

And  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 

On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green. 

To  behold  the  wandering  moon. 

Riding  near  her  highest  noon. 

Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 

Through  the  heaven's  wide  pathless  way,        70 

And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bowed. 

Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 

Oft  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground, 

I  hear  the  far-off  curfewi^  sound, 
Over  some  wide-watered  shore, 
Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar; 
Or  if  the  air  will  not  permit. 
Some  still  removfed  place  will  fit, 

10  robe  13  The  name  is  Milton's, 

II  A  thin  texture.  but   cp.    Esekiel   x. 
12  seemly,  modest                  i*  lead  hushed 

ij  Cynthia  (Diana,  goddess  of  the  moon)  was  not 
drawn  by  dragons ;  Ceres,  goddess  of  har- 
vests, wa.'s. 
i«  frequented  (by  Philomel,  the  nightingale) 
IT  A  bell  rung  in  olden  times  at  eight  o'clock  as 
a  signal  that  fires  were  to  be  covered  and 
lights  put  out. 


100 


Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 

Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom,  80 

Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth, 

Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth, 

Or  the  bellman's  drowsy  charmis 

To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm. 

Or  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour 

Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower. 

Where  I  may  oft  out-watch  the  Bear,i» 

With  thrice-great  Hermes; 20  or  unsphere 

The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 

What  worlds  or  what  vast  regions  hold  90 

The  immortal  mind  that  hath  forsook 

Her  mansion  in  this  fleshy  nook; 

And2i  of  those  demons  that  are  found 

In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  underground. 

Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent22 

With  planet  or  with  element. 

Sometime  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 

In  sceptred  pall^s  come  sweeping  by, 

Presenting  Thebes,2*  or  Pelops'25  line. 

Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine,26 

Or  what  (though  rare)  of  later  age 

Ennobled  hath  the  buskined  stage.27 

But,  O  sad  Virgin!  that  thy  power 

Might  raise   Musaeusss   from   his  bower; 

Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus29  sing 

Such  notes  as,  warbled  to  the  string. 

Drew  iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek. 

And  made  Hell  grant  what  love  did  seek; 

Or  call  up  him  that  left  half-told 

The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold,3o  lie 

Of  CambaU,  and  of  Algarsife, 

And  who  had  Canace  to  wife. 

That  owned  the  ^•irtuous3l  ring  and  glass, 

And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass 

On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride! 

And  if  aught  else  great  bards  beside 

In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung. 

Of  turneys,  and  of  trophies  hung. 

Of  forests,  and  enchantments  drear. 

Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear.32         120 

Thus,  Night,  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career, 

Till  eivil-suited  Morn  appear, 

22  con-sentio,  agreement 

23  mantle  of  state 
2*  Aeschy lus's    "Seven 

Against    Thebes." 

25  Sophocles'    "Electra." 

26  Homer's  "Iliad." 

27  Shakespeare?  The 
buskin  was  the  high- 
heeled  shoe  symbol- 
ical of  tragedy. 

28  son  of  Orpheus 

29  See  note   30,  p.  228. 

30  References  in  11.  110- 
115  are  all  to 
Chaucer's  "Squiere's 
Tale." 

31  powerful 

32  Spenser? 


i  The  night  watch- 
man's hourly  cry 
often  ended  with  a 
benediction. 

1  The  constellation  of 
the  Great  Dipper 
which  remains  in 
the  heavens  all 
night. 

)  I.  e.,  read  the  works 
of  Hermes  Trisme- 
glstus  (thrice 
great),  a  mythical 
learned  king  of 
Egypt. 

L  Supply  "to  tell"  in 
the  same  construc- 
tion with  "to  un- 
fold." 


230 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTUEY 


Not  tricked  and  frouncedss  as  she  was  wont 

With  the  Attic  boys*  to  hunt, 

But  kerchieft  in  a  comely  cloud, 

While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud, 

Or  ushered  with  a  shower  still, 

When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  fill. 

Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves, 

With  minute-drops  from  off  the  eaves.  130 

And  when  the  sun  begins  to  fling 

His  flaring  beams,  me,  Goddess,  bring 

To  arched  walks  of  twilight  groves, 

And  shadows  brown,  that  Sylvan35  loves, 

Of  pine,  or  monumental  oak. 

Where  the  rude  axe  with  heaved  stroke 

Was  never  heard  the  nymphs  to  daunt, 

Or  fright  them  from  their  hallowed  haunt. 

There  in  close  covert  by  some  brook, 

Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look,  140 

Hide  me  from  day's  garish  eye. 

While  the  bee  with  honeyed  thigh, 

That  at  her  flowery  work  doth  sing. 

And  the  waters  murmuring, 

With  such  consort  as  they  keep. 

Entice  the  dewy-feathered  Sleep; 

And  let  some  strange  mysterious  dream 

Wave  at  hisss  wings  in  airy  stream 

Of  lively  portraiture  displayed. 

Softly  on  my  eyelids  laidsT ;  150 

And  as  I  wake,38  sweet  music  breathe 

Above,  about,  or  underneath, 

Sent  by  some  spirit  to  mortals  good. 

Or  the  unseen  Genius  of  the  wood. 

But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail 

To  walk  the  studious  cloister's  pale,39 

And  love  the  high  embowed*o  roof. 

With  antique  pillars  massy  proof,4i 

And  storied*2  windows  richly  dight, 

Casting  a  dim  religious  light.  1^0 

There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow. 

To  the  full-voiced  quire  below. 

In  service  high  and  anthems  clear. 

As  may  with  sweetness,  through  mine  ear. 

Dissolve  me  into  ecstasies, 

And  bring  all  Heaven  before  mine  eyes. 

And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 

Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage. 

The  hairy  gown,  and  mossy  cell. 

Where  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell"  170 

Of  every  star  that  heaven  doth  shew. 

And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew. 

Till  old  experience  do  attain 

To  something  like  prophetic  strain. 


These  pleasures,  Melancholy,  give. 
And  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 


LYCIDAS.* 

Yet  once  more,i  O  ye  laurels,2  and  once  morej 
Ye  myrtles2  brown,  with  ivys  never  sere, 
I  come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and  crrid< 
And  with  forced  fingers  rude 
Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year^ 
Bitter  constraint  and  sad  occasion  dear 
Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due; 
For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime. 
Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer. 
Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas?  he  knew 
Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme. 
He  must  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 
Unwept,  and  welter3  to  the  parching  wind, 
Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 
Begin  then,  Sisters  of  the  sacred  well* 
That    from    beneath    the    seat    of    Jove    doi 

spring; 
Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly  sweep  the  string. 
Hence  with  denial  vain  and  coy  excuse: 
So  may  some  gentle  Muse 

With  lucky  words  favour  my  destined  urn,       20 
And  as  he  passes  turn. 
And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable  shroud. 

For  we  were  nursed  upon  the  self-same  hill,'' 
Fed   the   same  flock,  by  fountain,  shade,  and 

rill; 
Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawnss  appeared 
Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  morn, 
We  drove  a-field,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  gray-fly''  winds  her  sultry  horn, 
Battenings  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of 

night, 
Oft  till  the  star  that  rose  at  evening,  bright,  30 
Toward  heaven's  descent  had  sloped  his  wes- 
tering wheel. 
Meanwhile  the  rural  ditties  were  not  mute, 
Tempered  to  the  oaten  flute; 


88  curled 

84  CephalUB,  beloved  by 

Aurora. 
35  Sylvanus,      a     foroHt 

god. 

86  8loop'8. 

87  Modifies    "dream." 


88  Supply  "let." 
30  limits 

40  vaulted 

41  ?  massively  proof 

42  painted    lo    represent 

stories 

43  construe,  study 


1  Milton  apparently  had 

written  nothing  for 
three  years. 

2  Symbols  of  the  poet's 

rewards. 

3  toss,  roll 

4  The  Pierian  spring  at 

the     foot     of     Mt. 


seat ;  the  birthplace 
of  the  nine   inusos. 

5  1.  e.,  at  the  same  col- 

lege 

6  pastures 

7  The    trumpet    fly    that 

makes  a  sharp  hiss- 
ing sound  at  noon. 


Olympus,  J  o  v  e's  8  fattening 
*  This  elegy  was  written  in  memory  of  Edward 
King,  a  fellow  student  of  Milton's  at  Ciun- 
bridge  who  was  drowned  off  the  Welsh  coast. 
August.  16.S7.  The  sad  event  and  the  poet's 
sorrow  are  poetically  set  forth  in  the  pastoral 
guise  of  one  shepherd  mourning  for  another. 
The  fact,  moreover,  that  King  was  dost  inert 
for  the  Church  enabled  Milton  to  Introduce 
St.  Peter  and  voice,  through  him,  a  Puritanic 
denunciation  of  the  corrnptlon  among  the 
clergy.     See  Eng.  Lit.,  p.   140. 


JOHN  MILTON 


231 


Bough  Satyrs  danced,  and  Fauns  with  cloven ' 

heel 
From  the  glad  sound  would  not  be  absent  long ; 
And  old  Damoetaso  loved  to  hear  our  song. 

But  O  the  heavy  change,  now  thou  art  gone. 
Now  thou  art  gone,  and  never  must  return! 
Thee,    Shepherd,    thee    the    woods    and    desert 

caves, 
With     wild     thyme     and     the     gadding     vine 

o  'ergrown. 
And  all  their  echoes,  mourn.  41 

The  willows  and  the  hazel  copses  green 
Shall  now  no  more  be  seen. 
Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft  lays. 
As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose. 
Or    taint-worm    to    the  weanlingio    herds    that 

graze, 
Or  frost  to  flowers,  that  their  gay  wardrobe 

wear. 
When  first  the  white-thorn  blows; 
Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherd's  ear. 
Where  were  ye,  Nymphs,  when  the  remorse- 
less deep  50 
Closed  o  'er  the  head  of  your  loved  Lycidas  f 
For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep 
Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids,  lie, 
Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Monaii  high. 
Nor    yet    where    Devai2    spreads    her    wizard 

stream. 
Ay  me,  I  fondly  dream! 
Had  ye  been  there — for  what  could  that  have 

done? 
What  could   the   Museis   herself   that   Orpheus 

bore. 
The  Muse  herself,  for  her  enchanting  son. 
Whom  universal  nature  did  lament,  60 

When  by  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous  roar. 
His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  was  sent, 
Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to  the  Lesbian  shoreli* 

Alas!  what  boots  it  with  uncessant  care 
To     tend     the     homely,     slighted,     shepherd's 

trade,i5 
And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Alusef 
Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use. 
To  sj)ort  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade. 
Or  with  the  tangles  of  Neaera's  hair?>« 
Fame   is   the  spur   that  the  clear  spirit  doth 

raise  70 


(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  mind) 
To  scorn  deUghts  and  live  laborious  days; 
But  the  fair  guerdon  i^  when  we  hope  to  find, 
And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 
Comes    the    blind    Furyis    with    the    abhorred 

shears. 
And    slits    the   thin-spun   life.      'But  not    the 

praise,' 
Ph(pbusi»    replied,   and    touched   my   trembling 

ears: 
'Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil, 
Nor  in  the  glistering  foil  79 

Set  off  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumour  lies; 
But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes 
And  perfect  witness  of  all- judging  Jove; 
As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed. 
Of  so  much  fame  in  heaven  expect  thy  meed.' 
O   fountain   Arethuse,^®   and   thou   honoured 

flood. 
Smooth-sliding   Mincius,2i    crowned   with   vocal 

reeds. 
That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood: 
But  now  my  oat  proceeds. 
And  listens  to  the  herald^s  of  the  sea. 
That  came  in  Neptune 's  plea.=3  90 

He  asked  the  waves,  and  asked  the  felon  ninds. 
What   hard   mishap   hath    doomed   this  graitle 

swain? 
And  questioned  every  gust  of  rugged  wings 
That  blows  from  off  each  beaketl  promontory: 
They  knew  not  of  his  story; 
And  sage  Hippotadesz*  their  answer  brings, 
That    not     a    blast    was    from    his    dungeon 

strayed ; 
The  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine 
Sleek  Panope25  with  all  her  sisters  played. 
It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark,  100 

Built  in   the   eclipse,*   and   rigged  with   curses 

dark. 
That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine. 
Next   Camus,26   reverend   sire,   went   footing 

slow, 
His  mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet  sedge,-' 


•  A  pastoral  disguise, 
doubtless,  for  some 
friend  or  tutor. 

10  young 

11  -Anglesey,     an     island 

county  of  N.  Wales, 
which  was  also  a 
seat  of  the  Druids. 

12  The     River     Dee,     of 

legendary  associa- 
tions. 


13  Calliope. 

1*  Orpheus    having    an- 

fered  the  Thracian 
bacchantes.  was 
torn  into  pieces  by 
them. 

15  poetry 

16  i.  e..  live  for  pleasure 

(the    names    are 
imaginary) 


IT  reward  : 

18  Atropos,  the  third 
Fate,  cuts  the  ; 
thread  of  life  but 
(line  76)  cannot 
cut  off  the  praise.  '. 
i»  Apollo,  god  of  wis- 
dom, music,  and 
poetry.  : 

20  Sung   of  by  Theocri- 

tus,  a  pastoral      : 
poet   of   Sicily ;   In- 
voked here  because 
of  this  association.      : 

21  A    river    near    Man- 

tua,   the    home    of 
Virgil,     and    of 
which    he    sang. 
•  For  this  superstition,  Cp. 


2  Triton,    son    of    Nep- 

tune. 

3  To     inquire     in     the 

name    of    Neptune, 
god  of  ocean. 
*  -^olus.     god    of    the 
winds,   son  of  Hip- 
potas. 

5  One    of    the    Nereids, 

or  sea-nymphs. 

6  The   river  Cam,   that 

flows      past      Cam- 
bridge. 

7  A      rush-like      reed 

which    has   on    the 
edges    of    its    leaf 
peculiar     letter-like 
characters. 
Macbeth,  IV,  I,  28. 


232 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTUEY 


Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on  the  edge      ! 
Like  to  that  sanguine  flower^*  inscribed  with  | 

woe. 
'Ah!    who   hath   reft,'   quoth   he,   *my  dearest 

pledge? '20 
Last  came,  and  last  did  go, 
The  pilotso  of  the  Galilean  lake; 
Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain        HO 
(The  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain). 
He     shook     his     mitredsi     locks,     and     stern 

bespake:32 
'How  well  could  I  have  spared  for  thee,  young 

swain, 
Enow  of  such  as  for  their  bellies'  sake, 
Creep  and  intrude  and  climb  into  the  fold! 
Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make 
Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'  feast, 
And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest. 
Blind   mouths!  t    that    scarce   themselves   know 

how  to  hold 
A   sheep-hook,   or   have   learnt   aught   else   the 
least  120 

That  to  the  faithful  herdman's  art  belongs! 
What  recks33  it  them?    What  need  they?    They 

are  sped; 3* 
And  when  they  list,  their  lean  and  flashy  songs 
Grate   on   their   scrannelss    pipes    of   wretched 

straw ; 
The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed. 
But  swoln  with  wind  and  the  rank  mistse  they 

draw, 
Kot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread ; 
Besides  what  the  grim  wolfs^  with  privy  paw 
Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said. 
But  that  two-handed  enginess  at  the  door     130 
Stands  ready  to  smite  once,  and  smite  no  more. ' 

Return,  Alpheu8;39  the  dread  voice  is  past 
That    shrunk    thy    streams;     return,     Sicilian 

Muse,*o 
And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 
Their  bells  and  flowrets  of  a  thousand  hues. 
Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  U8e*i 
Of    shades    and    wanton    winds    and    gushing 
brooks. 


28  The    hyacinth    which 

was    said    to    have 
the     Greek     words 
al  ai   (alas)   on  its 
j)etal8. 

29  ofrKpring 

30  IN'ter. 

31  Wearing  the  bishop's 

head-dress. 
82  spoke  out 
33  concerns 
84  cared  for 
8.'.  loan,    thin,    therefore 

harsh  (flashy 

means     tasteless, 

worthless) 
t  See    KuKkln's    comment 

Seiiamv  and  Lilies. 


86  false  teachings 

37  Milton's  hostile  char- 
acterization of  the 
Church  of  Rome. 

88  Terhaps  the  two 
Houses  of  Parlia- 
ment. 

30  The  river  god  who 
pursued  Arothusa 
and  was  made  one 
with  her  In  the 
fountain  of  Aro- 
thusa.   Cp.  1.  8.^. 

40  The  muse  of  pastoral 

poetry. 

41  dwell 

on    this   passage   In   his 


On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart  star^2  sparely*' 

looks. 
Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enamelled  eyes. 
That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honeyed  show- 
ers, 140 
And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flowers. 
Bring  the  rathe**  primrose  that  forsaken  dies. 
The  tufted  crow-toe,*^  and  pale  jessamine, 
The  white  pink,  and  the  pansy   freaked  with 

jet, 
The  glowing  violet, 

The  musk-rose,  and  the  well-attired  woodbine, 
With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive  head, 
And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears; 
Bid  amaranthus*8  all  his  beauty  shed. 
And  daffodillies  fill  their  cups  with  tears,      150 
To  strew  the  laureate  hearse*^  where  Lycid  lies. 
For  so  to  interpose  a  little  ease, 
Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  surmise. 
Ay  me!    whilst  thee  the  shores  and   sounding 

seas 
Wash  far  away,  where  'er  thy  bones  are  hurled ; 
Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides,*8 
Where  thou  perhaps  under  the  whelming  tide 
Visit 'st  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous  world  ;*» 
Or  whether  thou,  to  our  moist  vows  denied. 
Sleep 'st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus  old,  160 

Where  the  great  vision  of  the  guarded  mount^o 
Looks  toward  Namancossi  and  Bayona  's52  hold. 
Look  homeward,    Angel,   now,   and   melt   with 

ruth; 
And  O  ye  dolphins,53  waft  the  hapless  youth. 
Weep  no  more,  woeful  shepherds,  weep   no 
more. 
For  Lycidas,  your  sorrow,  is  not  dead. 
Sunk  though  he  be  beneath  the  watery  floor; 
So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  ocean  -bed. 
And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head. 
And  tricks54  his  beams,  and  with  new-spangled 
ore  170 

Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky: 
So  Lycidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted  high, 
Through  the  dear  might  of  him  that  walked  the 
waves. 


42  dog-star  "i  In   Spain. 

43  sparingly  62  Near  ^amancos  ;  both 

44  early  found     on    ancient 

45  purple    hyacinth  ,  maps. 

46  An    imaginary   flower      53  Dolphins     rescued 

that  never  fades.  Arion     the     Greek 

47  garlanded  bier  Poet    when    jealous 

48  Islands     north     of  sailors,        coveting 

Scotland.  his     treasures, 

49  world     of     monsters  threw     him     over- 

(the    sea)  board. 

54  arranges 
.10  fable  of  Bellerus  =  fabled  Bellerus.  lie  is  some- 
tlmes  said  to  have  boon  a  Cornish  giant.  At 
the  western  end  of  Cornwall  is  a  rock  called 
the  Giant's  Chair :  and  near  Land's  End  is 
a  rock  called  St.  Mlohaol's  Mount,  said  to  be 
guarded  by  the  archangel  himself. 


JOHN  MILTON 


233 


Where,  other  groves  and  other  streams  along, 
With  nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks  he  laves, 
And  hears  the  uuexpressive^^  nuptial  song, 
In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and  love. 
There  entertain  him  all  the  saints  above. 
In  solemn  troops  and  sweet  societies. 
That  sing,  and  singing  in  their  glory  move,  180 
And  wipe  the  tears  for  ever  from  his  eyes. 
Now,  Lycidas,  the  shepherds  weep  no  more; 
Henceforth  thou  art  the  Genius  of  the  shore, 
In  thy  large  recompense,58  and  shalt  be  good 
To  all  that  wander  in  that  perilous  flood. 
Thus  sang  the  uncouth^"  swain  to  the  oaks 

and  rills, 
While    the   still    morn    went   out   with    sandals 

gray; 
He  touched  the  tender  stops  of  various  quills. 
With  eager  thought  warbling  his  Doric^s  lay: 
And  now    the   sun    had   stretched   out   all   the 

hills,  190 

And  now  was  dropt  into  the  western  bay. 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitched  his  mantle  blue: 
To-morrow  to  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new. 

SONNETS 

When  the  Assault  Was   Intended  to  the 

City* 
Captain,  or  Colonel,  or  Knight  in  arms. 
Whose  chance  on  these  defenceless  doorsi  may 

seize. 
If  ever  deed  of  honour  did  thee  please. 
Guard   them,   and   him   within   protect   from 
harms. 
He  can  requite  thee;  for  he  knows  the  charms 
That  call2  fame  on  such  gentle  acts  as  these. 
And  he  can  spread  thy  name  o'er  lands  and 

seas, 
Whatever     clime     the     sun's     bright     circle 
warms. 
Lift  not  thy  spear  against  the  Muses'  bower: 
The  great  Emathian  conqueror^  bid  spare   10 
The  house  of  Pindarus,*   when   temple   and 
tower 
Went  to  the  ground;  and  the  repeated  airS 
Of  sad  Electra's  poet  had  the  power 
To  save  the  Athenian  walls  from  ruin  bare. 


55  inexpressible 

56  as   thy  great  reward 


57  unknown 

58  pastoral 


1  of  Milton's  home  2  call  forth 

3  Alexander    the    Great ;    Emathia    was    a    part    of 
Macedonia. 

*  The    home    of    Pindar,    the    great    Grecian    lyric 

poet,  was  ordered  saved  when  Thebes  was  de- 
stroyed. B.  C.  3.*?.S.  I 
5  After  the  taking  of  Athens  by  the  Lacedemo-  I 
nlans  in  B.  C.  404.  the  singing  of  part  of  : 
Euripides'  drama  Electro  so  influenced  the  i 
conquerors  that  the  city  was  saved.                   } 

•  When  Charles   I   advanced   upon   London,   which  | 

was  largely  Puritan.  I 


To  the  Lord  General  Cromwell,  May,  1652 

Cromwell,  our  chief  of  men,  who  through  a 
cloud 
Not  of  war  only,  but  detractionss  rude. 
Guided  by  faith  and  matchless  fortitude. 
To   peace   and   truth   thy   glorious   way   hast 
ploughed. 
And  on  the  neck  of  crownfed  Fortune  proud 
Hast   rearetl    God 's    trophies,   and    his   work 
pursued. 
While    Darwen    stream,7    with   blood    of    Scots 
imbrued, 
And  Dunbar  field,  resounds  thy  praises  loud, 
And    Worcester's    laureate   wreath:     yet    much 
remains 
To  conquer  still;  peace  hath  her  victories   10 
No  less  renowned  than  war:   new  foes  arise, 
Threatening    to    bind    our    souls    with    secular 
chains.8 
Help  us  to  save  free  conscience  from  the  paw 
Of    hireling    wolves,   whose    gospel    is    their 
maw. 


On  the  Late  Massacre  in  Piedmont* 

Avenge,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints,  whose 

bones 
Lie  scattered  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold; 
Even   them   who  kept   thy  truth   so   pure  of 

old, 
When  all   our  fathers  worshiped  stocks  and 

stones. 
Forget  not :   in  thy  book  record  their  groans 
Who   were   thy   sheep,   and   in   their   ancient 

fold 
Slain  by  the  bloody  Piedmontese,  that  rolled 
Mother  with  infant  down  the  rocks.     Their 

moans 
The  vales  redoubled  to   the  hills,  and  they 
To  heaven.     Their  martyred  blood  and  ashes 

sow  10 

O'er  all  the  Italian  fields,  where  stiU  doth 

sway 
The  triple  tyrant;   that  from  these  may  grow 
A  hundredfold,  who,  having  learnt  thy  way, 
Early  may  fly  the  Babylonian  woe. 


«  Proceeding  from  Presbyterian  opponents. 

7  At  the  Darwen  Cromwell  defeated  the  Scotch  in 

1648.    at    Dunbar   in    1650 :    at    Worcester   he 
defeated  Charles   I.   in   16.51. 

8  i.   e.    state   control    of  religion 

*  The  Protestant  Vaudols  or  Waldenses  in  south- 
ern France  were  practically  crushed  out  in 
1600  because  of  their  refusal  to  accept  the 
state  religion.  They  were  an  ancient  sect, 
originating  In  1170;  see  line  .S.  In  line  12. 
there  is  an  allus^ion  to  the  triple  tiara  of  the 
Pooe;  in  line  14.  to  the  doom  of  the  mystical 
Babylon. of  Rerelation  xvii  and  xvlil. 


234 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTUKY 


On  His  Blindness 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 
Ere  half  my  days,  in  this  dark,  world  and 

wide, 
And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide 
Lodged    with    me    useless,    though    my    soul 
more  bent 
To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 
My  true  account,  lest  he  returning  chide; 
'Doth  God  exact  day-labour,  light  denied?' 
I  fondlys  ask.     But  Patience,  to  prevent 
That  murmur,  soon  replies,  *God  doth  not  need 
Either  man's  work  or  his  own  gifts.     Who 
best  10 

Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him  best.   His 
state 
Is  kingly:  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed, 
And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest; 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait.' 

To  Cyeiack  Skinner 

Cyriack,    this    three    years'    day    these    eyes, 
though  clear 
To  outward  view,  of  blemish  or  of  spot, 
Bereft  of  light,  their  seeing  have  forgot ; 
Nor  to  their  idle  orbs  doth  sight  appear 
Of  sun  or  moon  or  star  throughout  the  year. 
Or  man  or  woman.    Yet  I  argue  not 
Against  Heaven's  hand  or  will,  nor  bate  a  jot 
Of  heart  or  hope,  but  still  bear  up  and  steer 
Bight  onward.     What  supports  me,  dost  thou 
ask? 
The  conscience,io  friend,  to  have  lost  them 
overplied  10 

In  liberty's  defence,t  my  noble  task, 
Of  which  all  Europe  talks  from  side  to  side. 
This    thought    might    lead    me    through    the 

world's  vain  mask 
Content,  though  blind,  had  I  no  better  guide. 

Feom  PABADTSE  LOST 
Book  I 

THE    ARGUMENT 

This  First  Book  proposes,  first  in  brief,  the 
whole  subject:  Man's  disobedience,  and  the 
loss  thereupon  of  Paradise,  wherein  he  was 
placed :  then  touches  the  prime  cause  of  his  fall 
— the  Serpent,  or  rather  Satan  in  the  Serpent; 
who,  revolting  from  God,  and  drawing  to  his 
side  many  legions  of  Angels,  was  by  the  com- 
mand of  God  driven  out  of  Heaven  with  all  his 

0  foolishly  10  consciousness 

tilt'  wrote  the  answer  to  SalmaHius  (the  Dcfenitio 
pro  Populo  Aiif/licano)  In  the  face  of  warning 
from  physicians  that  he  would  become  blind 
unlcHs  be  gave  up  work. 


crew  into  the  great  Deep.  Which  action  passed 
over,  the  Poem  hastens  into  the  midst  of 
things;  presenting  Satan  with  his  Angels  now 
fallen  into  Hell — described  here,  not  in  the 
Centrei  (for  heaven  and  earth  may  be  supposed 
as  yet  not  made,  certainly  not  yet  accursed), 
but  in  a  place  of  utter  darkness,  fitliest  called 
Chaos.  Here  Satan  with  his  Angels  lying  on 
the  burning  lake,  thunderstruck  and  astonished, 
after  a  certain  space  recovers,  as  from  con- 
fusion; calls  up  him  who,  next  in  order  and 
dignity,  lay  by  him:  they  confer  of  their  mis- 
erable fall.  Satan  awakens  all  his  legions,  who 
lay  till  then  in  the  same  manner  confounded. 
They  rise:  their  numbers;  array  of  battle; 
their  chief  leaders  named,  according  to  the 
idols  known  afterwards  in  Canaan  and  the 
countries  adjoining.  To  these  Satan  directs 
his  speech;  comforts  them  with  hope  yet  of 
regaining  Heaven;  but  tells  them  lastly  of  a 
new  world  and  new  kind  of  creature  to  be 
created,  according  to  an  ancient  prophecy  or 
report  in  Heaven;  for  that  Angels  were  long 
before  this  visible  creation  was  the  opinion  of 
many  ancient  Fathers.  To  find  out  the  truth 
of  this  prophecy,  and  what  to  determine  there- 
on, he  refers  to  a  full  council.  What  his  as- 
sociates thence  attempt.  Pandemonium,  the 
palace  of  Satan,  rises,  suddenly  built  out  of 
the  Deep:  the  infernal  Peers  there  sit  in 
council. 

Op  Man's  first  disobedience,  and  the  fruit 
Of  that  forbidden  tree,  whose  mortal  taste 
Brought  death  into  the  world,  and  all  our  woe. 
With  loss  of  Eden,*  till  one  greater  Man 
Restore  us,  and  regain  the  blissful  seat, 
Sing,  Heavenly  Muse,2  that  on  the  secrets  top 
Of  Oreb,*  or  of  Sinai,  didst  inspire 
That  shepherd  who  first  taught  the  chosen  seeds 
In  the  beginnings  how  the  Heavens  and  Earth 
Rose  out  of  Chaos:  or,  if  Sion^  hill  10 

Delight    thee    more,    and    Siloa's    brook    that 

flowed 
Fasts  by  the  oracle  of  God,  I  thence 
Invoke  thy  aid  to  my  adventurous  song. 
That  with  no  middle  flight  intends  to  soar 
Above  the  Aonian  mount,o  while  it  pursues 
Things  unattempted  yet  in  prose  or  rhyme. 

1  Earth :    see    note    on  to  Moses  from  the 

1.   74.  DurninK    I)U8h. 

2  See  VII,  1-12,  p.  258.       6  Deut.  x,  15. 

3  hidden    (Cowper).    re-      6  Modifies  "rose." 

tired    (Landor)  7  Zion,   In   .Terusalem. 

4  Horeb,     or     Sinai,      8  close  (by  the  Temple) 

whereon  God  spoke      »  Helicon    (tig.   for  Gre- 
clan    poetry). 
♦  "And   the  Lord  God  planted  a  Rarden  eastward 
In     Eden."— Gen.    ft,    8.       Strictly,    therefore, 
Eden  Is  the  region,  Paradise  the  garden. 


JOHN  MILTON 


235 


And  chiefly  Thou,  O  Spirit,  that  dost  prefer 
Before  all  temples  the  upright  heart  and  pure, 
Instruct  me,  for  Thou  know'st;  Thou  from  the 

first 
Wast    present,    and,    with^  mighty    wings    out- 
spread, 20 
Dove-like  sat'st  brooding  on  the  vast  Abyss, 
And  mad'st  it  pregnant:  what  in  me  is  dark 
Illumine,  what  is  low  raise  and  support; 
That  to  the  highth  of  this  great  argument^o 
1  may  assert  Eternal  Providence, 
And  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men. 

Say    first — for    Heaven   hides    nothing    from 

Thy  view, 
Nor   the   deep    tract   of    Hell — say   first    what 

cause 
Moved  our  grand  parents,  in  that  happy  state. 
Favored  of  Heaven  so  highly,  to  fall  off        30 
From  their  Creator,  and  transgress  his  will 
For  one  restraint,  lords  of  the  world  besides. 
'\iMio  first  seduced  them  to  that  foul  revolt! 

The  infernal  Serpent;  he  it  was,  whose  guile, 
Stirred  up  with  envy  and  revenge,  deceived 
The  mother  of  mankind,  what  time  his  pride 
Had  cast  him  out  from  Heaven,"  with  all  his 

host 
Of  rebel  Angels,  by  whose  aid,  aspiring 
To  set  himself  in  glory  above  his  peers, 
He  trusted  to  have  equalled  the  Most  High,    40 
If  he  opposed;  and  with  ambitious  aim 
Against  the  throne  and  monarchyis  of  God 
Raised    impious    war    in    Heaven,    and    battle 

proud. 
With  vain  attempt.     Him  the  Almighty  Power 
Hurled  headlong  flaming  from  the  ethereal  sky. 
With  hideous  ruin  and  combustion,  down 
To  bottomless  perdition;   there  to  dweU 
In  adamantine  chains  and  penal  fire, 
Who  durst  defy  the  Omnipotent  to  arms. 

Nine  times  the  space  that  measures  day  and 

night  50 

To  mortal  men,  he  with  his  horrid  crew 
Lay  vanquished,  rolling  in  the  fiery  gulf. 
Confounded,  though  immortal.     But   his  doom 
Reserved    him    to    more   wrath;    for    now    the 

thought 
Both  of  lost  happiness  and  lasting  pain 
Torments    him;    round    he    throws    his    baleful 

eyes, 
That  witnessedi3  huge  affliction  and  dismay. 
Mixed  with  obdurate  pride  and  steadfast  hate. 
At  once,  as  far  as  Angels  ken,  he  views 
The  dismal  situation  waste  and  wild:  60 

A  dungeon  horrible  on  all  sides  round 


10  theme 

11  Cp.      Caedmon's 

count,   p.   19. 


12  single   rule 

13  bore     witness     to 

(within    himself) 


As  one  great  furnace  flamed;  yet  from  those 

flames 
No  ligh^;  but  rather  darkness  visible 
Served  only  to  discover i*  sights  of  woe. 
Regions  of  sorrow,  doleful  shades,  where  peace 
And  rest  can  never  dwell,  hope  never  comes 
That  comes  to  all;  but  torture  without  end 
Still  urges,i5  and  a  fiery  deluge,  fed 
With  ever-burning  sulphur  unconsumed. 
Such  place  Eternal  Justice  had  prepared        70 
For  those  rebellious;  here  their  prison  ordained 
In  utteri«  darkness,  and  their  portion  set. 
As  far  removed  from  God  and  light  of  Heaven 
As  from  the  centre  thrice  to  the  utmost  pole.* 
Oh  how  unlike  the  place  from  whence  they  fell! 
There  the  companions  of  his  fall,  o  'erwhelmed 
With  floods  and  whirlwinds  of  tempestuous  fire. 
He  soon  discerns;  and,  weltering  by  his  side, 
One  next  himself  in  power,  and  next  in  crime, 
Long  after  known  in  Palestine,  and  named      80 
Beelzebub.     To  whom  the  Arch-Enemy, 
And  thence  in  Heaven  called  Satan,i7  with  bold 

words 
Breaking  the  horrid  silence,  thus  began: — 
'If  thou  beest  he — but  Oh  how  fallen!   how 
changed 
From  him,  who  in  the  happy  realms  of  light. 
Clothed  with  transcendent  brightness,  didst  out- 
shine 
Myriads,  though  bright! — if  he  whom  mutual 

league, 
L^nited  thoughts  and  counsels,  equal  hope 
And  hazard  in  the  glorious  enterprise. 
Joined  with  me  once,  now  misery  hath  joined 
In  equal  ruin — into  what  pit  thou  seest  91 

From  what  highth  fallen: is  go  much  the 

stronger  proved 
He  with  his  thunder :    and  till  then  who  knew 
The  force  of  those  dire  arms?     Yet  not  for 

those. 
Nor  what  the  potent  Victor  in  his  rage 
Can  else  inflict,  do  I  repent,  or  change, 
Though  changed  in  outward  lustre,  that  fixed 

mind. 
And  high  disdain  from  sense  of  injured  merit, 
That  with  the  flightiest  raised  me  to  contend, 
And  to  the  fierce  contention  brought  along  100 
Innumerable  force  of  Spirits  armed, 
That  durst  dislike  his  reign,  and,  me  pre- 
ferring, 

14  reveal  18  An   exclamatory   sen* 

15  presses  (a  Latinism)  tence  without  reg- 
ie outer  ular  construction. 
17  I.   e..   Adversary 

•  According  to  the  Ptolemaic  system,  the  earth  is 
•  the  center  of  the  physical  universe.     The  ut-r 

most    or    outmost,    pole    would    be    the    outer 
boundary,  the  firmament.     Milton,  while  dis- 
posed  to  accept  the   new   Copemican   theory, 
'  clung  to  the  old  system  for  poetic  purposes. 


236 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY 


His  utmost  power  with  adverse  power  opposed 
In  dubious  battle  on  the  plains  of  Heaven, 
And  shook  his  throne.     What  though  the  field 

be  lost? 
All  is  not  lost:  the  unconquerable  will, 
And  study  of  revenge,  immortal  hate, 
And  courage  never  to  submit  or  yield, 
And  what  is  else  not  to  be  overcome; 
That  glory  never  shall  his  wrath  or  might    HO 
Extort  from  me.    To  bow  and  sue  for  grace 
With  suppliant  knee,  and  deify  his  power 
Who,  from  the  terror  of  this  arm,  so  late 
Doubted  his  empireio — that  were  low  indeed; 
That  were  an  ignominy  and  shame  beneath 
This  downfall;   since  by  fate  the  strength  of 

gods 
And  this  empyreal  substance  cannot  fail; 
Since,  through  experience  of  this  great  event, 
In  arms  not  worse,  in  foresight  much  advanced, 
We  may  with  more  successful  hope  resolve    120 
To  wage  by  force  or  guile  eternal  war. 
Irreconcilable  to  our  grand  Foe, 
Who  now  triumphs,  and  in  the  excess  of  joy 
Sole  reigning  holds  the  tyranny  of  Heaven.' 

So  spake  the  apostate  Angel,  though  in  pain, 
Vaunting  aloud,  but  racked  with  deep  despair; 
And   him   thus   answered    soon   his    bold    com- 
peer:— 
'O  Prince!  O  Chief  of  many  throned  powers 
That  led  the  embattled  Seraphimso  to  war 
Under  thy  conduct,  and,  in  dreadful  deeds    130 
Fearless,  endangered  Heaven's  perpetual  King, 
And  put  to  proof  his  high  supremacy. 
Whether    upheld    by    strength,    or    chance,    or 

fate! 
Too  well  I  see  and  rue  the  dire  event 
That  with  sad  overthrow  and  foul  defeat 
Hath  lost  us  Heaven,  and  all  this  mighty  host 
In  horrible  destruction  laid  thus  low, 
As  far  as  gods  and  heavenly  essences 
Can  perish :  for  the  mind  and  spirit  remains 
Invincible,  and  vigor  soon  returns,  KO 

Though  all  our  glory  extinct,  and  happy  state 
Here  swallowed  up  in  endless  misery. 
But  what  if  he  our  Conqueror  (whom  I  now 
Of  force2i  believe  almighty,  since  no  less 
Than  such  could  have  o'erpowered  such  force 

as  ours) 
Have  left  us  this  our  spirit  and  strength  entire. 
Strongly  to  suffer  and  support  our  pains. 
That  we  may  so  suffice  his  vengeful  ire, 
Or  do  him  mightier  service  as  his  thralls 
By  right  of  war,  whate  'er  his  business  be,      150 
Here  in  the  heart  of  Hell  to  work  in  fire, 
Or  do  his  errands  in  the  gloomy  Deep! 


19  Bovprolgnty 

10  See   p.   139,   note   13. 


21  perforce 


What  can  it  then  avail,  though  yet  we  feel 
Strength  undiminished,   or  eternal  being 
To  undergo  eternal  punishment?' 

Whereto  with  speedy  words  the  Arch-Fiend 

replied: — 
'Fallen  Cherub,  to  be  weak  is  miserable, 
Doing  or  suffering:   but  of  this  be  sure — 
To  do  aught  good  never  will  be  our  task. 
But  ever  to  do  ill  our  sole  delight,  160 ; 

As  being  the  contrary  to  his  high  will 
Whom  we  resist.     If  then  his  providence 
Out  of  our  evil  seek  to  bring  forth  good. 
Our  labor  must  be  to  pervert  that  end. 
And  out  of  good  still  to  find  means  of  evil; 
Which  ofttimes  may  succeed  so  as  perhaps 
Shall  grieve  him,  if  I  fail  not,  and  disturb 
His  inmost   counsels  from  their  destined   aim. 
But  see!   the  angry  Victor  hath  recalled 
His  ministers  of  vengeance  and  pursuit         170 
Back  to  the  gates  of  Heaven;  the  sulphurous 

hail. 
Shot  after  us  in  storm,  o'erblown  hath  laid 
The  fiery  surge  that  from  the  precipice 
Of    Heaven     received     us    falling;     and     the 

thunder, 
Winged  with  red  lightning  and  impetuous  rage. 
Perhaps  hath  spent  his  shafts,  and  ceases  now 
To    bellow    through    the    vast    and    boundless 

Deep.* 
Let  us  not  slip  the  occasion,  whether  scorn 
Or  satiate  fury  yield  it  from  our  Foe. 
Seest  thou  yon  dreary  plain,  forlorn  and  wild, 
The  seat  of  desolation,  void  of  light,  181 

Save  what  the  glimmering  of  these  Uvid  flames 
Casts  pale  and  dreadful?    Thither  let  us  tendsz 
From  off  the  tossing  of  these  fiery  waves; 
There  rest,  if  any  rest  can  harbor  there; 
And,  reassembling  our  aflBicted23  powers. 
Consult  how  we  may  henceforth  most  offend 
Our  Enemy,  our  own  loss  how  repair, 
How  overcome  this  dire  calamity. 
What  reinforcement  we  may  gain  from  hope, 
If  not  what  resolution  from  despair.'  191 

Thus  Satan,  talking  to  his  nearest  mate. 
With  head  uplift  above  the  wave,  and  eyes 
That  sparkling  blazed;  his  other  parts  besides. 
Prone  on  the  flood,  extended  long  and  large, 
Lay  floating  many  a  rood,  in  bulk  as  huge 
As  whom  the  fables  name  of  monstrous  size,t 

22  make  our  way  (a  2S  beaten  down  (a 
Latlnlsm)  Latlnlsm) 

♦  Even  above  the  resonance  to  be  felt  everywhere 
through  Milton's  verse  this  line  rises  with  a 
resonance  of  Its  own. 

t  The  Titans  were  the  children  of  Uranus  and 
Gaea  (Heaven  and  Earth).  Brlareos  and  Ty- 
phon  were  GIgantes,  sometimes  said  to  have 
been  Imprisoned  beneath  mountnlns,  thus  rep- 
resenting the  forces  of  earthquake  and  vol- 
cano. 


JOHN  MILTON 


237 


Titanian,  or  Earth-born,  that  warred  ou  Jove^ 
Briareos  or  Typhon,  whom  the  den 
By  ancient  Tarsus  held,  ot  that  sea-beast      200 
Leviathan,2*  which  God  of  all  his  works 
Created  hugest  that  swim  the  ocean-stream. 
Him,  haply  slumbering  on  the  Norway  foam. 
The  pilot  of  some  small  night-foundered  skiff 
Deeming  some  island,  oft,  as  seamen  tell. 
With  fixed  anchor  in  his  scaly  rind, 
Moors  by  his  side  under  the  lee,  while  night 
Invests  the  sea,  and  wished  morn  delays. 
So  stretched  out  huge  in  length  the  Arch-Fiend 
lay,  209 

Chained25  on  the  burning  lake ;  nor  ever  thence 
Had26  risen  or  heaved  his  head,  but  that  the 

will 
And  high  permission  of  all-ruling  Heaven 
Left  him  at  large  to  his  own  dark  designs, 
That  with  reiterated  crimes  he  might 
Heap  on  himself  damnation,  while  he  sought 
Evil  to  others,  and  enraged  might  see 
How  all  his  malice  served  but  to  bring  forth 
Infinite  goodness,  grace,  and  mercy,  shewn 
On  ilan  by  him  seduced;  but  on  himself       219 
Treble  confusion,  wrath,  and  vengeance  poured. 
Forthwith  upright  he  rears  from  off  the  pool 
His  mighty  stature;  on  each  hand  the  flames 
Driven   backward   slope   their  pointing   spires, 

and,  rolled 
In  billows,  leave  i '  the  midst  a  horrid  vale. 
Then  with  expanded  wings  he  steers  his  flight 
Aloft,  incumbent  on  the  dusky  air, 
That  felt  unusual  weight;  till  on  dry  land 
He  lights — if  it  were  land  that  ever  burned 
With  solid,  as  the  lake  with  liquid  fire. 
And  such  appeared  in  hue,  as  when  the  force 
Of  subterranean  wind  transports  a  hill         231 
Torn  from  Pelorus,27  or  the  shattered  side 
Of  thundering  ^tna,  whose  combustible 
And  fuelled  entrails  thence  conceiving  fire, 
Sublimed28  whh  mineral  fury,  aid  the  winds. 
And  leave  a  singed  bottom  all  involved 
With  stench  and  smoke :  such  resting  found  the 

sole 
Of  unblest  feet.    Him  followed  his  next  mate, 
Both  glorying  to  have  scaped  the  Stygian  flood 
As  gods,  and  by  their  own  recovered  strength, 
Not  by  the  sufferance  of  supernal  power.      241 
'Is  this  the  region,  this  the  soil,  the  clime,' 
Said  then  the  lost  Archangel,  'this  the  seat 
That  we  must  change  for  Heaven  t  this  mourn- 
ful gloom 
For  that  celestial  light?    Be  it  so,  since  he 
Who  now  is  sovran  can  dispose  and  bid 


n  Psalms  civ.  26. 

25  2  Peter  ii,  4. 

26  would  have 


27  A  Sicilian  cape,  now 

Faro. 

28  sublimated 


What  shall  be  right :  farthest  from  him  is  best, 
Whom  reason  hath  equalled,  force  hath  made 

supreme 
Above  his  equals.     Farewell,  happy  fields, 
Wbere  joy  forever  dwells!     Hail,  horrors!  hail. 
Infernal  world !  and  thou,  prof oundest  Hell,  251 
Beceive  thy  new  possessor,  one  who  brings 
A  mind  not  to  be  changed  by  place  or  time. 
The  mind  is  its  own  place,  and  in  itself 
Can  make  a  Heaven  of  Hell,  a  Hell  of  Heaven.28 
What  matter  where,  if  I  be  still  the  same. 
And  what  I  should  be,  all  but29  less  than  he 
Whom  thunder  hath  made  greater?     Here  at 

least 
We  shall  be  free;  the  Almighty  hath  not  built 
Here  for  his  envy,  will  not  drive  us  hence:  260 
Here  we  may  reign  secure,  and  in  my  choice 
To  reign  is  worth  ambition,  though  in  Hell: 
Better  to  reign  in  Hell,  than  serve  in  Heaven. 
But  wherefore  let  we  then  our  faithful  friends. 
The  associates  and  co-partners  of  our  loss. 
Lie  thus  astonished  on  the  oblivious  pool, 
And  call  them  not  to  share  with  us  their  part 
In  this  unhappy  mansion,  or  once  more 
With  rallied  arms  to  try  what  may  be  yet 
Begained    in    Heaven,    or   what   more   lost    in 

Hell?'  270 

So  Satan  spake;  and  him  Beelzebub 
Thus     answered: — 'Leader     of     those     armies 

bright 
Which   but   the   Omnipotent   none   could   have 

foiled, 
If   once   they   hear   that   voice,   their   liveliest 

pledge 
Of  hope  in  fears  and  dangers — ^heard  so  oft 
In  worst  extremes,  and  on  the  perilous  edge 
Of  battle  when  it  raged,  in  all  assaults 
Their  surest  signal — they  will  soon  resume 
New  courage  and  revive,  though  now  they  lie 
Grovelling  and  prostrate  on  yon  lake  of  fire,  280 
As  we  erewhile,  astounded  and  amazed: 
No  wonder,  fallen  such  a  pernicious  highth !  * 
He    scarce    had    ceased    when    the    superior 

Fiend 
Was  moving  toward  the  shore;   his  ponderous 

shield, 
Ethereal  temper,3o  massy,  large,  and  round, 
Bdiind  him  cast.     The  broad  circumference 
Hung  on  his  shoulders  like  the  moon,  whose  orb 
Through  optic  glass  the  Tuscan  artist'i  \-iew8 
At  evening  from  the  top  of  Fe8ole,32 
Or  in  Valdarno,33  to  descry  new  lands,  290 

Rivers,  or  mountains,  in  her  spotty  globe. 


28  Cp.  p.  155,  I.  75. 

29  only 

30  of  ethereal  temper 

31  scientist  ( though  pos- 

sibly   referring    to 


Galileo  as  a  maker 
of  telescopes) 

32  Flesole,   a  hill   above 

Florence. 

33  Valley  of  the  Amo. 


238 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY 


His  spear — to  equal  which  the  tallest  pine 
Hewn  on  Norwegian  hills,  to  be  the  mast 
Of  some  great  ammiral,3*  were  but  a  wand — 
He  walked  with,  to  support  uneasy  steps 
Over  the  burning  marie,  not  like  those  steps 
On  Heaven's  azure;  and  the  torrid  cUme 
Smote  on  him  sore  besides,  vaulted  with  fire. 
Nathless  he  so  endured,  till  on  the  beach 
Of  that  inflamed  sea  he  stood,  and  called      300 
His  legions,  Angel  forms,  who  lay  entranced. 
Thick  as  autumnal  leaves  that  strow  the  brooks 
In  Vallombrosa,35   where  the  Etrurian  shades 
High  over-arched  embower;  or  scattered  sedge 
Afloat,  when  with  fierce  winds  Orionso  armed 
Hath  vexed   the   Red-Sea  coast,  whose   waves 

0  'erthrew 
BusirisST  and  his  Memphian  chivalry, 
While  with  perfidious  hatred  they  pursued 
The  sojourners  of  Goshen,38  who  beheld 
From  the  safe  shore  their  floating  carcases  310 
And  broken  chariot-wheels:  so  thick  bestrewn, 
Abject  and  lost,  lay  these,  covering  the  flood, 
Under  amazement  of  their  hideous  change. 
He  called  so  loud  that  all  the  hollow  deep 
Of  Hell  resounded: — 'Princes,   Potentates, 
Warriors,  the  Flower  of  Heaven — once  yours, 

now  lost. 
If  such  astonishment  as  this  can  seize 
Eternal  Spirits !     Or  have  ye  chosen  this  place 
After  the  toil  of  battle  to  repose 
Your  wearied  virtue,  for  the  ease  you  find    320 
To  slumber  here,  as  in  the  vales  of  Heaven? 
Or  in  this  abject  posture  have  ye  sworn 
To  adore  the  Conqueror,  who  now  beholds 
Cherub  and  Seraph  rolling  in  the  flood 
With  scattered  arms  and  ensigns,  till  anon 
His  swift  pursuers  from  Heaven-gates  discern 
The  advantage,  and  descending  tread  us  down 
Thus  drooping,  or  with  linked  thunderbolts 
Transfix  us  to  the  bottom  of  this  gulf? 
Awake,  arise,  or  be  forever  fallen!'  330 

They  heard,  and  were  abashed,  and  up  they 

sprung 
Upon  the  wing,  as  when  men  wont  to  watch. 
On  duty  sleeping  found  by  whom  they  dread. 
Rouse  and  bestir  themselves  ere  well  awake. 
Nor  did  they  not  perceive  the  evil  plight 
In  which  they  were,  or  the  fierce  pains  not  feel ; 
Yet  to  their  General's  voice  they  soon  obeyed 
Innumerable.     As  when  the  potent  rod 
Of  Amram's  8on,88  in  Egypt's  evil  day, 


84  admiral's  flag-nhlp 
so  N  c  a  r    Florence,    1  n 

Tuscany   (Etrurla). 
89  A      Greek       hunter ; 

then  a  conBtellation 

Hupposed    to    bring 

tempeslB. 


87  One  of  the  Pharaohs  ; 
used  here  for  the 
Pharaoh  of  the 
time  of  the  Kxodus. 

aeEirod.  xU,  26,  xlv, 
22-28. 

89  Moses. 


Waved   round    the    coast,    up    called    a    pitchy 

cloud  340 

Of  locusts,  warping  on  the  eastern  wind. 
That  o'er  the  realm  of  impious  Pharaoh  hung 
Like  night,  and  darkened  all  the  land  of  Nile: 
So  numberless  were  those  bad  Angels  seen 
Hovering  on  wing  under  the  cope  of  Hell, 
'Twixt  upper,  nether,  and  surrounding  fires; 
Till,  as  a  signal  given,  the  uplifted  spear 
Of  their  great  Sultan  waving  to  direct 
Their  course,  in  even  balance  down  they  light 
On  the  firm  brimstone,  and  fill  all  the  plain :  350 
A  multitude  like  which  the  populous  North 
Poured  never  from  her  frozen  loins,  to  pass 
Ehene  or  the  Danaw,  when  her  barbarous  sons-»o 
Came  like  a  deluge  on  the  South,  and  spread 
Beneath  Gibraltar  to  the  Libyan  sands. 
Forthwith,  from  every  squadron  and  each  band. 
The  heads  and  leaders  thither  haste  where  stood 
Their  great  Commander;    godlike  shapes,  and 

forms 
Excelling  human,  princely  Dignities, 
And    Powers    that    erst    in    Heaven    sat    on 

thrones ;  360 

Though   of   their   names   in   Heavenly   records 

now 
Be  no  memorial,  blotted  out  and  rased 
By  their  rebellion  from  the  Books  of  Life.* 
Nor  had  they  yet  among  the  sons  of  Eve 
Got  them  new  names,  till,  wandering  o'er  the 

Earth, 
Through  God's  high  sufferance  for  the  trial  of 

man, 
By  falsities  and  lies  the  greatest  part 
Of  mankind  they  corrupted  to  forsake 
God  their  Creator,  and  the  invisible 
Glory  of  him  that  made  them,  to  transform  370 
Oft  to  the  image  of  a  brute,  adorned 
With  gay  religions*i  full  of  pomp  and  gold, 
And  devils  to  adore  for  deities: 
Then  were  they  known  to  men  by  various  names, 
And  various  idols  through  the  heathen  world. 
Say,    Muse,    their    names    then    known,    who 

first,  who  last. 
Roused  from  the  slumber  on  that  fiery  couch, 
At  their  great  Emperor 's  call,  as  next  in  worth 
Came  singly  where  he  stood  on  the  bare  strand, 
While     the     promiscuous     crowd     stood     yet 

aloof.  380 

The  chief  were  those  who,  from  the  pit  of 

Hell 
Roaming  to  seek  their  prey  on  Earth,  durst  fix 


40  Vandals  from  the  Rhine  and  Danube,  420  A.  D. 

41  rites 

•  Three  lines  of  Infinite  sadness.  Conversely, 
Dan  to  does  not  allow  the  name  of  Christ  to  be 
spoken  la  bis  Inferno. 


JOHN  MILTON 


239 


Their  seats,  long  after,  next  the  seat  of  God, 
Their  altars  by  his  altar,  gotls  adored 
Among  the  nations  round,  and  durst  abide 
Jehovah  thundering  out  of  Sion,  throned 
Between  the  Cherubim;  yea,  often  placed 
Within  his  sanctuary  itself  their  shrines, 
Abominations;  and  with  cursed  things 
His  holy  rites  and  solemn  feasts  profaned,  390 
And    with    their    darkness    durst   affront*2    bis 

light. 
First    Moloch,    horrid    king,    besmeared    with 

blood 
Of  human  sacrifice,  and  parents'  tears, 
Though,  for  the  noise  of  drums  and  timbrels 

loud. 
Their    children's    cries    unheard    that    passed 

through  fire-ts 
To  his  grim  idol.    Him  the  Ammonite 
Worshiped  in  Kabba  and  her  watery  plain. 
In  Argob  and  in  Basan,  to  the  stream 
Of  utmost  Arnon.     Nor  content  with  such 
Audacious  neighborhood,  the  wisest**  heart  400 
Of  Solomon  he  led  by  fraud  to  build 
His  temple  right  against  the  temple  of  God 
On  that  opprobrious  hill,45  and  made  his  grove 
The  pleasant  valley  of  Hinnom,*^  Tophet  thence 
And  black  Gehenna  called,  the  type  of  Hell. 
Next    Chemos,    the   obscene    dread    of   Moab's 

sons. 
From  Aroar  to  Nebo  and  the  wild 
Of  southmost  Abarim;   in  Hesebon 
And  Horonaim,  Seon's  realm,  beyond 
The  flowery  dale  of  Sibma  clad  with  vines,  410 
And  Eleale  to  the  Asphaltic  pool.*^ 
Peor  his  other  name,  when  he  enticed 
Israel  in  Sittim,  on  their  march  from  Nile, 
To  do  him  wanton  rites,  which  cost  them  woe.^s 
Yet  thence  his  lustful  orgies  he  enlarged 
Even  to  that  hill  of  scandal,  by  the  grove 
Of  Moloch  homicide,  lust  hard  by  hate. 
Till  good  Josiah  drove  them  thence  to  Hell.^s 
With  these  came  they  who,  from  the  bordering 

flood 
Of  old  Euphrates  to  the  brook  that  parts    420 
Egypt  from  Syrian  ground,  had  general  names 
Of  Baalim  and  Ashtarothso — those  male. 
These  feminine.    For  Spirits,  when  they  please, 
Can  either  sex  assume,  or  both ;  so  soft 
And  uncompounded  is  their  essence  pure, 
Not  tied  or  manacled  with  joint  or  limb. 
Nor  founded  on  the  brittle  strength  of  bones, 
Like  cumbrous  flesh;  but,  in  what  shape  they 

choose, 


Dilated  or  condensed,  bright  or  obscure, 
Can  execute  their  aery  purposes,  430 

And  works  of  love  or  enmity  fulfil. 
For  those  the  race  of  Israel  oft  forsook 
Their  living  Strength,  and  unfrequented  left 
His  righteous  altar,  bowing  lowly  down 
To  bestial  gods;  for  which  their  heads  as  low 
Bowed  down  in  battle,  sunk  before  the  spear 
Of  despicable  foes.     With  these  in  troop 
Came  Astoreth,  whom  the  Phoenicians  called 
Astarte,  Queen  of  Heaven,  with  crescent  horns; 
To  whose  bright  image  nightly  by  the  moon  440 
Sidonian  virgins  paid  their  vows  and  songs; 
In  Sion  also  not  unsung,  where  stood 
Her  temple  on  the  offensive  mountain,  built 
By    that    uxorious   king    whose   heart,    though 

large, 
Beguiled  by  fair  idolatresses,  fellsi 
To  idols  foul.     Thammuz52  came  next  behind, 
Whose  annual  wound  in  Lebanon  allured 
The  Syrian  damsels  to  lament  his  fate 
In  amorous  ditties  all  a  summer's  day. 
While  smooth  Adonises  from  his  native  rock  450 
Ean  purple  to  the  sea,  supposed  with  blood 
Of  Thammuz  yearly  wounded:   the  love-tale 
Infected  Sion's  daughters  with  like  heat. 
Whose  wanton  passions  in  the  sacred  porch 
Ezekiel  saw,  when,  by   the  vision  led. 
His  eye  surveyed  the  dark  idolatries 
Of  alienated  Judah.     Next  came  one 
Who  mourned  in  earnest,  when  the  captive  ark 
Maimed  his  brute  image,  head  and  hands  lopt 

off 
In  his  own  temple,  on  the  grun3el-edge,54      460 
"Where  he  fell  flat,  and  shamed  his  worshipers: 
Dagon^s  his  name,  sea-monster,  upward  man 
And  downward  fish;  yet  had  his  temple  high 
Beared  in  Azotus,  dreaded  through  the  coast 
Of  Palestine,  in  Gath  and  Ascalon, 
And  Accaron  and  Gaza's  frontier  bounds. 
Him  followed  Eimmon,  whose  delightful  seat 
Was  fair  Damascus,  on  the  fertile  banks 
Of  Abbana  and  Pharphar,  lucid  streams. 
He  also  against  the  house  of  God  was  bold :  470 
A  leper  once  he  lost,  and  gained  a  king,56 
Ahaz,  his  sottish  conqueror,  whom  he  drew 
God's  altar  to  disparage  and  displace 
For  one  of  Syrian  mode,  whereon  to  burn 
His  odious  offerings,  and  adore  the  gods 
W^hom   he   had    vanquished.      After    these    ap- 
peared 
A  crew  who,  under  names  of  old  renown, 


42  confront 

43  Jer.  xxxli,  35. 

44  most  wise 

45  2  Kings  xxlii,  13. 

46  Jer.   vli,  31. 

47  Dead  Sea. 


48  Numh.  XXV,  9. 

49  2   Kittys  xxlil. 

50  Singular :    Baal,    As- 

toreth,    Phoenician 
deities. 


51  1  Kin<js  xi,  4. 

52  Identified     with     the 

Greek    Adonis. 

53  A  Phoenician  stream, 

tinged    red   by   soil 


from    the    Llbanus 
mountains. 

54  ground-slU 

55  God     of     the     Philis- 

tines.    1  Sam.  V,  4. 

56  2  Kings  v. 


240 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY 


Osiris,  Isis,  Orus,  and  their  train, 
With  monstrous  shapes  and  sorceries  abused 
Fanatic  Egypt  and  her  priests,  to  seek         480 
Their    wandering    gods    disguised    in    brutish 

forms 
Eather  than  human.     Nor  did  Israel  scape 
The  infection,  when  their  borrowed  gold  com- 
posed 
The  calf  in  Oreb,B7  and  the  robel  kingss 
Doubled  that  sin  in  Bethel  and  in  Dan, 
Likening  his  Maker  to  the  grazed  ox — 
Jehovah,  who,  in  one  night,  when  he  passed 
From  Egypt  marching,  equalled  with  one  stroke 
Both  her  first-born  and  all  her  bleating  gods.ss 
Belialso  came  last,  than  whom  a  Spirit  more 
lewd  490 

Fell  not  from  Heaven,  or  more  gross  to  love 
Vice  for  itself.     To  him  no  temple  stood 
Or  altar  smoked ;  yet  who  more  oft  than  he 
In  temples  and  at  altars,  when  the  priest 
Turns  atheist,  as  did  Eli's  sons,6i  who  filled 
With  lust  and  violence  the  house  of  God? 
In  courts  and  palaces  he  also  reigns,* 
And  in  luxurious  cities,  where  the  noise 
Of  riot  ascends  above  their  loftiest  towers. 
And  injury  and  outrage;  and  when  night      500 
Darkens  the  streets,  then  wander  forth  the  sons 
Of  Belial,  flown  with  insolence  and  wine. 
Witness  the  streets  of  Sodom,  and  that  night 
In  Gibeah,  when  the  hospitable  door 
Exposed  a  matron,  to  avoid  worse  rape. 

These  were  the  prime  in  order  and  in  might; 
The  rest  were  long  to  tell,  though  far  renowned 
The  Ionian62  gods — of 63  Javan's  issue  held 
Gods,  yet  confessed  latere*  than  Heaven  and 

Earth, 
Their  boasted  parents; — Titan,  Heaven's  first- 
born, 510 
With  his  enormous  brood,  and  birthright  seized 
By  younger  Saturn;  he  from  mightier  Jove, 
His  own  and  Rhea's  son,  like  measure  found; 
So  Jove  usurping  reigned.    These,  first  in  Crete 
And  Ida  known,  thence  on  the  snowy  top 
Of  cold  Olympus  ruled  the  middle  air, 
Their  highest  Heaven;  or  on  the  Delphian  cliff, 
Or  in  Dodona,  and  through  all  the  bounds 
Of  Doric  land;  or  who  with  Saturn  old 
Fled  over  Adria  to  the  Hesperianos  fields,     520 
And  o  'er  the  Celtic  roamed  the  utmost  isles. 
All  these  and  more  came  flocking;  but  with 
looks 

67  Exod.  zii,  35,  zxxii,  4.      62  Grecian     (a     name 
S8  1  Kings  xii,  28.  traceable  to  .Tavan, 

69  Exod.  xll,  29.  Noah's     grandson). 

60  "wickedness"  (2  Cor.      63  by 

vi,    15  ;    personified      64  Referring  to  the  suc- 
l)y  Milton)  cesRive   dynastien. 

61 1  8am.  il,  12.  6S  western.   Italian 

*  Perhaps  alluding  to  conditions  in  England  under 
Charles  II.     Cp.  VII,  32,  p.  268. 


Downcast  and  damp,  yet  such  wherein  appeared 
Obscure  some  glimpse   of  joy,  to  have  found 

their  Chief 
Not  in  despair,   to  have  found  themselves  not 

lost 
In  loss  itself;  which  on  his  countenance  cast 
Like  doubtful  hue.    But  he,  his  wonted  pride 
Soon  recollecting,  with  high  words  that  bore 
Semblance    of    worth,    not    substance,     gently 

raised 
Their    fainting    courage,    and    disijelled    their 

fears :  530 

Then  straight   commands   that  at   the  warlike 

sound 
Of  trumpets  loud  and  clarions,  be  upreared 
His     mighty     standard.       That     proud     honor 

claimed 
Azazel  as  his  right,  a  Cherub  tall: 
Who    forthwith    from   the    glittering    staff    un- 
furled 
The  imperial  ensign,  which,  full  high  advanced, 
Shone  like  a  meteor  streaming  to  the  wind, 
With  gems  and  golden  lustre  rich  emblazed, 
Seraphic  arms  and  trophies;   all  the  while 
Sonorous  metal  blowing  martial  sounds:        540 
At  which  the  universal  host  up-sent 
A  shout  that  tore  Hell's  concave,  and  beyond 
Frighted  the  reign  of  Chaos  and  old  Night. 
All  in  a  moment  through  the  gloom  were  seen 
Ten  thousand  banners  rise  into  the  air. 
With  orient  colors  waving;   with  them  rose 
A  forest  huge  of  spears;  and  thronging  helms 
Appeared,  and  serried  shields  in  thick  array 
Of  depth  immeasurable.     Anon  they  move 
In  perfect  phalanx  to  the  Dorian  moodca     550 
Of  flutes  and  soft  recorderss^ — such  as  raised 
To  highth  of  noblest  temper  heroes  old 
Arming  to  battle,  and  instead  of  rage 
Deliberate  valor  breathed,  firm  and  unmoveil 
With  dread  of  death  to  flight  or  foul  retreat; 
Nor  wanting  power  to  mitigate  and  swage,«8 
With   solemn   touches,    troubled   thoughts,    and 

chase 
Anguish  and  doubt  and  fear  and  sorrow  and 

pain 
From  mortal  or  immortal  minds.    Thus  they. 
Breathing  united  force  with  fixed  thought,  560 
Moved  on  in  silence  to  soft  pipes  that  charmed 
Their  painful  steps  o'er  the  burnt   soil;   and 

now 
Advanced  in  view  they  stand,  a  horrid  front 
Of  dreadful  length  and  dazzling  arms,  in  guise 
Of  warriors  old,  with  ordered  spear  and  shield, 
Awaiting  what  command  their  mighty  Chief 


66  A  grave  harmony, 
employed  by  the 
Spartans. 


67  flageolets 

68  assuage 


JOHN  MILTON 


241 


Had  to  impose.  He  through  the  armed  files 
Darts  his  experienced  eye,  and  soon  traverse 
The  whole  battalion  views — their  order  due, 
Their  visages  and  stature  as  of  gods;  570 

Their  number  last  he  sums.    And  now  liis  heart 
Distends    with    pride,    and    hardening    in    his 

strength 
Glories;  for  never,  since  created  man,*^ 
Met  such  embodied  force  as,  named  with  these, 
Could   merit  more   than   that   small  infantry'o 
Warred   on   by   cranes:    though   all   the   giant 

brood 
Of  Phlegra'i  with  the  heroic  race  were  joined 
That  fought  at  Thebes  and  Ilium,  on  each  side 
Mixed  with  auxiliar  gods;  and  what  resounds 
In  fable  or  romance  of  Uther's  son,''2  580 

Begirt  with  British  and  Armoric  knights; 
And  all  who  since,73  baptized  or  infidel, 
Jousted  in  Aspramont,  or  Montalban, 
Damasco,  or  Marocco,  or  Trebisond; 
Or  whom  Biserta  sent  from  Afric  shore 
When  Charlemain  with  all  his  peerage  fell 
By  Fontarabbia.7*     Thus  far  these  beyond 
Compare  of  mortal  prowess,  yet  observed^s 
Their  dread  commander.     He,  above  the  rest 
In  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent,         590 
Stood  like  a  tower;  his  form  had  yet  not  lost 
All  her  original  brightness,  nor  appeared 
Less  than  Archangel  ruined,  and  the  excess 


I  Their  glory  withered :   as,  when  Heaven 's  fire 


Hath  scathed  the  forest  oaks  or  mountain  pines. 
With  singed  top  their  stately  growth,  though 

bare, 
Stands  on  the  blasted  heath.    He  now  prepared 
To   speak;    whereat  their   doubled  ranks   they 

bend 
From  wing  to  wing,  and  half  enclose  him  round 
With  all  his  peers:   attention  held  them  mute. 
Thrice  he  assayed,  and  thrice,  in  spite  of  scorn, 
Tears,   such   as  Angels   weep,   burst   forth:    at 

last  620 

Words   interwove   with    sighs   found   out   their 

way: — 
*0  myriads  of  immortal  Spirits!  O  Powers 
Matchless,   but  with   the  Almighty! — and  that 

strife 
Was   not    inglorious,    though    the   event's   was 

dire, 
As  this  place  testifies,  and  this  dire  change. 
Hateful  to  utter.     But  what  power  of  mind, 
Foreseeing  or  presaging,  from  the  depth 
Of    knowledge    past    or    present,    could    have 

feared 
How  such  united  force  of  gods,  how  such 
As  stood  like  these,  coidd  ever  know  repulse? 
For  who  can  yet  believe,  though  after  loss,   631 
That  all  these  puissant  legions,  whose  exile 
Hath  emptied  Heaven,  shall  fail  to  reascend, 


Of  glory  obscured:  as  when  the  sun  new -risen  I  Self -raised,  and  repossess  their  native  seat? 
Looks  through  the  horizontal  misty  air  i  For  me,  be  witness  all  the  host  of  Heaven, 

Shorn  of  his  beams,  or  from  behind  the  moon,    If  counsels  different,  or  danger  shunned 


In  dim  eclipse,  disastrous  twilight  sheds 
On  half  the  nations,  and  with  fear  of  change 
Perplexes  monarchs.      Darkened   so,   yet   shone 
Above  them  all  the  Archangel;  but  his  face  600 
Deep  scars  of  thunder  had  intrenched,  and  care 
Sat  on  his  faded  cheek,  but  under  brows 
Of  dauntless  courage,  and  considerate  pride 
Waiting  revenge.    Cruel  his  eye,  but  cast 
Signs  of  remorse  and  passion,  to  behold 
The  fellows  of  his  crime,  the  followers  rather 
(Far  other  once  beheld  in  bliss),  condemned 
Forever  now  to  have  their  lot  in  pain; 
Millions  of  Spirits  for  his  fault  amerced'^ 
Of  Heaven,  and  from  eternal  splendors  flung    610 
For  his  revolt;  yet  faithful  how^r  they  stood, 


C9  since  the  creation  of 

man    (a   Latinism) 
TO  The    pigmies.       Iliad 

III.  6. 

71  In  Thrace. 

72  King   Arthur. 

73  As    described    In 

French  and  Italian 
mediaeval 
romances. 
'*  Fontarabbia,    in   northern 

posely  substituted  for  the  pass  of  Roncesvalles. 
where,  according  to  tradition.  Charlemagne's 
roar  guard  was  cut  to  pieces,  though  Charle- 
magne did  not  fall). 


75  These    (though)   thus 

far  beyond  compare 
of  mortal  prowess, 
yet  observed  (rev- 
erenced). 

76  deprived 

77  Follows    "behold,"    1. 

605. 


Spain    (perhaps   pur- 
111 


By  me,  have  lost  our  hopes.    But  he  who  reigns 
Monarch  in  Heaven,  till  then  as  one  secure 
Sat  on  his  throne,  upheld  by  old  repute. 
Consent  or  custom,  and  his  regal  state         640 
Put  forth   at  full,  but   still   his  strength  con- 
cealed ; 
Which  tempted  our  attempt,*  and  wrought  our 

fall. 
Henceforth  his  might  we  know,  and  know  our 

own 
So  as  not  either  to  provoke,  or  dread 
New  war  provoked.     Our  better  part  remains 
To  work  in  close  design,  by  fraud  or  guUe, 
What  force  effected  not;  that  he  no  less 
At  length  from  us  may  find,  who  overcomes 
By  force  hath  overcome  but  half  his  foe. 
Space   may  produce   new   worlds;    whereof   so 
rife  650 

There  went  a  fame  in  Heaven  that  he  ere  long 
Intended  to  create,  and  therein  plant 
A  generation  whom  his  choice  regard 
Should  favor  equal  to  the  Sons  of  Heaven. 


78  issue 

•  This  word-play  was  severely  condemned  by  Lan- 
der.    Compare  11.  606,  666-667. 


242 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTUEY 


Thither,  if  but  to  pry,  shall  be  perhaps 
Our  first  eruption:   thither  or  elsewhere; 
For  this  infernal  pit  shall  never  hold 
Celestial  Spirits  in  bondage,  nor  the  Abyss 
Long     under     darkness     cover.       But     these 

thoughts, 
Full    counsel    must    mature.      Peace    is    des- 
paired, 660 
For    who    can   think  submission?     War,    then, 

war 
Open  or  understood,  must  be  resolved.' 

He  spake;  and,  to  co-ifirm  his  words,  out -flew 
Millions   of   flaming   swords,    drawn   from   the 

thighs 
Of  mighty  Cherubim ;   the  sudden  blaze 
Far  round  illumined  Hell.     Highly  they  raged 
Against   the   Highest,   and  fierce  with   grasped 

arms 
Clashed  on  their  sounding  shields  the  din  of 

war, 
Hurling  defiance  toward  the  vault  of  Heaven. 
There   stood   a   hill   not   far,   whose   grisly^a 

top  670 

Belched  fire  and  rolling  smoke;  the  rest  entire 
Shone  with  a  glossy  scurf,  undoubted  sign 
That  in  his  womb  was  hid  metallic  ore. 
The  work  of  sulphur.so     Thither,  winged  with 

speed, 
A  numerous  brigad  hastened:  as  when  bands 
Of  pioneers,  with  spade  and  pickaxe  armed, 
Forerun  the  royal  camp,  to  trench  a  field, 
Or  cast  a  rampart.     Mammon  led  them  on, 
Mammon,  the  least  erected  Spirit  that  fell 
From  Heaven,   for  even   in  Heaven   his  looks 

and  thoughts  680 

Were  always  downward  bent,  admiring  more 
The  riches  of  Heaven 's  pavement,  trodden  gold, 
Than  aught  divine  or  holy  else  enjoyed 
In  vision  beatific.     By  him  first 
Men  also,  and  by  his  suggestion  taught. 
Ransacked    the    Centre,8i    and    with    impious 

hands 
Eifled  the  bowels  of  their  mother  Earth 
For  treasures  better  hid.     Soon  had  his  crew 
Opened  into  the  hill  a  spacious  wound, 
And    digged    out    ribs    of    gold.      Let    none 
admire82  690 

That  riches  grow  in  Hell;  that  soil  may  best 
Deserve  the  precious  bane.  And  here  let  those 
Who  boast  in  mortal  things,  and  wondering  tell 
Of  Babel,  and  the  works  of  Memphian  kings, 
Learn  how  their  greatest  monuments  of  fame, 
And  strength,  and  art,  are  easily  outdone 
By  Spirits  reprobate,  and  in  an  hour 


7»  Krl<'Hly.  terrifying 
80  An     early     cnemlcal 
theory. 


81  Cf.   1.   74. 

82  wonder 


What  in  an  age  they,  with  incessant  toil 
And    hands   innumerable,    scarce    perform. 
Nigh  on  the  plain,  in  many  cells  prepared,      700 
That  underneath  had  veins  of  liquid  fire 
Sluiced  "from  the  lake,  a  second  multitude 
With  wondrous  art  foundedsa  the  massy  ore. 
Severing  each  kind,  and  scummed  the  bullions* 

dross. 
A  third  as  soon  had  formed  within  the  ground 
A  various  mould,  and  from  the  boiling  cells 
By  strange  conveyance  filled  each  hollow  nook: 
As  in  an  organ,  from  one  blast  of  wind, 
To    many    a    row    of    pipes    the    sound-board 

breathes. 
Anon  out  of  the  earth  a  fabric  huge  710 

Eose   like  an   exhalation,  with  the  sound 
Of  dulcet  symphonies  and  voices  sweet — 
Built  like  a  temple,  where  pilasters  round 
Were  set,  and  Doric  pillars  overlaid 
With  golden  architrave;    nor  did  there  want 
Cornice     or     frieze,    with     bossyss     sculptures 

graven : 
The  roof  was  fretted  gold.    Not  Babylon, 
Nor  great  A]cairo,88  such  magnificence 
Equalled  in  all  their  glories,  to  enshrine 
Belus  or  Serapis  their  gods,  or  seat  720 

Their  kings,  when   Egypt  with   Assyria  strove 
In  wealth  and  luxury.     The  ascending  pile 
Stood  fixed  her  stately  highth,  and  straight  the 

doors. 
Opening  their  brazen  folds,  discover,  wide 
Within,  her  ample  spaces  o'er  the  smooth 
And  level  pavement:    from  the  arched  roof, 
Pendent  by  subtle  magic,  many  a  row 
Of  starry  lamps  and  blazing  cressets,  fed 
With  naphtha  and  asphaltus,  yielded  light 
As  from  a  sky.    The  hasty  multitude  730 

Admiring  entered,  and  the  work  some  praise. 
And  some  the  architect.    His  hand  was  known 
In  Heaven  by  many  a  towered  structure  high, 
Where  sceptred  Angels  held  their  residence. 
And  sat  as  Princes,  whom  the  supreme  King 
Exalted  to  such  power,  and  gave  to  rule, 
Each  in  his  liierarchy,  the  Orders  bright. 
Nor  was  his  name  unheard  or  unadored 
In  ancient  Greece;  and  in  Ausonian^T  land 
Men  called  him  Mulciber;*^  and  how  he  fell  740 
From    Heaven   they   fabled,    thrown   by    angry 

Jove 
Sheer  o  'er  the  crystal  battlements :  from  morn 
To  noon  he  fell,  from  noon  to  dewy  eve, 
A  summer's  day;  and  with  the  setting  sun 
Dropt  from  the  zenith,  like  a  falling  star, 
On  Lemnos,  th6  .(Egajan  isle.     Thus  they  relate, 


88  melted 

84  haHc    ore     (used 

jectlvely) 
8(lo  blgb  relief 


ad- 


R«  Cairo. 
07  Italian. 
W8  Vnlcan, 


JOHN  MILTON 


243 


Erring;  for  he  with  this  rebdlious  rout 
Fell  long  before ;  nor  aught  availed  him  now 
To  have  built  in  Heaven  high  towers;  nor  did 

he  scape 
By  all  his  engines,**  but  was  headlong  sent  750 
With  his  industrious  crew  to  build  in  Hell. 

Meanwhile  the  winged  heralds,  by  command 
Of  sovran  power,  with  awful  ceremony 
And  trumpet's  sound,  throughout  the  host  pro- 
claim 
A  solemn  council  forthwith  to  be  held 
At  Pandemonium,^®  the  high  capital 
Of  Satan  and  his  peers.    Their  summons  called 
From  every  band  and  squared  regiment 
By  place  or  choice  the  worthiest ;  they  anon 
With   hundreds   and   with   thousands    trooping 
came  760 

Attended.  All  access  was  thronged;  the  gates 
And  porches  wide,  but  chief  the  spacious  hall 
(Though  like  a  covered  field,  where  champions 

bold 
Wontsi   ride  in  armed,  and  at  the  Soldan's^s 

chair 
Defied  the  best  of  Panim  chivalry 
To  mortal  combat,  or  career  with  lance) 
Thick  swarmed,  both  on  the  ground  and  in  the 

air. 
Brushed  with  the  hiss  of  rustling  wings.     As 

bees 
In  spring-time,  when  the  Sun  with  Taurus  rides. 
Pour    forth    their    populous   youth    about    the 
hive  770 

In  clusters;  they  among  fresh  dews  and  flowers 
Fly  to  and  fro,  or  on  the  smoothed  plank, 
The  suburb  of  their  straw-built  citadel. 
New  rubbed  with  balm,  expatiate  and  confer»3 
Their   state-affairs.      So    thick   the  aery   crowd 
Swarmed  and  were  straitened  ;»*  till,  the  signal 

given, 
Behold  a  wonder;  they  but  now  who  seemed 
In  bigness  to  surpass  Earth's  giant  sons. 
Now  less  than  smallest  dwarfs,  in  narrow  room 
Throng  numberless,   like   that   pygmean  racers 
Beyond  the  Indian  mount;  or  faery  elves,     781 
Whose  midnight  revels^  by  a  forest-side 
Or  fountain,  some  belated  peasant  sees. 
Or  dreams  he  sees,  while  overhead  the  Moon 
Sits  arbitress,  and  nearer  to  the  Earth 
Wheels  her  pale  course;   they,  on  their  mirth 

and  dance 
Intent,  with  jocund  music  charm  his  ear; 
At  once  with  joy  and  fear  his  heart  rebounds. 
Thus  incorporeal  Spirits  to  smallest  forms 


Beduced    their   shapes   immense,   and   were   at 
large,  790 

Though  without  number  still,  amidst  the  hall 
Of  that  infernal  court.     But  far  within. 
And  in  their  own  dimensions  Uke  themselves. 
The  great  Seraphic  Lords  and  Cherubim 
In  close  recess  and  secret  conclave  sat, 
A  thousand  demi-gods  on  golden  seats, 
Frequent  and  fuILas    After  short  silence  then, 
And  summons  read,  the  great  consults^  began. 

Book  U 

thk  aboukent 

The  consultation  begun,  Satan  debates 
whether  another  battle  is  to  be  hazarded  for 
the  recovery  of  Heaven:  some  advise  it,  others 
dissuade.  A  third  proposal  is  preferred,  men- 
tioned before  by  Satan,  to  search  the  truth  of 
that  prophecy  or  tradition  in  Heaven  concern- 
ing another  world,  and  another  kind  of 
creature,  equal,  or  not  much  inferior,  to  them- 
selves, about  this  time  to  be  created.  Their 
doubt  who  shaU  be  sent  on  this  difficult  search : 
Satan,  their  chief,  undertakes  alone  the  voyage; 
is  honored  and  applauded.  The  council  thus 
ended,  the  rest  betake  them  several  ways  and 
to  several  employments,  as  their  inclinations 
lead  them,  to  entertain  the  time  till  Satan 
return.  He  passes  on  his  journey  to  Hell- 
gates,  finds  them  shut,  and  who  sat  there  to 
guard  them;  by  whom  at  length  they  are 
opened,  and  discover  to  him  the  great  gulf  be- 
tween Hell  and  Heaven;  with  what  difficulty 
he  passes  through,  directed  by  Chaos,  the 
Power  of  that  place,  to  the  sight  of  this  new 
World  which  he  sought. 

High  on  a  throne  of  royal  state,  which  far 
Outshone  the  wealth  of  Ormusi  and  of  Ind, 
Or  where  the  gorgeous  East  with  richest  hand 
Showers  on  her  kings  barbaric  pearl  and  gold, 
Satan  exalted  sat,*  by  merit  raised 
To  that  bad  eminence;  and,  from  despair 
Thus  high  uplifted  beyond  hope,  aspires 
Beyond  thus  high,  insatiate  to  pursue 
Vain  war  with  Heaven;   and,  by  successs  un- 
taught. 
His  proud  imaginations  thus  displayed: —     10 
'Powers  and  Dominions,  Deities  of  Heaven! 


98  close  and  all  occupied 


•7  A    noun,    like 
pare,"  1.  588. 


89  contrivances 

00  "Hall  of  all  Demons" 
(word  coined  by 
Milton  after  model 
of    Pantheon). 

•1  used    to 


»2  Sultan's. 

93  walk   about   and   dis- 
cuss 
9*  contracted 
95  Cf.   1.   575. 


island, 
diamond 


2  result 


1  An  eastern 
once  a 
mart. 

•  The  imagerv  and  language  of  this  famous  peri- 
odic opening  evidently  owes  something  to  The 
Faerie  Queene.  I.  iv.  st.  8.  The  "barbaric 
gold"  is  from  Xneid  II.  504. 


244 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTUEY 


For  since  no  deep  within  her  gulf  can  hold 
Immortal  vigor,  though  oppressed  and  fallen, 
I  give  not  Heaven  for  lost:  from  this  descent 
Celestial  Virtues  rising  will  appear 
More  glorious  and  more  dread  than  from  no 

fall, 
And  trust  themselves  to  fear  no  second  fate. 
Me   though  just   right,  and  the  fixed  laws  of 

Heaven, 
Did  first  create  your  leader,  next,  free  choice, 
With  what  besides,  in  council  or  in  fight,         20 
Hath  been  achieved  of  merit,  yet  this  loss, 
Thus  far  at  least  recovered,  hath  much  more 
Established  in  a  safe,  unenvied  throne. 
Yielded  with  full  consent.     The  happier  state 
In  Heaven,  which  follows  dignity,  might  draw 
Envy  from  each  inferior;  but  who  here 
Will  envy  whom  the  highest  place  exposes 
Foremost  to  stand  against  the  Thunderer's  aim 
Your  bulwark,  and  condemns  to  greatest  share 
Of  endless  pain  ?  Where  there  is  then  no  good  30 
For   which   to   strive,   no   strife  can   grow   up 

there 
From  faction;  for  none  sure  will  claim  in  Hell 
Precedence,  none  whose  portion  is  so  small 
Of  present  pain  that  with  ambitious  mind 
Will  covet  more.    With  this  advantage  then 
To  union,  and  firm  faith,  and  firm  accord, 
More  than  can  be  in  Heaven,  we  now  return 
To  claim  our  just  inheritance  of  old, 
Surer  to  prosper  than  prosperity 
Could    have    assured    us;    and    by    what    best 

way,  40 

Whether  of  open  war  or  covert  guile. 
We  now  debate;  who  can  advise  may  speak.' 
He  ceased;   and  next  him  Moloch,  sceptred 

king, 
Stood  up,  the  strongest  and  the  fiercest  Spirit 
That  fought  in  Heaven,  now  fiercer  by  despair. 
His  trust  was  with  the  Eternal  to  be  deemed 
Equal  in  strength,  and  rather  than  be  less 
Cared  not  to  be  at  all;  with  that  care  lost 
Went  all  his  fear:   of  God,  or  Hell,  or  worse. 
He   recked    not,    and    these    words    thereafter 

spake: —  50 

*  My  sentences  is  for  open  war.     Of  wiles, 
More  unexpert,  I  boast  not:  them  let  those 
Contrive  who  need,  or  when  they  need ;  not  now. 
For  while  they  sit  contriving,  shall  the  rest — 
Millions  that  stand  in  arms,  and  longing  wait 
The  signal  to  ascend — sit  lingering  here. 
Heaven's    fugitives,    and    for    their    dwelling- 
place 
Accept  this  dark  opprobrious  den  of  shame, 
The  prison  of  his  tyranny  who  reigns 
By  our  delay!    No!  let  us  rather  choose,        60 

8  Judgment 


Armed  with  Hell-flames  and  fury,  all  at  once 
O'er  Heaven's  high  towers  to  force  resistless 

way. 
Turning  our  tortures  into  horrid  arms 
Against  the  Torturer;  when  to  meet  the  noise 
Of  his  almighty  engine  he  shall  hear 
Infernal  thunder,  and  for  lightning  see 
Black  fire  and  horror  shot  with  equal  rage 
Among  his  Angels,  and  his  throne  itself 
Mixed  with  Tartarean  sulphur  and  strange  fire. 
His  own  invented  torments.     But  perhaps      70 
The  way  seems  difficult  and  steep  to  scale 
With  upright  wing  against  a  higher  foe. 
Let  such  bethink  them,  if  the  sleepy  drench 
Of  that  forgetful  lake  benumb  not  still. 
That  in  our  proper  motion*  we  ascend 
Up  to  our  native  seat;  descent  and  fall 
To  us  is  adverse.     Who  but  felt  of  late. 
When  the  fierce  foe  hung  on  our  broken  rear 
Insulting,  and  pursued  us  through  the  deep, 
With  what  compulsion  and  laborious  flight      80 
We  sunk  thus  low?    The  ascent  is  easy  then; 
The  event  is  feared!     Should  we  again  provoke 
Our  stronger,5  some  worse  way  his  wrath  may 

find 
To  our  destruction — ^if  there  be  in  Hell 
Fear   to   be   worse   destroyed!      What   can   be 

worse 
Than  to  dwell  here,  driven  out  from  bliss,  con- 
demned 
In  this  abhorred  deep  to  utter  woe; 
Where  pain  of  unextinguishable  fire 
Must  exercise  us,  without  hope  of  end, 
The  vassals  of  his  anger,  when  the  scourge    90 
Inexorably,  and  the  torturing  hour, 
Calls   us    to    penance?      More    destroyed    than 

thus. 
We  should  be  quite  abolished,  and  expire. 
What  fear  we  then?  what  doubt  we  to  incense 
His  utmost  ire?  which,  to  the  highth  enraged, 
Will  either  quite  consume  us,  and  reduce 
To  nothing  this  essentials — happier  far 
Than  miserable  to  have  eternal  being!  — 
Or  if  our  substance  be  indeed  divine. 
And  cannot  cease  to  be,  we  are  at  worst      100 
On  this  side  nothing;  and  by  proof  we  feel 
Our  power  sufficient  to  disturb  his  Heaven, 
And  with  perpetual  inroads  to  alarm, 
Though   inaccessible,  his   fatal   throne: 
Which,  if  not  victory,  is  yet  revenge. ' 

He  ended  frowning,  and  his  look  denounced 
Desperate  revenge,  and  battle  dangerous 
To  less  than  gods.     On  the  other  side  up  rose 
Belial,  in  act  more  graceful  and  humane; 


4  BcinK  of  othpreal  na- 
ture thoy  would 
naturally    rise. 


6  superior  (put  as  an 
imaKinary  argu- 
ment) 

9  essence 


JOHN  MILTON 


245 


A  fairer  person  lost  not  Heaven ;  he  seemed  HO 

For  dignity  composed,  and  high  exploit. 

But    all    was    false    and    hollow;    though    his 

tongue 
Dropt  manna,"  and  could  make  the  worse  ap- 
pear 
The  better  reason,  to  perplex  and  dash 
Maturest  counsels:   for  his  thoughts  were  low; 
To  vice  industrious,  but  to  nobler  deeds 
Timorous  and  slothful;  yet  he  pleased  the  ear: 
And  with  persuasive  accent   thus  began: — 

'  I  should  be  much  for  open  war,  O  Peers, 
As  not  behind  in  hate,  if  what  was  urged       120 
Main  reason  to  persuade  immediate  war 
Did  not  dissuade  me  most,  and  seem  to  cast 
Ominous  conjecture  on  the  whole  success; 
When  he  who  most  excels  in  fact*  of  arms, 
In  what  he  counsels  and  in  what  excels 
Mistrustful,  grounds  his  courage  on  despair 
And  utter  dissolution,  as  the  scope 
Of  all  his  aim,  after  some  dire  revenge. 
First,  what  revenge!     The  towers  of  Heaven 

are  filled 
With  armed  watch,  that  render  all  access     130 
Impregnable:  oft  on  the  bordering  deep 
Encamp  their  legions,  or  with  obscure  wirg 
Scout  far  and  wide  into  the  realm  of  Night, 
Scorning  surprise.     Or  could  we  break  our  way 
By  force,  and  at  our  heels  all  Hell  should  rise 
With  blackest  insurrection,  to  confound 
Heaven's  purest  Ught,  yet  our  great  Enemy, 
All  incorruptible,  would  on  his  throne 
Sit  unpolluted,  and  the  ethereal  mould, 
,  Incapable  of  stain,  would  soon  expel  140 

Her  mischief,  and  purge  off  the  baser  fire, 
"Victorious.     Thus  repulsed,  our  final  hope 
Is  flat  despair:   we  must  exasperate 
The  Almighty  Victor  to  spend  all  his  rage; 
And  that  must  end  us,  that  must  be  our  cure — 
To  be  no  more.    Sad  cure!  for  who  would  lose, 
Though  full  of  pain,  this  intellectual  being. 
Those   thoughts  that  wander  through   eternity, 
To  perish  rather,  swallowed  up  and  lost 
In  the  wide  womb  of  uncreated  Night,  150 

Devoid  of  sense  and  motion?     And  who  knows, 
Let  this  be  good,^  whether  our  angry  foe 
Can  give  it,  or  will  everf     How  he  can 
Is  doubtful;  that  he  never  will  is  sure. 
Will  he,  so  wise,  let  loose  at  once  his  ire. 
Belike   through   impotence,   or   unaware, 
To  give  his  enemies  their  wish,  and  end 
Them  in  his  anger,  whom  his  anger  saves 
To    punish    endless!      "Wherefore    cease    we 
then!" 


T  A  sweet  gum,  exuding 
from  shrubs  (not 
the  Biblical 
manna). 


8  feat 

9  supposing  annihilation 

good 


J  Say  they  who  counsel  war ;  "  we  are  decreed, 
(  Reserved,  and  destined  to  eternal  woe:  161 

j  Whatever  doing,  what  can  we  suffer  more, 
What  can  we  suffer  worse  ?  "  Is  this  then  worst, 
Thus  sitting,  thus  consulting,  thus  in  armsf 
What  when  we  fled  amain,  pursued  and  struck 
With  Heaven's  afflicting  thunder,  and  besought 
The  Deep  to  shelter  us!  this  Hell  then  seemed 
A  refuge  from  those  wounds.  Or  when  we  lay 
Chained  on  the  burning  lake!     That  sure  was 

worse. 
What   if  the  breath  that  kindled   those  grim 

fires,  170 

Awaked,  should  blow  them  into  sevenfold  rage. 
And  plunge  us  in  the  flames;  or  from  above 
Should  intermitted  vengeance  arm  again 
His  red  right  hand  to  plague  usf     What  if  all 
Her  stores  were  opened,  and  this  firmament 
Of  Hell  should  spout  her  cataracts  of  fire. 
Impendent  horrors,   threatening  hideous  fall 
One  day  upon  our  heads;   while  we  perhaps 
Designing  or  exhorting  glorious  war. 
Caught  in  a  fiery  tempest,  shall  be  hurled,     180 
Each  on  his  rock  transfixed,  the  sport  and  prey 
Of  racking  whirlwinds,  or  forever  sunk 
Under  yon  boiling  ocean,  wrapt  in  chains; 
There  to  converse  with  everlasting  groans, 
Unrespited,   unpitied,  unreprieved. 
Ages  of  hopeless  end!     This  would  be  worse. 
War  therefore,  open  or  concealed,  alike 
My  voice  dissuades:   for  what  can^o  force  or 

guile 
With  him,  or  who  deceive  his  mind,  whose  eye 
Views    all    things    at    one    view?      He    from 

Heaven's  highth  190 

All  these  our  motions  vain  sees  and  derides; 
Not  more  almighty  to  resist  our  might 
Than  wise  to  frustrate  all  our  plots  and  wiles. 
Shall    we    then    live    thus    vile,    the    race    of 

Heaven 
Thus  trampled,  thus  expelled  to  suffer  here 
Chains  and  these  torments?     Better  these  than 

worse. 
By  my  advice;  since  fate  inevitable 
Subdues  us,  and  omnipotent  decree. 
The  Victor's  will.    To  suffer,  as  to  do. 
Our  strength  is  equal,  nor  the  law  unjust       200 
That  so  ordains:  thisn  was  at  first  resolved, 
If  we  were  wise,  against  so  great  a  foe 
Contending,  and  so  doubtful  what  might   fall. 
I  laugh,  when  those  who  at  the  spear  are  bold 
And  venturous,  if  that  fail  them,  shrink,  and 

fear 
i  What  yet  they  know  must  follow — to  endure 
Exile,  or  ignominy,  or  bonds,  or  pain. 


10  avails 


11  viz.,     to     abide     the 
issue 


246 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTUKY 


The  sentence  of  their  conqueror.     This  is  now 
Our  doom;  which  if  we  can  sustain  and  bear, 
Our  Supreme  Foe  in  time  may  much  remit     -10 
His  anger,  and  perhaps,  thus  far  removed, 
Not  mind   us  not   offending,  satisfied 
With  what  is  punished;    whence  these  raging 

fires 
Will  slacken,  if  his  breath  stir  not  their  flames. 
Our  purer  essence  then  will  overcome 
Their  noxious  vapor,  or,  inured,  not  feel; 
Or,  changed  at  length,  and  to  the  place  con- 
formed 
In  temper  and  in  nature,  will  receive 
Familiar  the  fierce  heat;  and,  void  of  pain, 
This    horror    will    grow    mild,    this    darkness 

light;  220 

Besides  what  hope  the  never-ending  flight 
Of  future  days  may  bring,  what  chance,  what 

change 
Worth  waiting, — since  our  present  lot  appears 
For  happy  12   though  but  ill,  for  ill  not  worst, 
If  we  procure  not  to  ourselves  more  woe.' 
Thus  Belial,  with  words  clothed  in  reason's 

garb, 
Counselled  ignoble  ease,  and  peaceful  sloth, 
Not    peace;     and    after    him    thus    Mammon 

spake: — 
'  Either  to  disenthrone  the  King  of  Heaven 
We  war,  if  war  be  best,  or  to  regain  230 

Our  own  right  lost.     Him  to  unthrone  we  then 
May  hope,  when  everlasting  Fate  shall  yield 
To  fickle  Chance,  and  Chaos  judge  the  strife. 
The  former,  vain  to  hope,  argues  as  vain 
The  latter;   for  what  place  can  be  for  us 
Within  Heaven 's  bound,  unless  Heaven 's  Lord 

Supreme 
We  overpower?     Suppose  he  should  relent. 
And  publish  grace  to  all,  on  promise  made 
Of  new  subjection;  with  what  eyes  could  we 
Stand  in  his  presence,  humble,  and  receive    240 
Strict  laws  imposed,  to  celebrate  his  throne 
With  warbled  hymns,  and  to  his  Godhead  sing 
Forced  Halleluiahs;  while  he  lordly  sits 
Our  envied  sovran,  and  his  altar  breathes 
Ambrosial  odors  and  ambrosial  flowers, 
Our  servile  offerings?     This  must  be  our  task 
In  Heaven,  this  our  delight.    How  wearisome 
Eternity  so  spent  in  worship  paid 
To  whom  we  hate!     Let  us  not  then  pursue — 
By  force  impossible,  by  leave  obtained         250 
Unacceptableia — though    in    Heaven,    our   state 
Of  splendid  vassalage;   but  rather  seek 
Our  own   good   from  ourselves,  and   from   our 

own»« 
Live  to  ourselves,  though  in  this  vast  recess, 


12  In   rewpoct   to   happi- 
ness 


i:<  unac'<'pptal)le 
H  ro8ourct^s 


Free,  and  to  none  accountable,  preferring 
Hard  liberty  before  the  easy  yoke 
Of  servile   j)omp.     Our  greatness  will  appear 
Then  most  conspicuous,  when  great  things  of 

small. 
Useful  of  hurtful,  prosperous  of  adverse, 
We  can  create,  and  in  what  place  soe  'er       260 
Thrive  under  evil,  and  work  ease  out  of  pain 
Through    labor    and    endurance.      This    deep 

world 
Of  darkness  do  we  dread?    How  oft  amidst 
Thick    clouds    and    dark    doth    Heaven's    all- 
ruling  Sire 
Choose  to  reside,  his  glory  unobscured, 
And  with  the  majesty  of  darkness  round 
Covers  his  throne,  from  whence  deep  thunders 

roar. 
Mustering    their   rage,    and    Heaven    resembles 

Hell! 
As  he  our  darkness,  cannot  we  his  light 
Imitate  when  we  please?     This  desert  soil     270 
Wants  not  her  hidden  lustre,  gems  and  gold; 
Nor  want  we  skill  or  art,  from  whence  to  raise 
Magnificence;     and    what    can    Heaven    show 

more? 
Our  torments  also  may  in  length  of  time 
Become  our  elements,  these  piercing  fires 
As  soft  as  now  severe,  our  temper  changed 
Into  their  temper;  which  must  needs  remove 
The  sensibleis  of  pain.     All  things  invite 
To  peaceful  counsels,  and  the  settled  state 
Of  order,  how  in  safety  best  we  may  280 

Compose  our  present  evils,  with  regard 
Of  what  we  are  and  where,  dismissing  quite 
All  thoughts  of  war.    Ye  have  what  I  advise.' 
He  scarce  had  finished,  when  such  murmur 

filled 
The  assembly,  as  when  hollow  rocks  retain 
The  sound  of  blustering  winds,  which  all  night 

long 
Had  roused  the  sea,  now  with  hoarse  cadence 

lull 
Seafaring    men    o 'ervvatched,    whose    bark    by 

chance. 
Or  pinnace,  anchors  in  a  craggy  bay 
After  the  tempest:  such  applause  was  heard  290 
As  Mammon  ended,  and  his  sentence  pleased, 
Advising  peace;    for  such  another  field 
They  dreaded  worse  than  Hell;   so  much  the 

fear 
Of  thunder  and  the  sword  of  Michaol 
Wrought  still  within  them ;  and  no  le.ss  desire 
To  found  this  nether  empire,  which  might  rise, 
By  policy,  and  long  processi«  of  time, 
In  emulation  opposite  to  Heaven. 
Which  when  Beelzebub  perceive;?,  than  whom, 

15  sense  lo  process' 


JOHN  MILTON 


247 


Satan  except,  none  higher  sat,  with  grave    300 

Aspect  he  rose,  and  in  his  rising  seemed 

A  pillar  of  state;  deep  on  his  front  engraven 

Deliberation  sat  and  public  care; 

And  princely  counsel  in  his  face  yet  shone, 

Majestic,  though  in  ruin.     Sage  he  stood, 

With  Atlanteani7  shoulders  fit  to  bear 

The  weight  of  mightiest  monarchies;   his  look 

Drew  audience  and  attention  still  as  night 

Or    summer's    noontide    air,    while    thus    he 

spake : — 
'Thrones  and  Imperial  Powers,  Offspring  of 

Heaven,  310 

Ethereal  Virtues!   or  these  titles  now 
Must   we  renounce,   and,  changing   8tyle,i8  be 

called 
Princes  of  Hell?  for  so  the  popular  vote 
Inclines — here  to  continue,  and   build  up  here 
A  growing  empire;  doubtless!  while  we  dream, 
m.  And  know  not  that  the  King  of  Heaven  hath 

doomed 
This  place  our  dungeon — not  our  safe  retreat 
Beyond  his  potent  arm,  to  live  exempt 
From  Heaven 's  high  jurisdiction,  in  new  league 
Banded  against  his  throne,  but  to  remain      320 
In  strictest  bondage,  though  thus  far  removed, 
Under  the  inevitable  curb,  reservedi^ 
His  captive  multitude.     For  he,  be  sure. 
In   highth  or   depth,   still   first   and   last   will 

reign 
Sole  king,  and  of  his  kingdom  lose  no  part 
By  our  revolt,  but  over  Hell  extend 
His  empire,  and  with  iron  sceptre  rule 
Us  here,  as  with  his  golden  those  in  Heaven. 
What2o  sit  we  then  projecting  peace  and  war? 
War  hath  determined  us,  and  foiled  with  loss 
Irreparable;  terms  of  peace  yet  none  331 

Vouchsafed  or  sought;  for  what  peace  will  be 

given 
To  us  enslaved,  but  custody  severe, 
And  stripes,  and  arbitrary  punishment 
Inflicted?  and  what  peace  can  we  return. 
But,  to2i  our  power,  hostility  and  hate. 
Untamed  reluctance,  and  revenge,  though  slow, 
Yet  ever  plotting  how  the  Conqueror  least 
May  reap  his  conquest,  and  may  least  rejoice 
In  doing  what  we  most  in  suffering  feel?     340 
Nor  will  occasion  want,  nor  shall  we  need 
With  dangerous  expedition  to  invade 
Heaven,  whose  high  walls  fear  no  assault  or 

siege, 
Or  ambush  from  the  Deep.    What  if  we  find 
Some  easier  enterprise?    There  is  a  place 
(If  ancient  and  prophetic  fame  in  Heaven 


17  Atlas-like 

18  appellation 

10  reserved   for    (a   Lat- 


inism ;     cf.    arrive, 

409) 
20  why 
n  to  the  extent  of 


Err  not),  another  World,  the  happy  seat 

Of  some  new  race  called  Man,  about  this  time 

To  be  created  like  to  us,  though  less 

In  power  and  excellence,  but  favored  more  350 

Of  him  who  rules  above;  so  was  his  will 

Pronounced  among  the  gods,  and  by  an  oath 

That    shook     Heaven's    whole     circumference, 

confirmed. 
Thither  let  us  bend  all  our  thoughts,  to  learn 
What  creatures  there  inhabit,  of  what  mould 
Or    substance,    how    endued,    and    what    their 

power, 
And   where   their   weakness:    how   attempted22 

best, 
By  force  or  subtlety.    Though  Heaven  be  shut. 
And  Heaven's  high  Arbitrator  sit  secure 
In   his  own   strength,   this  place   may   lie   ex- 
posed, 360 
The  utmost  border  of  his  kingdom,  left 
To  their  defence  who  hold  it;  here,  perhaps, 
Some  advantageous  act  may  be  achieved 
By  sudden   onset:    either  with   Hell-fire 
To  waste  his  whole  creation,  or  possess 
All  as  our  own,  and  drive,  as  we  were  driven. 
The  puny23  habitants;  or  if  not  drive, 
Seduce  them  to  our  party,24  that  their  God 
May  prove  their  foe,  and  with  repenting  hand 
Abolish  his  own  works.    This  would  surpass  370 
Common  revenge,  and  interrupt  his  joy 
In  our  confusion,  and  our  joy  upraise 
In  his  disturbance;  when  his  darling  sons. 
Hurled  headlong  to  partake  with  us,  shall  curse 
Their   frail  original,  and  faded  bliss — 
Faded  so  soon!     Advise  if  this  be  worth 
Attempting,  or  to  sit  in  darkness  here 
Hatching  vain  empires.'     Thus  Beelzebub 
Pleaded  his  devilish  counsel,  first  devised 
By  Satan,  and  in  part  proposed;   for  whence. 
But  from  the  author  of  all  ill,  could  spring  381 
So  deep  a  malice,  to  confound  the  race 
Of  Mankind  in  one  root,  and  Earth  with  Hell 
To  mingle  and  involve,  done  all  to  spite 
The  great  Creator?    But  their  spite  still  serves 
His  glory  to  augment.    The  bold  design 
Pleased  highly  those  Infernal  States,25  and  joy 
Sparkled  in  all  their  eyes;  with  full  assent 
They    vote:    whereat    his   speech    he    tLus    re- 
news:— 
*WeH  'ba.ye  ye  judged,  well  ended  long  de- 
*    bate,  390 
Synod  of  gods!  and,  like  to  what  ye  are, 
Great  things  resolved;   which  from  the  lowest 

deep 
Will  once  more  lift  us  up,  in  spite  of  fate, 

22  assailed  24  side 

23  From  French  puis  ne,       25  lords 

later  born. 


248 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTUEY 


Nearer  our  ancient  seat — perhaps  in  view 

Of  those  bright  confines,  whence,  with  neigh 

boring  arms 
And  opportune  excursion,  we  may  chance 
Be-enter  Heaven;  or  else  in  some  mild  zone 
Dwell  not  unvisited  of  Heaven 's  fair  light, 
Secure,  and  at  the  brightening  orient  beam 
Purge  off  this  gloom ;  the  soft  delicious  air,  400 
To  heal  the  scar  of  these  corrosive  fires, 
Shall  breathe  her  balm.    But  first,  whom  shall 

we  send 
In  search  of  this  new  world?  whom  shall  we 

find 
Sufficient?    who    shall    tempt    with    wandering 

feet 
The  dark,  unbottomed,  infinite  Abyss, 
And  through  the  palpable  obscure^e  find  out 
His  uncouth  way,  or  spread  his  aery  flight. 
Upborne  with  indefatigable  wings 
Over  the  vast  abrupt, 26  ere  he  arrive^^ 
The    happy    isle?      What    strength,   what    art, 

can  then  410 

Suffice,  or  what  evasion  bear  him  safe 
Through  the  strict  senteries  and  stations  thick 
Of    Angels    watching    round?      Here    he    had 

need28 
All  circumspection,  and  we  now  no  less^o 
Choice  in  our  suffrage;   for  on  whom  we  send, 
The  weight  of  all,  and  our  last  hope,  relies.' 

This  said,  he  sat;  and  expectation  held 
His  look  suspense,  awaiting  who  appeared 
To  second,  or  oppose,  or  undertake 
The  perilous  attempt;  but  all  sat  mute,       420 
Pondering  the  danger  with  deep  thoughts;  and 

each 
In  other's  countenance  read  his  own  dismay, 
Astonished.     None  among  the  choice  and  prime 
Of  those  Heaven-warring  champions  could  be 

found 
So  hardy  as  to  proffer  or  accept, 
Alone,  the  dreadful  voyage;  till  at  last 
Satan,  whom  now  transcendent  glory  raised 
Above  his  fellows,  with  monarchal  pride 
Conscious    of    highest    worth,    unmoved    thus 

spake: — 
*0  Progeny  of  Heaven!   Empyreal  Thrones! 
With  reason  hath  deep  silence  and  demur      431 
Seized   us,   though   undismayed.     Long   is   the 

way 
And  hard,  that  out  of  Hell  leads  up  to  Light; 
Our  prison  strong,  this  huge  convex  of  fire, 
Outrageous  to  devour,  immures  us  round 
Ninefold;  and  gates  of  burning  adamant, 


26  Adjpctlve 

noun. 

27  arrive  at 


used    as 


28  would  have  nerd  of 

29  Supply    "need." 


Barretl  over  us,  prohibit  all  egress. 

These  passed,  if  any  pass,  the  void  profound 

Of  unessentialso  Night  receives  him  next. 

Wide-gaping,  and  with  utter  loss  of  being     440 

Threatens  him,  plunged  in  that  abortive^i  gulf. 

If  thence  he  scape  into  whatever  world. 

Or  unknown  region,  what  remains  him  less 

Than  unknown  dangers  and  as  hard  escape? 

But  I  should  ill  become  this  throne,  O  Peers, 

And  this  imperial  sovranty,  adorned 

With    splendor,    armed    with    power,    if    aught 

proposed 
And  judged  of  public  moment,  in  the  shape 
Of  difficulty  or  danger,  could  deter 
Me  from  attempting.     Wherefore  do  I  assume 
These  royalties,  and  not  refuse  to  reign,     451 
Eefusing32  to  accept  as  great  a  share 
Of  hazard  as  of  honor,  due  alike 
To  him  who  reigns,  and  so  much  to  him  due 
Of  hazard  more,  as  he  above  the  rest 
High     honored     sits?       Go     therefore,     mighty 

Powers, 
Terror  of   Heaven,   though  fallen;   intendas  at 

home, 
While  here  shall  be  our  home,  what  best  may 

ease 
The  present  misery,  and  render  Hell 
More  tolerable;  if  there  be  cure  or  charm     460 
To  respite,  or  deceive,  or  slack  the  pain 
Of  this  ill  mansion;  intermit  no  watch 
Against  a  wakeful  foe,  while  I  abroad 
Through  all  the  coasts  of  dark  destruction  seek 
Deliverance  for  us  all:   this  enterprise 
None   shall   partake   with   me.'     Thus   saying, 

rose 
The  Monarch,  and  prevented  all  reply; 
Prudent,  lest,  from  his  resolution  raised,8* 
Others  among  the  chief  might  offer  now 
(Certain  to  be  refused)  what  erst  they  feared, 
And,  so  refused,  might  in  opinion  stand       471 
His  rivals,  winning  cheap  the  high  repute 
Which  he  through  hazard  huge  must  earn.    But 

they 
Dreaded  not  more  the  adventure  than  his  voice 
Forbidding;  and  at  once  with  him  they  rose. 
Their  rising  all  at  once  was  as  the  sound 
Of  thunder  her.rd   remote.     Towards  him  they 

bend 
With  awful  reverence  prone;  and  as  a  god 
Extol  him  equal  to  the  Highest  in  Heaven. 
Nor    failed    they    to    express    how    much    they 

praised  480 

That  for  the  general  safety  he  despised 
His  own ;  for  neither  do  the  Spirits  damned 


so  without  substance 
:<t  brlnKlns;  to  naught 
82  if    I    refuse 


."»3  consider 

34  taking  courage 


JOHN  MILTON 


249 


Lose  all   their  virtue, — lest  bad  men  shouldss 

boast 
Their    specious    deeds    on    Earth,    which    glory 

excites. 
Or  close  ambition  varnished  o'er  with  zeal. 

Thus  they  their  doubtful  consultations  dark 
Ended,  rejoicing  in  their  matchless  Chief; 
As  when  from  mountain-tops  the  dusky  clouds 
Ascending,   while  the   North-wind  sleeps,  o'er- 

spread 
Heaven's  cheerful  face,  the  louring  element  490 
Scowls    o  'er    the    darkened    landskip    snow    or 

shower ; 
If  chance  the  radiant  sun  with  farewell  sweet 
Extend  his  evening  beam,  the  fields  revive, 
The  birds  their  notes  renew,  and  bleating  herds 
Attest  their  joy,  that  hill  and  valley  rings. 
0  shame  to  men!     Devil  with  devil  damned 
Firm  concord  holds;   men  only  disagree 
Of  creatures  rational,  though  under  hope 
Of  heavenly  grace ;  and,  God  proclaiming  peace, 
Yet  live  in  hatred,  enmity,  and  strife  500 

Among  themselves,  and  levy  cruel  wars. 
Wasting  the  Earth,  each  other  to  destroy: 
As  if  (which  might  induce  us  to  accord) 
Man  had  not  hellish  foes  enow  besides. 
That  day  and  night  for  his  destruction  wait! 
The  Stygian  council  thus  dissolved ;  and  forth 
In  order  came  the  grand  Infernal  Peers; 
Midst    came    their     mighty     Paramount,     and 

seemed 
Alone36  the  antagonist  of  Heaven,  nor  less 
Than    Hell's    dread    Emperor,   with   pomp    su- 
preme, 510 
And   god-like  imitated  state;   him   round 
A  globe  of  fiery  Seraphim  enclosed 
With  bright  emblazonry,  and  horrent37  arms. 
Then  of  their  session  ended  they  bid  cry 
With  trumpet's  regal  sound  the  great  result: 
Toward  the  four  winds  four  speedy  Cherubim 
Put  to  their  mouths  the  sounding  alchymy,38 
By  herald's  voice  explained;  the  hollow  Abyss 
Heard  far  and  wide,  and  all  the  host  of  Hell 
With  deafening  shout  returned  them  loud  ac- 
claim.                                                        520 
Thence  more  at  ease  their  minds,  and  somewhat 

raised 
By  false  presumptuous  hope,  the  ranged  powers 
Disband;  and,  wandering,  each  his  several  way 
Pursues,   as  inclination  or  sad  choice 
Leads   him   perplexed,   where   he   may   likeliest 

find 
Truce  to  his  restless  thoughts,  and  entertain 


35  as  a  warning  lest  bad 
men  should  (They 
are  in  the  same 
class !) 


30  in   himself 

37  bristling 

38  metallic  compound 


The  irksome  hours,  tiU  his  great  Chief  return. 
Part  on  the  plain,  or  in  the  air  sublime,39 
Upon  the  wing  or  in  swift  race  contend,       529 
As  at  the  Olympian  games  or  Pythian  fields; 
Part  curb  their  fiery  steeds,  or  shun  the  goal«> 
With  rapid  wheels,  or  fronted* i  brigads  form: 
As  when,  to  warn  proud  cities,  war  appears 
Waged   in   the   troubled   sky,   and   armies  rush 
To  battle  in  the  clouds;  before  each  van 
Prick  forth  the  aery  knights,  and  couch  their 

spears. 
Till  thickest  legions  close;  with  feats  of  arms 
From  either  end  of  Heaven  the  welkin  burns. 
Others,  with  vast  Typhoean<2  rage  more  fell,  539 
Rend  up  both  rocks  and  hills,  and  ride  the  air 
In  whirlwind;    Hell  scarce  holds  the  wild  up- 
roar: 
As  when  Alcides,*3  from  CEchalia  crowned 
With  conquest,   felt  the  envenomed  robe,   and 

tore 
Through  pain  up  by  the  roots  Thessalian  pines, 
And  Lichas  from  the  top  of  CEta  threw 
Into  the  Euboic  sea.     Others,  more  mild, 
Betreated  in  a  silent  valley,  sing 
With  notes  angelical  to  many  a  harp 
Their  own  heroic  deeds  and  hapless  fall 
By  doom  of  battle;  and  complain  that  Fate  550 
Free  Virtue  should  enthrall  to  Force  or  Chance. 
Their  song  was  partial,  but  the  harmony 
(What    could    it    less    when    Spirits    immortal 

sing?) 
Suspended  Hell,  and  took  with  ravishment 
The    thronging    audience.      In    discourse    more 

sweet 
(For  eloquence  the  soul,  song  charms  the  sense) 
Others  apart  sat  on  a  hill  retired. 
In  thoughts  more  elevate,  and  reasoned  high 
Of  providence,  foreknowledge,  will,  and   fate, 
Fixed  fate,  free  will,  foreknowledge  absolute; 
And  found  no  end,  in  wandering  mazes  lost.  561 
Of  good  and  evil  much  they  argued  then. 
Of  happiness  and  final  misery. 
Passion  and  apathy,  and  glory  and  shame. 
Vain  wisdom  all,  and  false  philosophy!  — 
Yet  with  a  pleasing  sorcery  could  charm 
Pain  for  a  whUe  or  anguish,  and  excite 
Fallacious  hope,  or  arm  the  obdured  breast 
With  stubborn  patience  as  with  triple  steel. 
Another   part,   in   squadrons  and   gross   bands, 
On  bold  adventure  to  discover  wide  571 


39  uplifted  .      ^ 

40  avoid  striking  the  column  that  marks  the  turn- 

ing point  (Description  taken  from  the  ancient 
Grecian  national  games,  the  Olympian,  Pyth- 
ian, etc.) 

41  confronting  ^3  Hercules      (referring 

42  See   Book   I.    199.  to  the  story  of  the 

revenge  of  Nessus) 


260 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CTENTUEY 


That  dismal  worW,  if  any  clime  perhaps 
Might  yield  them  easier  habitation,  bend 
Four  ways  their  flying  inarch,  along  the  banks 
Of  four  infernal  rivers  that  disgorge 
Into  the  burning  lake  their  baleful  streams: 
Abhorred  Styx,  the  flood  of  deadly  hate; 
Sad  Acheron  of  sorrow,  black  and  deep; 
Cocytus,  named  of  lamentation  loud  579 

Heard  on  the  rueful  stream;  fierce  Phlegethon, 
Whose  waves  of  torrent  fire  inflame  with  rage. 
Far  off  from  these  a  slow  and  silent  stream, 
Lethe,  the  river  of  oblivion,  rolls 
Her  watery  labyrinth,  whereof  who  drinks 
Forthwith  his  former  state  and  being  forgets, 
Forgets  both  joy  and  grief,  pleasure  and  pain. 
Beyond  this  flood  a  frozen  continent 
Lies  dark  and  wild,  beat  with  perpetual  storms 
Of  whirlwind  and  dire  hail,  which  on  firm  land 
Thaws  not,  but  gathers  heap,  and  ruin  seems 
Of  ancient  pile;**  all  else  deep  snow  and  ice,  591 
A  gulf  profound  as  that  Serbonian  bog*^ 
Betwixt  Damiata  and  Mount  Casius  old, 
Where  armies  whole  have  sunk:    the  parching 

air 
Burns  frore,*8  and  cold  performs  the  effect  of 

fire. 
Thither,  by  harpy-footed  Furies  haled, 
At  certain  revolutions  all  the  damned 
Are    brought;    and    feel    by    turns    the    bitter 

change 
Of  fierce  extremes,  extremes  by  change  more 

fierce. 
From  beds  of  raging  fire  to  starve*''  in  ice  600 
Their  soft  ethereal  warmth,  and  there  to  pine 
Immovable,  infixed,  and  frozen  round 
Periods  of  time;   thence  hurried  back  to  fire. 
They  ferry  over  this  Lethean  sound 
Both  to  and  fro,  their  sorrow  to  augment. 
And  wish  and  struggle,  as  they  pass  to  reach 
The  tempting  stream,  with  one  small  drop  to 

lose 
In  sweet  forgetfulness  all  pain  and  woe, 
All  in  one  moment,  and  so  near  the  brink; 
But  Fate  withstands,  and,  to  oppose  the  at- 
tempt 610 
Medusa  with  Gorgonian  terror  guards 
The  ford,  and  of  itself  the  water  flies 
All  taste  of  living  wight,  as  once  it  fled 
The  lip  of  Tantalus.     Thus  roving  on 
In   confused   march    forlorn,    the   adventurous 

bands. 
With  shuddering  horror  pale,  and  eyes  aghast, 
Viewed  first  their  lamentable  lot,  and  found 
No  rest.   Through  many  a  dark  and  dreary  vale 


44  masonry  *«  frosty 

46  Herodotus  II.  6,   III.        47  freeze 
5. 


They  passed,  and  many  a  region  dolorous. 
O'er  many  a  frozen,  many  a  fiery  Alp,*8      620 
Rocks,    caves,    lakes,    fens,    bogs,    dens,    and 

shades  of  death — 
A  universe  of  death,  which  God  by  curse 
fireated  evil,  for  evil  only  good; 
Where  all   life   dies,   death  lives,   and   Nature 

breeds. 
Perverse,  all  monstrous,  all  prodigious  things, 
Abominable,  inutterable,  and  worse 
Than    fables   yet  have    feigned,   or    fear   con- 
ceived, 
Gorgons,  and  Hydras,  and  Chimaeras  dire. 

Meanwhile  the  Adversary  of  God  and  Man, 
Satan,   with   thoughts   inflamed   of  highest    de- 
sign, i30 
Puts  on  swift  wings,  and  toward  the  gaten  of 

Hell 
Explores   his  solitary   flight;    sometimes 
He  scours  the  right  hand  coast,  sometimes  the 

left; 
Now  shaves  with  level  wing  the  deep,  then  soars 
Up  to  the  fiery  concave  towering  high. 
As  when  far  off  at  sea  a  fleet  descried 
Hangs  in  the  clouds,  by  equinoctial  winds 
Close  sailing  from  Bengala,  or  the  isles 
Of   Ternate    and    Tidore,*^    whence   merchants 

bring 
Their  spicy  drugs;   they  on  the  trading  flood. 
Through  the  wide  Ethiopianso  to  the  Cape,  641 
Ply    stemming    nightly    toward    the    pole:    so 

seemed 
Far  off  the  flying  Fiend.     At  last  appear 
Hell-bounds,  high  reaching  to  the  horrid  roof, 
And    thrice   threefold   the    gates;    three    folds 

were  brass. 
Three  iron,  three  of  adamantine  rock 
Impenetrable,  impaled  with  circling  fire. 
Yet  unconsumed.     Before  the  gates  there  sat 
On  either  side  a  formidable  Shape. 
The  one  seemed  woman  to  the  waist,  and  fair,  650 
But  ended  foul  in  many  a  scaly  fold 
Voluminous  and  vast,  a  serpent  armed 
With  mortal  sting.    About  her  middle  round 
A   cry  of   Hell-hounds  never-ceasing  barked 
With  wide  (-erberean!"!  mouths  full  loud,  and 

rung 
A   hideous   peal;    yet,   when    they   list,   would 

creep 
If  aught  disturbed  their  noise,  into  her  womb, 
And   kennel   there,  yet  there  still   barked   and 

howled 
Within  unseen.     Far  less  abhorred  than  these 


48  mount 

4i»  Two  of  the  Molucca 

islands. 
80  Indian  Ocean. 


r.i  Like  Ihose  of  Cer- 
berua,  the  three- 
headed  monster 
that  Koarded 
Hades. 


JOHN  MILTON 


251 


Vexed  Scylla,  bathing  in  the  sea  that  parts  660 
Calabria  from  the  hoarse  Trinacrian  shore;* 
Nor  uglier  follow  tne  night  hag,  when,  called 
In  secret,  riding  through  the  air  she  comes. 
Lured  with  the  smell  of  infant  blood,  to  dance 
With  Lapland  witches,  while  the  laboring  moon 
Eclipses  at  their  charms.    The  other  Shape — 
If  shape  it  might  be  called  that  shape  had  none 
Distinguishable  in  member,  joint,  or  limb; 
Or    substance    might    be    called    that    shadow 

seemed, 
For    each    seemed    either — black    it    stood    as 

Night,  670 

Fierce  as  ten  Furies,  terrible  as  Hell, 
And  shook   a  dreadful  dart;   what  seemed   his 

head 
The  likeness  of  a  kingly  crown  had  on. 
Satan  was  now  at  hand,  and  from  his  seat 
The  monster  moving  onward  came  as  fast. 
With  horrid  strides ;  Hell  trembled  as  he  strode. 
The    undaunted    Fiend    what    this    might    be 

admired — 52 
Admired,  not  feared — God  and  his  Son  except, 
Created  thing  naught  valued  he  nor  shunne<l — 
And  with  disdainful  look  thus  first  began : —  680 
'Whence  and  what  art  thou,  execrable  Shape, 
That  dar'st,  though  grim  and  terrible,  advance 
Thy  miscreated  front  athwart  my  way 
To  yonder  gates?     Through  them   I  mean  to 

pass, 
That  be  assured,  without  leave  asked  of  thee. 
Retire;  or  taste  thy  folly,  and  learn  by  proof. 
Hell-born,    not    to    contend    with    Spirits    of 

Heaven,  * 
To  whom  the  Goblin,  full  of  wrath,  replied: — 
'Art  thou  that  Traitor-Angel,  art  thou  he 
Who  first  broke  peace  in  Heaven  and  faith,  till 

then  690 

Unbroken,  and  in  proud  rebellious  arms 
Drew   after    him    the   third   part    of   Heaven's 

sons, 
Conjured  against  the  Highest,  for  which  both 

thou 
And  they,  outcast  from  God,  are  here  condemned 
To  waste  eternal  days  in  woe  and  pain? 
And    reckon 'st    thou    thyself    with    Spirits    of 

Heaven, 
Hell-doomed,  and  breath 'st   defiance  here  and 

scorn. 
Where  I  reign  king,  and,  to  enrage  thee  more, 
Thy  king  and  lord?     Back  to  thy  punishment, 


52  wondered 

*  Through  Circe's  jealousy,  says  Ovid,  the  lower 
part  of  Scylla's  body  was  transformed  into 
barking  dogs ;  whereupon,  throwing  herself 
into  the  sea.  she  was  changed  Into  a  rock. 
The  next  simile  is  drawn  from  Scandinavian 
superstition. 


False  fugitive,  and  to  thy  speed  add  wings,  700 
Lest  with  a  whip  of  scorpions  I  pursue 
Thy  lingering,  or  with  one  stroke  of  this  dart 
Strange  horror   seize   thee,  and   pangs   unfelt 

before. ' 
So  spake  the  grisly  Terror,  and  in  shape, 
So  speaking  and  so  threatening,  grew  tenfold 
More  dreadful  and  deform.    On  the  other  side, 
Incensed  with  indignation,  Satan  stood 
Unterrified,  and  like  a  comet  burned, 
That  fires  the  length  of  Ophiuchus  hugess 
In  the  arctic  sky,  and  from  his  horrid  hair    710 
Shakes  pestilence  and  war.     Each  at  the  head 
Levelled  his  deadly  aim;  their  fatal  hands 
No  second  stroke  intend;  and  such  a  frown 
Each   cast   at    the  other,   as   when   two   black 

clouds. 
With    Heaven's    artillery    fraught,    come   rat- 
tling on 
Over  the  Caspian,  then  stand  front  to  front 
Hovering  a  space,  till  winds  the  signal  blow 
To  join  their  dark  encounter  in  mid-air: — 
So   frowned  the  mighty  combatants,  that  Hell 
Grew  darker  at  their  frown;  so  matched  they 

stood;  720 

For  never  but  once  more  was  either  like 
To  meet  so  great  a  foe.    And  now  great  deeds 
Had  been  achieved,  whereof  all  Hell  had  rung, 
Had  not  the  snaky  Sorceress  that  sat 
Fast  by  Hell-gate  and  kept  the  fatal  key, 
Risen,  and  with  hideous  outcry  rushed  between. 
'O  father,  what  intends  thy  hand,'  she  cried, 
'  Against  thy  only  son  t    What  fury,  O  son, 
Possesses  thee  to  bend  that  mortal  dart 
Against  thy  father's  headf  and  know'st  for 

whom?  730 

For  him  who  sits  above,  and  laughs  the  while 
At  thee  ordained  his  drudge,  to  execute 
Whate'er    his    wrath,   which   he   calls   justice, 

bids — 

His  wrath,  which  one  day  will  destroy  ye  both ! ' 

She  spake,  and  at  her  words  the  hellish  Pest 

Forbore:  then  these  to  her  Satan  returned: — 

'So   strange  thy  outcry,  and   thy  words  so 

strange 
Thou  interposest,  that  my  sudden  hand. 
Prevented,  spares  to  tell  thee  yet  by  deeds 
What  it  intends,  till  first  I  know  of  thee        740 
What  thing  thou  art,  thus  double-formed,  and 

why. 
In  this  infernal  vale  first  met,  thou  caU'st 
Me  father,  and  that  phantasm  call'st  my  son. 
I  know  thee  not,  nor  ever  saw  tUl  now 
Sight  more  detestable  than  him  and  thee.' 
To    whom    thus    the    Portress   of    Hell-gate 
j  replied: — 

'  53  A  northern  constellation. 


252 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY 


'Hast  thou  forgot  me  then,  and  do  I  seem 
Now  in  thine  eye  so  foul?  once  deemed  so  fair 
In  Heaven,  when  at  the  assembly,  and  in  sight 
Of  all  the  Seraphim  with  thee  combined        750 
In  bold  conspiracy  against  Heaven's  King, 
All  on  a  sudden  miserable  pain 
Surprised  thee;  dim  thine  eyes,  and  dizzy  swum 
In  darkness,  while  thy  head  flames  thick  and 

fast 
Threw  forth,  till  on  the  left  side  opening  wide, 
Likest  to  thee  in  shape  and  countenance  bright, 
Then  shining  heavenly  fair,  a  goddess  armed. 
Out  of  thy  head  I  sprung.*  Amazement  seized 
All  the    host   of   Heaven:    back   they    recoiled 

afraid 
At  first,  and  called  me  Sin,  and  for  a  sign    760 
Portentous  held  me;  but,  familiar  grown, 
I  pleased,  and  with  attractive  graces  won 
The  most  averse;  thee  chiefly,  who  full  oft 
Thyself  in  me  thy  perfect  image  viewing 
Becam'st  enamoured;  and  such  joy  thou  took'st 
With  me  in  secret,  that  my  womb  conceived 
A  growing  burden.    Meanwhile  war  arose, 
And   fields   were    fought   in    Heaven;    wherein 

remained 
(For  what  could  else?)  to  our  Almighty  Foe 
Clear  victory,  to  our  part  loss  and  rout         770 
Through  all  the  Empyrean.     Down  they  fell. 
Driven   headlong    from    the   pitch    of    Heaven,  • 

down 
Into  this  deep;  and  in  the  general  fall 
I  also:  at  which  time  this  powerful  key 
Into  my  hands  was  given,  with  charge  to  keep 
These  gates  forever  shut,  which  none  can  pass 
Without  my  opening.     Pensive  here  I  sat 
Alone;  but  long  I  sat  not,  till  my  womb, 
Pregnant  by  thee,  and  now  excessive  grown, 
Prodigious  motion  felt  and  rueful  throes.      780 
At  last  this  odious  offspring  whom  thou  seest. 
Thine  own  begotten,  breaking  violent  way. 
Tore  through  my  entrails,  that,  with  fear  antl 

pain 
Distorted,  all  my  nether  shape  thus  grew 
Transformed;  but  he,  my  inbred  enemy. 
Forth  issued,  brandishing  his  fatal  dart, 
Made  to  destroy.     I  fled,  and  cried  out  Death.' 
Hell  trembled  at  the  hideous  name,  and  sighed 
From  all  her  caves,  and  back  resounded  Death  ' 
I    fled;     but    he    pursued     (though    more,    it 
seems,  790 

Inflame<l  with  lust  than  rage)  and,  swifter  far. 
Me  overtook,  his  mother,  all  dismayed. 
And,  in  embraces  forcible  and  foul 
Engendering  with  me,  of  that  rape  begot 

•  Milton  drawn  from  pagan  myths  with  especial 
freedom  in  describinK  bis  evil  cbaracters  and 
scenes. 


These  yelling  monsters,  that  with  ceaseless  cry 
Surround  me,  as  thou  saw  'st,  hourly  conceived 
And  hourly  born,  with  sorrow  infinite 
To  me;  for,  when  they  list,  into  the  womb 
That   bred    them    they    return,   and   howl,    and 

gnaw 
My     bowels,     their     repast;     then,     bursting 
forth  800 

Afresh,  with  conscious  terrors  vex  me  round, 
That  rest  or  intermission  none  I  find. 
Before  mine  eyes  in  opposition  sits 
Grim  Death,  my  son  and  foe,  who  sets  them  on. 
And  me,  his  parent,  would  full  soon  devour 
For  want  of  other  prey,  but  that  he  knows 
His  end  with  mine  involved,  and  knows  that  1 
Should  prove  a  bitter  morsel,  and  his  bane, 
Whenever  that  shall  be:  so  Fate  pronounced. 
But  thou,  O  father,  I  forewarn  thee,  shun     810 
His  deadly  arrow;  neither  vainly  hope 
To  be  invulnerable  in  those  bright  arms. 
Though    tempered    heavenly;    for    that   mortal 

dint. 
Save  he  who  reigns  above,  none  can  resist.' 

She  finished;  and  the  subtle  Fiend  his  lore 
Soon   learned,   now  milder,   and  thus  answered 
smooth: — 
'Dear  daughter — since  thou  claim 'st  me  for 
thy  sire, 
And   my  fair   son  here  show'st  me,   the   dear 

pledge 
Of.  dalliance  had  with  thee  in  Heaven,  and  joys 
Then  sweet,  now  sad  to  mention,  through  dire 
change  820 

Befallen  us  unforeseen,  unthought  of — know, 
I  come  no  enemy,  but  to  set  free 
From  out  this  dark  and  dismal  house  of  pain 
Both  him  and  thee,  and  all  the  Heavenly  host 
Of  Spirits  that,  in  our  just  pretences^*  armed. 
Fell  with  us  from  on  high.    From  them  I  go 
This  uncouth  errand  sole,  and  one  for  all 
Myself  expose,  with  lonely  steps  to  tread 
The    unfounded   Deep,    and    through    the  void 

immense 
To  search  with  wandering  quest  a  place  fore- 
told 830 
Should  be — and  by  concurring  signs,  ere  now 
Created  vast  and  round — a  place  of  bliss 
In  the  purlieus  of  Heaven;  and  therein  placed 
A  race  of  upstart  creatures,  to  supply 
Perhaps     our     vacant     room,     though     more 

removed, 
Lest  Heaven,  surcharged  with  potent  multitude, 
Might  hap   to  move  new  broils.     Be  this,  or 

aught 
Than  this  more  secret,  now  designed,  I  haste 

S4  claims 


JOHN  MILTON 


253 


To    know;    and,    this    once   known,   shall    soon 

return, 
And   bring   ye    to    the   place    where    thou    and 
Death  840 

Shall  dwell  at  ease,  and  up  and  down  unseen 
Wing  silently  the  buxom^s  air,  embalmed 
With  odors:  there  ye  shall  be  fed  and  filled 
Immeasurably;  all  things  shall  be  your  prey.' 
He  ceased;  for  both  seemed  highly  pleased, 
and  Death 
Grinned  horrible  a  ghastly  smile,  to  hear 
His   famine   should  be  filled,  and   blessed  his 

maw 

Destined  to  that  good  hour.     No  less  rejoiced 

His  mother  bad,  and  thus  bespake  her  sire: — 

'  The  key  of  this  infernal  pit,  by  due  850 

And    by    command    of    Heaven's    all-powerful 

King, 
I  keep,  by  him  forbidden  to  unlock 
These  adamantine  gates;  against  all  force 
Death  ready  stands  to  interpose  his  dart. 
Fearless  to  be  o'ermatched  by  living  might. 
But  what  owe  I  to  his  commands  above, 
WTio  hates  me,  and  hath  hither  thrust  me  down 
Into  this  gloom  of  Tartarus  profound. 
To  sit  in  hateful  office  here  c-onfined. 
Inhabitant  of  Heaven  and  Heavenly-born,      860 
Here  in  perpetual  agony  and  pain. 
With  terrors  and  with  clamors  compassed  round 
Of  mine  own  brood,  that  on  my  bowels  feed? 
Thou  art  my  father,  thou  my  author,  thou 
My  being  gav  'st  me ;  whom  should  I  obey 
But  thee?  whom  follow!     Thou  wilt  bring  me 

soon 
To  that  new  world  of  light  and  bliss,  among 
The  gods  who  live  at  ease,  where  I  shall  reign 
At  thy  right  hand  voluptuous,  as  beseems 
Thy  daughter  and  thy  darling,  without  end. '  870 

Thus  saying,  from  her  side  the  fatal  key. 
Sad  instrument  of  all  our  woe,  she  took; 
And,  towards  the  gate  rolling  her  bestial  train, 
Forthwith  the  huge  portcullis  high  up-drew. 
Which  but  herself  not  all  the  Stygian  Powers 
Could  once  have  moved;   then  in  the  key-hole 

turns 
The  intricate  wards,  and  every  bolt  and  bar 
Of  massy  iron  or  solid  rock  with  ease 
Unfastens.    On  a  sudden  open  fly, 
With  impetuous  recoil  and  jarring  sound,      880 
The  infernal  doors,  and  on  their  hinges  grate 
Harsh  thunder,  that  the  lowest  bottom  shook 
Of  Erebus.56     She  opened;  but  to  shut 
Excelled  her  power:  the  gates  wide  open  stood. 
That  with  extended  wings  a  bannered  host, 


55  yielding 
5<s  •"Darkness," 


the  Virgilian  name  for  hell. 


Under   spread   ensigns    marching,    might   pass 

through 
With  horse  and  chariots  ranked  in  loose  array; 
So  wide  they  stood,  and  like  a  furnace-mouth 
Cast  forth  redounding  smoke  and  ruddy  flame. 
Before  their  eyes  in  sudden  view  appear        890 
The  secrets  of  the  hoary  Deep,  a  dark 
Illimitable  ocean,  without  bound. 
Without  dimension;  where  length,  breadth,  and 

highth, 
And   time,  and  place,  are  lost;    where   eldest 

Night 
And  Chaos,  ancestors  of  Nature,  hold 
Eternal  anarchy,  amidst  the  noise 
Of  endless  wars,  and  by  confusion  stand. 
For  Hot,  Cold,  Moist,  and  Dry,  four  champions 

fierce. 
Strive  here  for  mastery,  and  to  battle  bring 
Their  embryon^"   atoms;   they  around  the  flag 
Of  each  his  faction,  in  their  several  clans,      901 
Light-armed    or    heavy,    sharp,    smooth,    swift, 

or  slow. 
Swarm  populous,  unnumbered  as  the  sands 
Of  Barca  or  Cyrene's  torrid  soil, 
Levietl  to  side  with  warring  winds,  and  poise 
Their    lighter    wings.      To    whom    these    most 

adhere. 
He  rules  a  moment;  Chaos  umpire  sits, 
And  by  decision  more  embroils  the  fray 
By  which  he  reigns;  next  him,  high  arbiter. 
Chance  governs  ail.    Into  this  wild  Abyss,    910 
The  womb  of  Nature,  and  perhaps  her  grave. 
Of  neither  sea,  nor  shore,  nor  air,  nor  fire. 
But  all  these  in  their  pregnant  causes  mixed 
Confusedly,  and  which  thus  must  ever  fight, 
L'^nless  the  Almighty  Maker  them  ordain 
His  dark  materials  to  create  more  worlds — 
Into  this  wild  Abyss  the  wary  Fiend 
Stood  on  the  brink  of  Hell  and  looked  awhile, 
Pondering  his  voyage;  for  no  narrow  frith 
He  had  to  cross.  Nor  was  his  ear  less  pealed  920 
With  noises  loud  and  ruinous  (to  compare 
Great  things  with  small)  than  when  Bellonass 

storms 
With  all  her  battering  engines,  bent  to  rase 
Some  capital  city;  or  less  than  if  this  frame 
Of  Heaven  were  falling,  and  these  elements 
In  mutiny  had  from  her  axle  torn 
The  steadfast   Earth.     At  last  his  sail-broad 

vans 
He  spreads  for  flight,  and  in  the  surging  smoke 
Uplifted   spurns    the   ground;    thence   many   a 

league. 
As  in  a  cloudy  chair,  ascending  rides  930 

Audacious;   but,  that  seat  soon  failing,  meets 

57  rudimentary 

58  Roman  goddess  of  war. 


254 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY 


A  vast  vacuity;  all  unawares, 

Fluttering    his    pennons   vain,   plumb-down    he 

drops 
Ten  thousand  fathom  deep,  and  to  this  hour 
Down  had  been  falling,  had  not  by  ill  chance 
The  strong  rebuff  of  some  tumultuous  cloud, 
Instinct  with  fire  and  nitre,  hurried  him 
As  many  miles  aloft.    That  fury  stayed — 
Quenched  in  a  boggy  Syrtis,5»  neither  sea, 
Nor    good    dry    land — nigh    foundered,    on    he 

fares,  940 

Treading  the  crude  consistence,  half  on  foot, 
Half  flying;  behoves  himso  now  both  oar  and 

sail. 
As  when  a  gryphon  through  the  wilderness 
With  winged  course,  o'er  hill  or  moory  dale. 
Pursues  the  Arimaspian,6i  who  by  stealth 
Had  from  his  wakeful  custody  purloined 
The  guarded  gold:  so  eagerly  the  Fiend 
O  'er  bog  or  steep,  through  strait,  rough,  dense, 

or  rare. 
With  head,  hands,  wings,  or  feet,  pursues  his 

way, 
And  swims,  or  sinks,  or  wades,  or  creeps,  or 

flies.  950 

At  length  a  universal  hubbub  wild 
Of  stunning  sounds  and  voices  all  confused. 
Borne    through    the   hollow    dark,    assaults   his 

ear 
With  loudest  vehemence.     Thither  he  plies 
Undaunted,  to  meet  there  whatever  Power 
Or  Spirit  of  the  nethermost  Abyss 
Might  in  that  noise  reside,  of  whom  to  ask 
Which  way  the  nearest  coast  of  darkness  lies 
Bordering  on  light;  when  straight  behold  the 

throne 
Of  Chaos,  and  his  dark  pavilion  spread        960 
Wide     on     the     wasteful     Deep!     With     him 

enthroned 
Sat  sable-vested  Night,  eldest  of  things, 
The  consort  of  his  reign;  and  by  them  stood 
Orcus  and  Ades,  and  the  dreaded  name 
Of  Demogorgon  ;«2  Eumor  next,  and  Chance, 
And  Tumult,  and  Confusion,  all  embroiled, 
And  Discord  with  a  thousand  various  mouths. 
To  whom  Satan,  turning  boldly,  thus: — *Ye 

Powers 
And  Spirits  of  this  nethermost  Abyss, 
Chaos  and  ancient  Night,  I  come  no  spy,        970 
With  purpose  to  explore  or  to  disturb 


SB  quIckHand 
«t  ''It   Ih  Hal«] 


00  needR  he 
lid  tho  ArlmasplanH,  a  one-eyed  people, 
sttal  Kold  from   the  grlfBns." — IlerodotiiH  III. 

einNamen  of  rather  VERue  Rignlflcance,  Hufliciently 
defined  In  »«0.  It  Is  said  that  the  name  of 
DemojforKon  was  never  uttered  until  a  Chris- 
tian writer  of  the  fourth  century  broke  the 
spell. 


The  secrets  of  your  realm;  but,  by  constraint 
Wandering  this  darksome  desert,  as  my  way 
Ues  through  your  spacious  empire  up  to  light, 
Alone  aud  without  guide,  half  lost,  1  seek 
What  readiest  path  leads  where  your  gloomy 

bounds 
Confine  with«3  Heaven;  or  if  some  other  place, 
From  your  dominion  won,  the  Ethereal  King 
Possesses  lately,  thither  to  arrive 
1  travel  this  profound.    Direct  my  course:     980 
Directed,  no  mean  recompense  it  brings 
To  your  behoof,  if  I  that  region  lost. 
All  usurpation  thence  expelled,  reduce 
To  her  original  darkness  and  your  sway 
(Which  is  my  present  journey),  and  once  more 
Erect  the  standard  there  of  ancient  Night. 
Yours  be  the  advantage  all,  mine  the  revenge !  * 
Thus  Satan;  and  him  thus  the  Anarcho*  old. 
With  faltering  speech  and  visage  incomposed. 
Answered: — *I  know  thee,  stranger,  who  thou 

art :  990 

That  mighty  leading  Angel,  who  of  late 
Made    head    against    Heaven's    King,    though 

overthrown. 
I  saw  and  heard;  for  such  a  numerous  host 
Fled  not  in  silence  through  the  frighted  deep. 
With  ruin  upon  ruin,  rout  -on  rout. 
Confusion  worse  confounded;  and  Heaven-gates 
Poured  out  by  millions  her  victorious  bands. 
Pursuing.     I  upon  my  frontiers  here 
Keep  residence;  if  all  I  can  will  serve 
That  little  which  is  left  so  to  defend,  1000 

Encroached  on  still  through  our  intestine  broils 
Weakening  the  sceptre  of  old  Night :  first  Hell, 
Your     dungeon,     stretching     far     and     wide 

beneath ; 
Now  lately  Heaven  and  Earth,  another  world 
Hung  o'er  my  realm,  linked  in  a  golden  chain 
To  that  side  Heaven  from  whence  your  legions 

fell. 
If  that  way  be  your  walk,  you  have  not  far ; 
So  much  the  nearer  danger.    Go,  and  speed! 
Havoc,  and  spoil,  and  ruin,  are  my  gain.' 
He     ceased;     and     Satan     stayed     not     to 

reply,  1010 

But,  glad  that  now  his  sea  should  find  a  shore, 
With  fresh  alacrity  and  force  renewed 
Springs  upward,  like  a  pyramid  of  fire, 
Into  the  wild  expanse,  and  through  the  shock 
Of  fighting  elements,  on  all  sides  round 
Environed,  wins  his  way;  harder  beset 
And  more  endangered,  than  when  Argo  passed 
Througlf  Bosporus  betwixt  the  justling  rocks; 
Or  when  Ulysses  on  the  larboard  shunned 


68  border  on 

••4  Word  first  UHPd  by  Milton. 


JOHN  MILTON 


265 


Charybdis,  and  by  the  other  whirlpool  steered: 
So  he  with  difSculty  and  labor  hard  1021 

Moved  on:  with  diflSeulty  and  labor  he; 
But,  he  once  passed,  soon  after,  when  Man  fell, 
Strange  alteration!  Sin  and  Death  amain, 
Following   his   track    (such   was   the   will   of 

Heaven) 
Paved  after  him  a  broad  and  beaten  way 
Over  the  dark  Abyss,  whose  boiling  gulf 
Tamely  endureil  a  bridge  of  wondrous  length, 
From  Hell  continued,  reaching  the  utmost  orb 
Of   this   frail   World;*    by  which   the   Spirits 

perverse  1030 

With  easy  intercourse  pass  to  and  fro 
To  tempt  or  punish  mortals,  except  whom 
God  and  good  Angels  guard  by  special  grace. 

But  now  at  last  the  sacred  influence's 
Of  light  appears,  and  from  the  walls  of  Heaven 
Shoots  far  into  the  bosom  of  dim  Night 
A  glimmering  dawn.     Here  Nature  first  begins 
Her  farthest  verge,  and  Chaos  to  retire, 
As  from  her  outmost  works,  a  broken  foe. 
With  tumult  less  and  with  less  hostile  din;  1040 
Thatfi*  Satan  with  less  toil,  and  now  with  ease. 
Wafts  on  the  calmer  wave  by  dubious  light, 
And,  like  a  weather-beaten  vessel,  holds 
Gladly    the    port,   though    shrouds    aad   tackle 

torn; 
Or  in  the  emptier  waste,  resembling  air, 
Weighs  his  spread  wings,  at  leisure  to  behold 
Far  off  the  empyreal  Heaven,  extended  wide 
In  circuit,  undetermined  square  or  round, 
With  opal  towers,  and  battlements  adorned 
Of  living  sapphire,  once  his  native  seat;     1050 
And,  fast  by,  hanging  in  a  golden  chain, 
This  pendent  World,  in  bigness  as  a  star 
Of  smallest  magnitude  close  by  the  moon. 
Thither,  full  fraught  with  mischievous  revenge, 
Accurst,  and  in  a  cursed  hour,  he  hies. 

Fbom  Book  TIL    Ikvocation  to  LicHrt 

Hail,  holy  Light,  offspring  of  Heaven  first- 
bom! 

Or  of  the  Eternal  coeternal  beam 

May  I  express  thee  unblamed?  since  God  is 
light, 

«s  Perhaps  literally  "in-      66  so    that 
flow." 

•  By  world  is  meant  the  starry  universe  with  the 
earth  at  the  center.  The  Ptolemaic  theory 
held  the  universe  to  consist  of  ten  concentric, 
transparent,  revolving  spheres,  each  carrying 
with  it  its  own  body — Moon.  Mercury,  Venus. 
Snn,  Mars.  .Tupiter,  Saturn,  Fixed  Stars,  with 
finally  the  Crystalline  Sphere,  and  the  Primum 
Mobile  ("first  movable."  primary  source  of 
motion).  From  their  revolutions  came,  accord- 
ing to  Pythagoras,  the  "music  of  the  spheres." 

t  Milton  speaks  here  in  his  own  person ;  it  is  to  be 
remembered  that  he  was  blind  (Cf.  line  23). 


And  never  but  in  unapproached  light 
Dwelt  from  eternity — dwelt  then  in  thee, 
Bright  effluence  of  bright  essence  increatel' 
Or  hear'st  thou  rathers  pure  Ethereal  stream, 
Whose  fountain  who   shall  tellf     Before   the 

Sun, 
Before  the  Heavens,  thou  wert,  and  at  the  voice 
Of  God,  as  with  a  mantle,  didst  invest  10 

The  rising  World  of  waters  dark  and  deep, 
Won  from  the  void  and  formless  Infinite! 
Thee  I  revisit  now  with  bolder  wing, 
Escaped  the  Stygian  Pool,  though  long  detained 
In  that  obscure  sojourn,  while  in  my  flight, 
Through   utter  and   through   middle   Darkness 

borne. 
With  other  notes  than  to  the  Orphean  lyre 
I  sung  of  Chaos  and  eternal  Night, 
Taught  by  the  Heavenly  Muse  to  venture  down 
The  dark  descent,  and  up  to  re-ascend,  20 

Though  hard  and  rare.    Thee  I  revisit  safe. 
And  feel  thy  sovran  vital  lamp;  but  thou 
Kevisit'st  not  these  eyes,  that  roll  in  vain 
To  find  thy  piercing  ray,  and  find  no  dawn; 
So   thick  a  drop   serenes   hath  quenched  their 

orbs. 
Or  dim  suffusion  veiled.    Yet  not  the  more 
Cease  I  to  wander  where  the  Muses  haunt 
Cl«ar  spring,  or  shady  grove,  or  sunny  hill, 
Smit  with  the  love  of  sacred  song ;  but  chief 
Thee,  Sion,  and  the  flowery  brooks  beneath,    30 
That   wash   thy  hallowed   feet,   and  warbling 

flow. 
Nightly  I  visit:  nor  sometimes  forget 
Those  other  two  equalled  with  me  in  fate. 
So  were  I*  equalled  with  them  in  renown. 
Blind  Thamyris  and  blind  Mfieonides,^ 
And  TLresias  and  Phineus,  prophets  old: 
Then  feed  on  thoughts  that  voluntary  move 
Harmonious  numbers;  as  the  wakeful  bird 
Sings  darkling,  and,  in  shadiest  covert  hid. 
Tunes    her    nocturnal    note.      Thus    with    the 

year  40 

Seasons  return;  but  not  to  me  returns 
Day,  or  the  sweet  approach  of  even  or  morn 
Or  sight  of  vernal  bloom,  or  summer's  ros^ 
Or  flocks,  or  herds,  or  human  face  divine; 
But  cloud  instead  and  ever-during  dark 
Surrounds  me,  from  the  cheerful  ways  of  men 
Cut  off,  and,  for  the  book  of  knowledge  fair, 
Presented  with  a  universal  blank 
Of  Nature's  works,  to  me  expunged  and  rased, 
And  wisdom  at  one  entrance  quite  shut  out.    50 


1  uncreated 

2  wouldst    rather   be 

called 

3  T  h  e     gutta     aerena, 

supposed    cause    of 
blindness. 


4  would  I  were  so 

5  Homer,   who  mentions 

Thamyris    as    an 
other  blind  bard. 


256 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTUBY 


So  much  the  rather  thou,  Celestial  light, 
Shine   inward,   and   the   mind   through   all   her 

powers 
Irradiate;    there    plant    eyes;    all    mist    from 

thence 
Purge  and  disperse,  that  I  may  see  and  tell 
Of  things  invisible  to  mortal  sight. 

Feom  Book  IV.    Satan  in  Sight  of  Eden 

Sometimes    towards   Eden,  which   now   in  his 

view 
Lay  pleasant,  his  grieved  look  he  fixes  sad; 
Sometimes  towards  Heaven  and  the  full-blazing 

Sun, 
Which  now  sat  high  in  his  meridian  tower:     30 
Then,  much  revolving,  thus  in  sighs  began: — 
' '  O  thou  that,  with  surpassing  glory  crowned, 
Look'st  from  thy  sole  dominion  like  the  god 
Of  this  new  World — at  whose  sight  all  the  stars 
Hide  their  diminished  heads — to  thee  I  call, 
But  with  no  friendly  voice,  and  add  thy  name, 

0  Sun,  to  tell  thee  how  I  hate  thy  beams. 
That    bring    to    my    remembrance    from    what 

state 

1  fell,  how  glorious  once  above  thy  sphere. 
Till    pride    and    worse     ambition    threw     me 

down,  40 

Warring  in  Heaven  against  Heaven's  matchless 

King! 
Ah,  wherefore?    He  deserved  no  such  return 
From  me,  whom  he  created  what  I  was 
In  that  bright  eminence,  and  with  his  good 
Upbraided  none;  nor  was  his  service  hard. 
What  could  be  less  than  to  afford  him  praise, 
The  easiest  recompense,  and  pay  him  thanks. 
How  due?     Yet  all  his  good  proved  ill  in  mc. 
And  wrought  but  malice.    Lifted  up  so  high, 
I    sdaineds   subjection,    and   thought   one   step 

higher  50 

Would  set  me  highest,  and  in  a  moment  quit 
The  debt  immense  of  endless  gratitude. 
So  burdensome,  still  paying,  still  to  owe; 
Forgetful  what  from  him  I  still  received; 
And  understood  not  that  a  grateful  mind 
By  owing  owes  not,  but  still  pays,  at  once 
Indebted  and  discharged — what  burden  then? 
Oh,  had  his  powerful  destiny  ordained 
Me  some  inferior  Angel,  I  had  stood 
Then  happy;  no  unbounded  hope  had  raised    GO 
Ambition.    Yet  why  not?    Some  other  Power 
As  great  might  have  aspired,  and  me,  though 

mean, 
Drawn  to  his  part.    But  other  Powers  as  great 
Fell  not,  but  stand  unshaken,  from  within 

e  disdained 


Or  from  without  to  all  temptations  armed! 
Hadst  thou  the  same  free  will  and  power  to 

stand? 
Thou  hadst.     Whom  hast  thou  then,  or  what, 

to  accuse. 
But  Heaven's  free  love  dealt  equally  to  all? 
Be  then  his  love  accursed,  since,  love  or  hate. 
To  me  alike  it  deals  eternal  woe.  70 

Nay,  cursed  be  thou;  since  against  his  thy  will 
Chose  freely  what  it  now  so  justly  rues. 
Me  miserable!  which  way  shall  I  fly 
Infinite  wrath  and  infinite  despair? 
Which  way  I  fly  is  Hell;  myself  am  Hell; 
And,  in  the  lowest  deep,  a  lower  deep 
Still  threatening  to  devour  me  opens  wide. 
To  which  the  Hell  I  suffer  seems  a  Heaven. 
O,  then,  at  last  relent !     Is  there  no  place 
Left  for  repentance,  none  for  pardon  left?     80 
None  left  but  by  submission ;  and  that  word 
Disdain  forbids  me,  and  my  dread  of  shame 
Among  the  Spirits  beneath,  whom  I  seduced 
With  other  promises  and  other  vaunts 
Than  to  submit,  boasting  I  could  subdue 
The  Omnipotent.    Ay  me !  they  little  know 
How  dearly  I  abide  that  boast  so  vain. 
Under  what  torments  inwardly  I  groan. 
While  they  adore  me  on  the  throne  of  Hell, 
With  diadem  and  sceptre  high  advanced,        90 
The  lower  still  I  fall,  only  supreme 
In  misery:  such  joy  ambition  finds! 
But  say  I  could  repent,  and  could  obtain, 
By  act  of  grace,  my  former  state;    how  soon 
Would  highth  recall   high   thoughts,  how   soon 

unsay 
What  feigned  submission  swore!      Ease  would 

recant 
Vows  made  in  pain,  as  violent  and  void 
(For  never  can  true  reconcilement  grow 
Where  wounds  of  deadly  hate  have  pierced  so 

deep)  ; 
Which  would  but  lead  me  to  a  worse  relapse  100 
And  heavier  fall:  so  should  I  purchase  dear 
Short  intermission,  bought  with  double  smart. 
This  knows  my  Punisher;   therefore  as  far 
From  granting  he,  as  I  from  begging,  peace. 
All  hope  excluded  thus,  behold,  instead 
Of  us,  outcast,  exiled,  his  new  delight, 
Mankind,  created,  and  for  him  this  World! 
So  farewell  hope,  and,  with  hope,  farewell  fear. 
Farewell  remorse!     All  good  to  me  is  lost; 
Evil,  be  thou  my  Good :  by  thee  at  least        HO 
Divided  empire  with  Heaven 's  King  I  hold, 
By    thee,    and    more   than   half   perhaps    will 

reign ; 
As  Man  ere  long,  and  this  new  World,  shall 
know. ' ' 


JOHN  MILTON 


257 


Fkom  Book  IV.    Evening  in  Paradise 
Now  came  still   Evening   on,   and   Twilight 
gray 
Had  in  her  sober  livery  all  things  clad; 
Silence  accompanied;  for  beast  and  bird,      600 
They  to  their  grassy  couch,  these  to  their  nests 
Were  slunk,  all  but  the  wakeful  nightingale. 
She  all  night  long  her  amorous  descant  sung : 
Silence  was  pleased.     Now  glowed  the  firma 

ment 
With  living  sapphires;  Hesperus,  that  led 
The  starry  host,  rode  brightest,  till  the  Moon, 
Rising  in  clouded  majesty,  at  length 
Apparent  queen,  unveiled  her  peerless  light, 
And  o'er  the  dark  her  silver  mantle  threw; 
When  Adam  thus  to  Eve:— "Fair  consort,  the 
hour  «10 

Of  night,  and  all  things  now  retired  to  rest, 
Mind  us  of  like  repose;  since  God  hath  set 
Labor  and  rest,  as  day  and  night,  to  men 
Successive,  and  the  timely  dew  of  sleep, 
Now     falling    with    soft    slumberous    weight, 

inclines 
Our  eye-lids.    Other  creatures  all  day  long 
Bove  idle,  unemployed,  and  less  need  rest ; 
Man  hath  his  daily  work  of  body  or  mind 
Appointed,  which  declares  his  dignity. 
And  the  regard  of  Heaven  on  all  his  ways;    620 
While  other  animals  unactive  range. 
And  of  their  doings  God  takes  no  account. 
To-morrow,  ere  fresh  morning  streak  the  east 
With  first  approach  of  light,  we  must  be  risen. 
And  at  our  pleasant  labor,  to  reform 
Yon  flowery  arbors,  yonder  alleys  green. 
Our  walk  at  noon,  with  branches  overgrown. 
That  mock  our  scant  manuring,  and  require 
More   hands   than   ours   to    lop    their    wanton 

growth. 
Those  blossoms  also,  and  those  dropping  gums. 
That  lie  bestrewn,  unsightly  and  unsmooth,   631 
Ask  riddance,  if  we  mean  to  tread  with  ease. 
Meanwhile,    as    Nature    wills,    Night    bids    us 
rest." 

Fbom  Book  V.     The  Morning  Hymn  of 
Adam  and  Eve 


"These  are  thy  glorious  works.  Parent  of 

good, 
Almighty!   thine  this  universal  frame. 
Thus    wondrous    fair:    thyself    how    wondrous 

then! 
Unspeakable!   who  sitt'st  above  these  heavens 
To  us  invisible,  or  dimly  seen 
In  these  thy  lowest  works ;  yet  these  declare 
Thy    goodness    beyond    thought,    and     power 

divine. 


Speak,  ye  who  best  can  tell,  ye  Sons  of  Light, 

Angels — for  ye  behold  him,  and  with  songs 

And  choral  symphonies,  day  without  night, 

Circle  his  throne  rejoicing — ye  in  Heaven; 

On  Earth  join,  all  ye  creatures,  to  extol 

Him  first,  him  last,  him  midst,  and  without  end. 

Fairest  of  Stars,  last  in  the  train  of  Night, 

If  better  thou  belong  not  to  the  Dawn, 

Sure  pledge  of  day,  that  crown 'st  the  smiling 

morn 
With  thy  bright  circlet,  praise  him  in  thy  sphere 
While  day  arises,  that  sweet  hour  of  prime.  170 
Thou  Sun,  of  this  great  World  both  eye  and 

soul. 
Acknowledge  him  thy  greater ;  sound  his  praise 
In  thy  eternal  course,  both  when  thou  climb  'st, 
And  when   high   noon  hast   gained,  and   when 

thou  fall'st. 
Moon,  that  now  meet'st  the  orient  Sun,  now  _ 

fliest, 
With  the  fixed  Stars,  fixed  in  their  orb  that 

flies;! 
And  ye  five  other  wandering  Fires,  that  move 
In  mystic  dance,  not  without  song,  resound 
His   praise    who    out   of    Darkness    called    up 

Light. 
Air,  and  ye  Elements,  the  eldest  birth  180 

Of  Nature's  womb,  that  in  quaternionz  run 
Perpetual  circle,  multiform,  and  mix 
And    nourish    all    things,    let    your    ceaseless 

change 
Vary  to  our  great  Maker  still  new  praise. 
Ye  Mists  and  Exhalations,  that  now  rise 
From  hill  or  steaming  lake,  dusky  or  gray. 
Till  the  sun  paint  your  fleecy  skirts  with  gold, 
In  honor  to  the  World 's  great  Author  rise ; 
Whether  to  deck  with  clouds  the  uncolored  sky. 
Or  wet  the  thirsty  earth  with  falling  showers, 
Rising  or  falling,  still  advance  his  praise.      191 
His  praise,  ye  Winds,  that  from  four  quarters 

blow, 
Breathe  soft  or  loud;  and  wave  your  tops,  ye 

Pines, 
With  every  Plant,  in  sign  of  worship  wave. 
Fountains,  and  ye,  that  warble,  as  ye  flow. 
Melodious  murmurs,  warbling  tune  his  praise. 
Join  voices,  all  ye  li\-ing  Souls.    Ye  Birds, 
That,  singing,  up  to  Heaven-gate  ascend, 
Bear   on   your  wings   and   in   your    notes   his 

praise. 
Ye  that  in  waters  glide,  and  ye  that  walk      200 
The  earth,  and  stately  tread,  or  lowly  creep. 
Witness  if  /  be  silent,  mom  or  even, 
To  hill  or  valley,  fountain,  or  fresh  shade, 


iSee  note  on  II.   1030.  ,  „    ,k    «-  ♦«,    *i- 

2  In  their  fonrfold  character  of  HIartn.  v>  ater,  Air, 
and  Fire.     See  II,  898.      ••    it- 


258 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTUEY 


Made  vocal  by  my  song,  and  taught  his  praise. 
Hail,  universal  Lord!     Be  bounteous  still 
To  give  us  only  good;  and,  if  the  night 
Have  gathered  aught  of  evil,  or  concealed. 
Disperse  it,  as  now  light  dispels  the  dark." 

From  Book  VII.    Invocation  to  Urania 
Descend  from  Heaven,  Urania,  by  that  name 
If  rightly  thou  art  called,*  whose  voice  divine 
Following,  above  the  Olympian  hill  I  soar, 
Above  the  flight  of  Pegasean  wing! 
The  meaning,  not  the  name,  I  call;  for  thou 
Nor  of  the  Muses  nine,  nor  on  the  top 
Of  old  Olympus  dwell 'st;  but,  heavenly-born. 
Before  the  hills  appeared  or  fountain  flowed. 
Thou  with  Eternal  Wisdom  didst  converse, 
Wisdom  thy  sister,  and  with  her  didst  play     10 
In  presence  of  the  Almighty  Father,  pleased 
With  thy  celestial  song.     Up  led  by  thee. 
Into  the  Heaven  of  Heavens  I  have  presumed, 
An  earthly  guest,  and  drawn  empyreal  air. 
Thy  tempering.    With  like  safety  guided  down, 
Eeturn  me  to  my  native  element; 
Lest,  from  this  flying  steed  unreined  (as  once 
Bellerophon,t  though  from  a  lower  clime) 
Dismounted,  on  the  Aleian  field  I  fall. 
Erroneous  there  to  wander  and  forlorn.  20 

Half  yet  remains  unsung,  but  narrower  bound 
Within  the  visible  Diurnal  Sphere. 
Standing  on  Earth,  not  rapt  above  the  pole. 
More  safe  I  sing  with  mortal  voice,  unchanged 
To  hoarse  or  mute,  though  fallen  on  evil  days. 
On  evil  days  though  fallen,  and  evil  tongues. 
In    darkness,     and    with     dangers     compassed 

round. 
And  solitude ;  yet  not  alone,  while  thou 
Visit 'st  my  slumbers  nightly,  or  when  Morn 
Purples  the  East.   Still  govern  thou  my  song,  30 
Urania,  and  fit  audience  find,  though  few. 
But  <lrive  far  off  the  barbarous  dissonance 
Of  Bacchus  and  his  revellers,  the  race 
Of  that  wild  route  that  tore  the  Thracian  bardt 
In  Khodope,  where  woods  and  rocks  had  ears 
To  rapture,  till  the  savage  clamor  drowned 
Both  harp  and  voice ;  nor  could  the  Muse  defend 
Her  son.     So  fail  not  thou  who  thee  implores; 
For  thou  art  heavenly,  she  an  empty  dream. 

♦  Milton  doclaros  that  tho  Urania  whom  he  in- 
vokeH  Ih  not  the  paean  Muse  of  that  name, 
hut   a   loftier   Christian   Muse,   the   "heavenly 

t  Bollerophon.  the  fabled  rider  of  Tegasus.  tried 
to  mount  to  heaven  npon  him,  but  was  thrown 
for  his  presumption  and  doomed  to  wander 
in  the  Aleian   (''wanderlnR")   field. 

t  OrpheuB  offended  the  Thracian  Bacchantes  and 
waH  torn  to  pieces  by  them.  Milton,  blind, 
and,  since  the  Restoration,  reviled  as  a  Purl- 
tan,  bad  "fallen  on  evil  days"  and  might  even 
fear  from  the  disMolute  courtiers  of  Charles 
a  fate  not  unlike  that  of  Orpheus. 


From  Book  XII.     The  Expulsion  from 
Paradise 

Hei  ended,  and  they  both  descend  the  hill. 
Descended,  Adam  to  the  bower  where  Eve 
Lay  sleeping  ran  before,  but  found  her  waked; 
And     thus     with     words     not     sad     she     him 
received: — 
' '  Whence  thou  return  'st  and  whither  went  'st 
I  know;  610 

For  God  is  also  in  sleep,  and  dreams  advise. 
Which  he  hath  sent  propitious,  some  great  good 
Presaging,     since,    with    sorrow     and    heart's 

distress 
Wearied,  I  fell  asleep.    But  now  lead  on; 
In  me  is  no  delay;  with  thee  to  go 
Is  to  stay  here;  without  thee  here  to  stay 
Is  to  go  hence  unwilling;  thou  to  me 
Art  all  things  under  Heaven,  all  places  thou, 
Who  for  my  wilful  crime  art  banished  hence. 
This  further  consolation  yet  secure  620 

I  carry  hence:  though  all  by  me  is  lost. 
Such  favor  I  unworthy  am  vouchsafed. 
By  me  the  Promised  Seed  shall  all  restore. ' ' 

So  spake  our  mother  Eve;  and  Adam  heard 
Well  pleased,  but  answered  not;   for  now  too 

nigh 
The  Archangel  stood,  and  from  the  other  hill 
To  their  fixed  station,  all  in  bright  array. 
The  Cherubim  descended,  on  the  ground 
Gliding,  meteorous,  as  evening  mist 
Bisen  from  a  river  o  'er  the  marish  glides,      630 
And  gathers  ground  fast  at  the  laborer's  heel 
Homeward  returning.    High  in  front  advanced, 
The    brandished    sword    of    God    before    them 

blazed, 
Fierce  as  a  comet;  which  with  torrid  heat. 
And  vapor  as  the  Libyan  air  adust," 
Began  to  parch  that  temperate  clime;  whereat 
In  either  hand  the  hastening  Angel  caught 
Our  lingering  parents,  and  to  the  eastern  gate 
Led  them  direct,  and  down  the  cliff  as  fast 
To  the  subjecteds  plain — then  disappeared.       640 
They,  looking  back,  all  the  eastern  side  beheld 
Of  Paradise,  so  late  their  happy  seat, 
Waved  over  by  that  flaming  brand;  the  gate 
With  dreadful  faces  thronged  and  fiery  arms. 
Some   natural   tears  they  dropped,   but  wiped 

them  soon; 
The  world  was  all  before  them,  where  to  choose 
Their  place  of  rest,  and  Providence  their  guide. 
They,  hand  in  hand,  with  wandering  steps  and 

slow, 
Through  Eden*  took  their  solitary  way. 


1  Michael,  the  angel 
delegated  to  lead 
them    forth. 


^  scorched 

8  underlying 

4  8ee  note  on  I,  i. 


JOHN  MILTON 


259 


ON   EDUCATION 

To  Master  Samuel  Habtlib:* 

I  AM  long  since  persuaded,  Master  Hartlib, 
that  to  say  or  do  aught  worth  memory  and  imita- 
tion, no  purpose  or  respect  should  sooner  move  us 
thansimply  the  love  of  God  and  of  mankind.  .  .  . 
I  will  not  resist,  therefore,  whatever  it  is  either 
of  divine  or  human  obligement  that  you  lay 
upon  me;  but  will  forthwith  set  down  in  writ- 
ing, as  you  request  me,  that  voluntary  idea, 
which  hath  long  in  silence  presented  itself  to 
me,  of  a  better  education,  in  extent  and  com- 
prehension far  more  large,  and  yet  of  time  far 
shorter  and  of  attainment  far  more  certain, 
than  hath  been  yet  in  practice.  Brief  I  shall 
endeavour  to  be;  for  that  which  I  have  to  say 
assuredly  this  nation  hath  extreme  need  should 
be  done  sooner  than  spoken.     ... 

The  end,  then,  of  learning  is,  to  repair  the 
ruins  of  our  first  parents  by  regaining  to  know 
God  aright,  and  out  of  that  knowledge  to  love 
him,  to  imitate  him,  to  be  like  him,  as  we  may 
the  nearest  by  possessing  our  souls  of  true 
virtue.i  which,  being  united  to  the  heavenly 
grace  of  faith,  makes  up  the  highest  perfection. 
But  because  our  understanding  cannot  in  this 
body  found  itself  but  on  sensible  things,^  nor 
arrive  so  clearly  to  the  knowledge  of  God  and 
things  invisible  as  by  orderly  conning  over  thi; 
visible  and  inferior  creature,  the  same  method 
is  necessarily  to  be  followed  in  all  discreet 
teaching.  And  seeing  every  nation  affords  not 
experience  and  tradition  enough  for  all  kinds 
of  learning,  therefore  we  are  chiefly  taught  the 
languages  of  those  people  who  have  at  any 
time  been  most  industrious  after  wisdom;  so 
that  language  is  but  the  instrument  conveying 
to  us  things  useful  to  be  known.  And  though 
a  linguist  should  pride  himself  to  have  all  the 
tongues  that  Babel  cleft  the  world  into,  yet  if 
he  have  not  studied  the  solid  things  in  them  as 
well  as  the  words  and  lexicons,  he  were  nothing 
so  much  to  be  esteemed  a  learned  man  as  any 
yeoman  or  tradesman  competently  wise  in  his 
mother-dialect  only.  Hence  appear  the  many 
mistakes  which  have  made  learning  generally 
so  unpleasing  and  so  unsuccessful.  First,  we 
lo  amiss  to  spend  seven  or  eight  years  merely 
in  scraping  together  so  much  miserable  Latin 

1  Which  we  may  most  readilv  do  bv  putting  our 
souls  m  possession  of  true  virtue. 

-  rbiDgs  perceived  by  the  senses. 

•  Hartlib  was  a  Pole,  settled  in  England,  who  had 
had  some  discussions  with  Milton  on  the  sub- 
ject of  education.  The  slight  omissions  made 
here  from  the  beginning  of  the  tractate  are 
made  with  the  purpose  of  enabling  the  reader 
to  get  moie  rapidly  into  the  subject. 


and  Greek  as  might  be  learned  otherwise  easily 
and  delightfully  in  one  year.     And  that  which 
casts  our  proficiency  therein  so  much  behind  is 
our  time  lost  partly  in  too  oft  idle  vacancies 
given  both  to  schools  and  universities;  partly  in 
a  preposterous  exaction,  forcing  the  empty  wits 
of  children  to  compose  themes,  verses,  and  ora- 
tions, which  are  the  acts  of  ripest  judgment, 
and  the  final  work  of   a  head   filled   by  long 
reading  and  observing  with  elegant  maxims  and 
copious  invention.     These  are   not  matters  to 
be  wrung  from  poor  striplings,  like  blood  oat 
of  the  nose,  or  the  plucking  of  untimely  fruit; 
besides  the  ill  habit  which  they  get  of  wretched 
barbarising  against  the  Latin  and  Greek  idiom 
with  their  untutored  Anglicisms,  odious  to  be 
read,  yet  not   to   be  avoided  without  a  well- 
continued  and  judicious  conversing  among  pure 
authors,    digested,    which    they    scarce    taste. 
Whereas,  if  after  some  preparatory  grounds  of 
speech  by  their  certain  forms  got  into  memory 
they  were  letl  to  the  praxiss  thereof  in   some 
chosen  short  book  lessoned  thoroughly  to  them, 
they  might  then  forthwith  proceed  to  learn  the 
substance  of  good  things  and  arts  in  due  order, 
which  would  bring  the  whole  language  quickly 
into  their  power.     .     .     . 

I  shall  detain  you  now  no  longer  in  the  demon- 
stration of  what  we  should  not  do,  but  straight 
conduct  you  to  a  hillside,  where  I  will  point  you 
out  the  right  path  of  a  virtuous  and  noble  edu- 
cation; laborious  indeed  at  the  first  ascent,  but 
else  so  smooth,  so  green,  so  full  of  goodly 
prospect  and  melodious  sounds  on  every  side, 
that  the  harp  of  Orpheus  was  not  more  charm- 
ing. I  doubt  not  but  ye  shall  have  more  ado 
to  drive  our  dullest  and  laziest  youth,  our 
stocks  and  stubs,  from  the  infinite  desire  of 
such  a  happy  nurture,  than  we  have  now  to  hale 
and  drag  our  choicest  and  hopefuUest  wits  to 
that  asinine  feast  of  sow-thistles  and  brambles 
which  is  commonly  set  before  them  as  all  the 
food  and  entertainment  of  their  tenderest  and 
most  docile  age.  I  caU,  therefore,  a  complete 
and  generous  education,  that  which  fits  a  man 
to  perform  justly,  skilfuUy,  and  magnanimously 
all  the  offices,  both  private  and  public,  of  peace 
and  war.  And  how  aU  this  may  be  done  be- 
tween twelve  and  one-and-twenty,  less  time  than 
is  now  bestowed  in  pure  trifling  at  grammar 
and  sophistry,  is  to  be  thus  ordered: — 

First,  to  find  out  a  spacious  house  and 
ground  abont  it  fit  for  an  academy,  and  big 
enough  to  lodge  a  hundred  and  fifty  persons, 
whereof  tw«ity  or  thereabout  may  be  attend- 

3  practical   exercises 


260 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY 


ants,  all  under  the  government  of  one  who  shall 
be  thought  of  desert  sufficient,  and  ability 
either  to  do  all,  or  wisely  to  direct  and  oversee 
it  done.  This  place  should  be  at  once  both 
school  and  university,  not  needing  a  remove  to 
any  other  house  of  scholarship,  except  it  be 
some  peculiar  college  of  law  or  physic  where* 
they  mean  to  be  practitioners ;  but  as  for  those 
general  studies  which  take  up  all  our  time  from 
Lilly*  to  the  commencing,  as  they  term  it,  mas- 
ter of  art,  it  should  be  absolute.^  After  this 
pattern  as  many  edifices  may  be  converted  to 
this  use  as  shall  be  needful  in  every  city 
throughout  this  land,  which  would  tend  much 
to  the  increase  of  learning  and  civility^  every- 
where. This  number,  less  or  more,  thus  col- 
lected, to  the  convenience^  of  a  foot-company 
or  interchangeably  two  troops  of  cavalry,  should 
divide  their  day's  work  into  three  parts  as  it 
lies  orderly — their  studies,  their  exercise,  and 
their  diet. 

For  their  studies:  first,  they  should  begin 
with  the  chief  and  necessary  rules  of  some 
good  grammar,  either  that  now  used,  or  any 
better;  and  while  this  is  doing,  their  speech  is 
to  be  fashioned  to  a  distinct  and  clear  pro- 
nunciation, as  near  as  may  be  to  the  Italian, 
especially  in  the  vowels.  For  we  Englishmen, 
being  far  northerly,  do  not  open  our  mouths 
in  the  cold  air  wide  enough  to  grace  a  south- 
ern tongue,  but  are  observed  by  all  other 
nations  to  speak  exceeding  close  and  inward; 
so  that  to  smatter  Latin  with  an  English  mouth 
is  as  ill  a  hearing  as  law  French.  Next,  to 
make  them  expert  in  the  usefullest  points  of 
grammar,  and  withal  to  season  them  and  win 
them  early  to  the  love  of  virtue  and  true  labour, 
ere  any  flattering  seducement  or  vain  principle 
seize  them  wandering,  some  easy  and  delight- 
ful book  of  education  should  be  read  to  them, 
whereof  the  Greeks  have  store,  as  Cebes, 
Plutarch,  and  other  Socratic  discourses;  but 
in  Latin  we  have  none  of  classic  authority 
extant,  except  the  two  or  three  first  books  of 
Quintilian  and  some  select  pieces  elsewhere. 
But  here  the  main  skill  and  groundwork  will  be 
to  tempers  them  such  lectures  and  explanations 
upon  every  opportunity  as  may  lead  and  draw 
them  in  willing  obedience,  inflamed  with  the 
study  of  learning  and  the  admiration  of  virtue, 
stirred  up  with  high  hopes  of  living  to  be  brave 
men  and  worthy  patriots,  dear  to  God  and 
famous  to  all  ages:  that  they  may  despise  and 

*  some     special     college       6  civilization 

...    In  case  that       7  collective   number 
8  completo    In    Itself  8  InterinlnRle 

•  Thp    nulhor    of    a    Latin    grammar    which    was 

once  a  Htandard  text-book. 


scorn  all  their  childish  and  ill-taught  qualities, 
to  delight  in  manly  and  liberal  exercises;  which 
he  who  hath  the  art  and  proper  eloquence  to 
catch  them  with,  what  with  mild  and  effectual 
persuasions,  and  what  with  the  intimation  of 
some  fear,  if  need  be,*  but  chiefly  by  his  own 
example,  might  in  a  short  space  gain  them  to 
an  incredible  diligence  and  courage,  infusing 
into  their  young  breasts  such  an  ingenuous  and 
noble  ardour  as  would  not  fail  to  make  many 
of  them  renowned  and  matchless  men.  At  the 
same  time,  some  other  hour  of  the  day  might 
be  taught  them  the  rules  of  arithmetic,  and, 
soon  after,  the  elements  of  geometry,  even  play- 
ing, as  the  old  manner  was.  After  evening 
repast  till  bed-time  their  thoughts  would  be 
best  taken  up  in  the  easy  grounds  of  religion 
and  the  story  of  Scripture.  The  next  step 
would  be  to  the  authors  of  agriculture,  Cato, 
Varro,  and  Columella,  for  the  matter  is  most 
easy;  and  if  the  language  is  difficult,  so  much 
the  better;  it  is  not  a  difficulty  above  their 
years.  And  here  will  be  an  occasion  of  in- 
citing and  enabling  them  hereafter  to  improve 
the  tillage  of  their  country,  to  recover  the  bad 
soil,  and  to  remedy  the  waste  that  is  made  of 
good;  for  this  was  one  of  Hercules'  praises. 
Ere  half  these  authors  be  read  (which  will 
soon  be  with  plying  hard  and  daily)  they  cannot 
choose  but  be  masters  of  any  ordinary  prose: 
so  that  it  will  be  then  seasonable  for  them 
to  learn  in  any  modern  author  the  use  of  the 
globes  and  all  the  maps,  first  with  the  old 
names  and  then  with  the  new;  or  they  might 
be  then  capable  to  read  any  compendious 
method  of  natural  philosophy;  and,  at  the  same 
time,  might  be  entering  into  the  Greek  tongue, 
after  the  same  manner  as  was  before  pre- 
scribed in  the  Latin;  whereby  the  difficulties 
of  grammar  being  soon  overcome,  all  the  his- 
torical physiology  of  Aristotle  and  Theophrastus 
are  open  before  them,  and,  as  I  may  say,  under 
contribution.  The  like  access  will  be  to  Vitru- 
vius,  to  Seneca 's  * '  Natural  Questions,"  to  Mela, 
Cclsus,  Pliny,  or  Solinus.  And  having  thus  past 
the  principles  of  arithmetic,  geometry,  astron- 
omy, and  geography,  with  a  general  compact  of 
physics,  they  may  descend  in  mathematics  to 
the  instrumental  science  of  trigonometry,  and 
from  thence  to  fortification,  architecture,  en- 
ginery, or  navigation.  And  in  natural  philoso- 
phy they  may  proceed  leisurely  from  the  his- 
tory of  meteors,  minerals,  plants,  and  living 
creatures,  as  far  as  anatomy.  Then  also  in 
course  might  be  read  to  them  out  of  some  not 

•  Compare  this  with  Ascham's  Schoolmaster,  p.  122. 


JOHN  MILTON 


261 


tedious  writer  the  institution  of  physic  ;9  that 
they  may  know  the  tempers,  the  humours,  the 
seasons,  and  how  to  manage  a  crudity,io  which 
he  who  can  wisely  and  timely  do  is  not  only  a 
great  physician  to  himself  and  to  his  friends, 
but  also  may  at  some  time  or  other  save  an  army 
by  this  frugal  and  expenseless  means  only,  and 
not  let  the  healthy  and  stout  bodies  of  young 
men  rot  away  under  him  for  want  of  this  dis- 
cipline, <\-hich  is  a  great  pity,  and  no  less  a 
shame  to  the  commander.  To  set  forward  all 
these  proceedings  in  nature  and  mathematics, 
what  hinders  but  that  they  may  procure,  as  oft 
as  shall  be  needful,  the  helpful  experiences  of 
hunters,  fowlers,  fishermen,  shepherds,  garden- 
ers, apothecaries;  and  in  the  other  sciences,  ar- 
chitects, engineers,  mariners,  anatomists,  who, 
doubtless,  would  be  ready,  some  for  reward  and 
some  to  favour  such  a  hopeful  seminary.  And 
this  will  give  them  such  a  real  tincture  of 
natural  knowledge  as  they  shall  never  forget, 
but  daily  augment  with  delight.* 

These  are  the  studies  wherein  our  noble  and 
our  gentle  youth  ought  to  bestow  their  time  in 
a  disciplinary  way  from  twelve  to  one-and- 
twenty,  unless  they  rely  more  upon  their 
ancestors  dead  than  upon  themselves  living. 
In  which  methodical  course  it  is  so  supposed 
they  must  proceed  by  the  steady  pace  of  learn- 
ing onward,  as  at  convenient  times  for 
memory's  sake  to  retire  back  into  the  middle- 
ward,  and  sometimes  into  the  rear  of  what  they 
have  been  taught,  until  they  have  confirmed  and 
solidly  united  the  whole  body  of  their  perfected 
knowledge,  like  the  last  embattling  of  a  Boman 
legion.  Now  will  be  worth  the  seeing  what 
exercises  and  recreations  may  best  agree  and 
become  these  studies. 

The  course  of  study  hitherto  briefly  de- 
scribed is,  what"  I  can  guess  by  reading,  likest 
to  those  ancient  and  famous  schools  of  Pythag- 
oras, Plato,  Isocrates,  Aristotle,  and  such 
others,  out  of  which  were  bred  such  a  number 
of  renowned  philosophers,  orators,  historians, 
poets,  and  princes  all  over  Greece,  Italy,  and 
Asia,  besides  the  flourishing  studies  of  Cyrene 
and  Alexandria.  But  herein  it  shall  exceed 
them,  and  supply  a  defect  as  great  as  that 
which  Plato  noted  in  the  commonwealth  of 
Sparta.  "Whereas  that  city  trained  up  their 
youth  most  for  war,  and  these  in  their  acade- 

9  the  elements  of  physl-       lo  indigestion 
ology  and  medicine       ii  so  far  as 

*  At  this  point  Milton  takes  up,  in  rapid  succession, 
ethics,  politics,  theology,  history,  logic,  and 
poetry. 


;  mies  and  Lycaeumiz  all  for  the  gown,i3  this 
institution  of  breeding  which  I  here  delineate 
shall  be  equally  good  both  for  peace  and  war. 
Therefore,  about  an  hour  and  a  half  ere  they 
eat  at  noon  should  be  allowed  them  for  exer- 
cise, and  due  rest  afterwards;  but  the  time  for 
this  may  be  enlarged  at  pleasure,  according  as 
their  rising  in  the  morning  shall  be  early. 

The  exercise  which  I  commend  first  is  the 
exact  use  of  their  weapon,  to  guard,  and  to  strike 
safely  with  edge  or  point ;  this  will  keep  them 
healthy,  nimble,  strong,  and  well  in  breath;  is 
also  the  likeliest  means  to  make  them  grow 
large  and  tall,  and  to  inspire  them  with  a  gal- 
lant and  fearless  courage,  which  being  tempered 
with  seasonable  lectures  and  precepts  to  make 
them  of  true  fortitude  and  patience,  will  turn 
into  a  native  and  heroic  valour,  and  make  them 
hate  the  cowardice  of  doing  wrong.  They  must 
be  also  practised  in  all  the  locks  and  gripes  of 
wrestling,  wherein  Englishmen  were  wont  to 
excel,  as  need  may  often  be  in  fight  to  tug,  to 
grapple,  and  to  close.  And  this,  perhaps,  will 
be  enough  wherein  to  prove  and  heat  their 
single  strength.  The  interim  of  unsweating 
themselves  regularly,  and  convenient  rest  before 
meat,  may  both  with  profit  and  delight  be 
taken  up  in  recreating  and  composing  their 
travailed  spirits  with  the  solemn  and  divine 
harmonies  of  music  heard  or  learned,  either 
whilst  the  skilful  organist  plies  his  grave  and 
fancied  descant  in  lofty  fugues,  or  the  whole 
symphony  with  artful  and  unimaginable  touches 
adorn  and  grace  the  well-studied  chords  of 
some  choice  composer;  sometimes  the  lute  or 
soft  organ-stop,  waiting  oni*  elegant  voices 
either  to  religious,  martial,  or  civil  ditties, 
which,  if  wise  men  and  prophets  be  not  ex- 
tremely out,i5  have  a  great  power  over  dis- 
positions and  manners  to  smooth  and  make 
them  gentle  from  rustic  harshness  and  dis- 
tempered passions.  The  like  also  would  not 
be  unexpedient  after  meat,  to  assist  and  cherish 
nature  in  her  first  concoction,i6  and  send  their 
minds  back  to  study  in  good  tune  and  satis- 
faction. AYhere  having  followed  it  close  under 
vigilant  eyes  tiU  about  two  hours  before  sup- 
per, they  are,  by  a  sudden  alarum  or  watch- 
word, to  be  called  out  to  their  military  motions, 
under  sky  or  covert,  according  to  the  season,  as 
was  the  Eoman  wont ;  first  on  foot,  then,  as 
fheir  age  permits,  on  horseback  to  all  the  art  of 
cavalry;   that  having  in  sport,  but  with  much 


12  The  exercise  ground 
and  grove  of 
Athens,  where  Ar- 
istotle taught. 


13  philosophy 

14  accompanying 

15  mistaken 

16  digestioQ 


262 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY 


exactness  and  daily  muster,  served  out  the 
rudiments  of  their  soldiership  in  all  the  skill 
of  embattling,  marching,  encamping,  fortify- 
ing, besieging,  and  battering,  with  all  the  helps 
of  ancient  and  modern  stratagems,  tactics,  and 
warlike  maxims,  they  may,  as  it  were  out  of  a 
long  war,  come  forth  renowned  and  perfect 
commanders  in  the  service  of  their  country. 
They  would  not  then,  if  they  were  trusted  with 
fair  and  hopeful  armies,  suffer  them  for  want 
of  just  and  wise  discipline  to  shed  away  from 
about  them  like  sick  feathers,  though  they  be 
never  so  oft  supplied;  they  would  not  suffer 
their  empty  and  unrecruitablei^  colonels  of 
twenty  men  in  a  company  to  quaff  out  or  con- 
vey into  secret  hoards  the  wages  of  a  delusive 
listis  and  miserable  remnant;  yet  in  the  mean- 
while to  be  overmastered  with  a  score  or  two 
of  drunkards,  the  only  soldiery  left  about  them, 
or  else  to  comply  with  all  rapines  and  violences. 
No,  certainly,  if  they  knew  aught  of  that 
knowledge  that  belongs  to  good  men  or  good 
governors  they  would  not  suffer  these  things. 

But  to  return  to  our  own  institute:  besides 
these  constant  exercises  at  home,  there  is 
another  opportunity  of  gaining  experience  to 
be  won  from  pleasure  itself  abroad:  in  those 
vernal  seasons  of  the  year,  when  the  air  is 
calm  and  pleasant,  it  were  an  injury  and  sullen- 
ness  against  nature  not  to  go  out  and  see  her 
riches  and  partake  in  her  rejoicing  with  heaven 
and  earth.  I  should  not,  therefore,  be  a  per- 
suader to  them  of  studying  much  then,  after 
two  or  three  years  that  they  have  well  laid 
their  grounds,  but  to  ride  out  in  companies  with 
prudent  and  staid  guides  to  all  the  quarters  of 
the  land,  learning  and  observing  all  places  of 
strength,  all  commodities  of  building  and  of 
soil  for  towns  and  tillage,  harbours,  and  ports 
for  trade;  sometimes  taking  sea  as  far  as  to 
our  navy,  to  learn  there  also  what  they  can 
in  the  practical  knowledge  of  sailing  and  of 
sea-fight.  These  ways  would  try  all  their 
peculiar  gifts  of  nature,  and  if  there  were  any 
secret  excellence  among  them,  would  fetch  it 
out  and  give  it  fair  opportunities  to  advance 
itself  by,  which  could  not  but  mightily  redound 
to  the  good  of  this  nation,  and  bring  into  fash- 
ion again  those  old  admired  virtues  and  excel- 
lencies, with  far  more  advantage  now  in  this 
purity  of  Christian  knowledge.  Nor  shall  we 
then  need  the  monsieurs  of  Paris  to  take  our 
hopeful  youth  into  their  slight  and  prodigal 
custodies,  and  send  them  over  back  again  trans- 

17  incapab1«>    of    recruiting    their    forces     ("quaff 

out"  In  the  next  line  appears  to  mean  "spend 
for  drink") 

18  "stuffed  pay-roll" 


formed  into  mimics,  apes,  and  kickshaws.i»  But 
if  they  desire  to  see  other  countries  at  three  or 
four  and  twenty  years  of  age,  not  to  learn 
principles,  but  to  enlarge  experience  and  make 
wise  observation,  they  will  by  that  time  be 
such  as  shall  deserve  the  regard  and  honour  of 
all  men  where  they  pass,  and  the  society  and 
friendship  of  those  in  all  places  who  are  best 
and  most  eminent.  And  perhaps  then  other 
nations  will  be  glad  to  visit  us  for  their  breed- 
ing, or  else  to  imitate  us  in  their  own  country. 

Now,  lastly,  for  their  diet  there  cannot  be 
much  to  say,  save  only  that  it  would  be  best  in 
the  same  house;  for  much  time  else  would  be 
lost  abroad,  and  many  ill  habits  got;  and  that 
it  should  be  plain,  healthful,  and  moderate  1 
suppose  is  out  of  controversy. 

Thus,  Mr.  Hartlib,  you  have  a  general  view 
in  writing,  as  your  desire  was,  of  that  which 
at  several  times  1  had  discoursed  with  you  con- 
cerning the  best  and  noblest  way  of  education; 
not  beginning,  as  some  have  done,  from  the 
cradle,  which  yet  might  be  worth  many  con- 
siderations, if  brevity  had  not  been  my  scope. 
Many  other  circumstances  also  1  could  have 
mentioned,  but  this,  to  such  as  have  the  worth 
in  them  to  make  trial,  for  light  and  direction 
may  be  enough.  Only  I  believe  that  this  is 
not  a  bow  for  every  man  to  shoot  in  that  counts 
himself  a  teacher,  but  will  require  sinews  almost 
equal  to  those  whidi  Homer  gave  Ulysses;* 
yet  I  am  withal  persuaded  that  it  may  prove 
much  more  easy  in  the  assay-"  than  it  now 
seems  at  distance,  and  much  more  illustrious: 
howbeit  not  more  difficult  than  I  imagine,  and 
that  imagination  presents  me  with  nothing  but 
very  happy  and  very  possible  according  to  best 
wishes,  if  God  have  so  decreed,  and  this  age 
have  spirit  and  capacity  enough  to  apprehend.t 


From    AREOPAGlTICA.t 

A     SPEECH     FOR     THE     LIBERTY     OF     UNLICENSED 
PRINTING,  TO  THE  PABL1A.MENT  OF  ENGLAND. 

If  ye  be  thus  resolved,  as  it  were  injury  to 
think  ye   were   not,   I   know    not   what   should 

10  trlflers  20  trial 

♦  Referring  to  the  bow  which  none  of  the  suitors 

could  driiw,  but  which  Ulysses  slew  them  with 

on  his  return. 
t  This    sentence    Is    a    good    example    of    Milton's     J 

awkwardness   In   prose,    in   which   he   said   he 

had    but    the    use    of    his    "left    hand."      See 

Eng.  Lit.,  p.  147. 


t  The  title  Is  taken  from  that  of  a  speech  by 
the  Greek  orator,  Isocratcs.  addressed  to  the 
Great  Council  of  Athens,  which  was  called  the 


JOHN  MILTON 


263 


withhold  me  from  presenting  ye  with  a  fit  in- 
stance wherein  to  show  both  that  love  of  truth 
wliich  ye  eminently  profess,  and  that  upright- 
ness of  your  judgment  which  is  not  wont  to 
be  partial  to  yourselves ;  by  judging  over  again 
that  Order  which  ye  have  ordained  to  regulate 
Printiiig :  That  «o  book,  pamphlet,  or  paper 
shall  be  henceforth  printed,  unless  the  same  be 
■first  approved  and  licensed  by  such,  or  at  least 
one  of  such  as  shall  be  thereto  appointed.  For 
that  part  which  preserves  justly  every  man's 
copyi  to  himself,  or  provides  for  the  poor,  I 
touch  not,  only  wish  they  be  not  made  pretences 
to  abuse  and  persecute  honest  and  painful^ 
men,  who  offend  not  in  either  of  these  particu- 
lars. But  that  other  clause  of  Licensing  Books, 
which  we  thought  had  died  with  his  brother 
quadragesimal  and  matrimonial*  when  the  pre- 
lates expired,  I  shall  now  attend  with  such  a 
homily,  as  shall  lay  before  ye,  first  the  in- 
ventors of  it  to  be  those  whom  ye  will  be  loth 
to  own ;  next  what  is  to  be  thought  in  general 
of  reading,  whatever  sort  the  books  be;  and 
that  this  Order  avails  nothing  to  the  suppress- 
ing of  scandalous,  seditious,  and  libellous 
books,  which  were  mainly  intended  to  be  sup- 
pressed. Last,  that  it  will  be  primely  to  the 
discouragement  of  all  learning,  and  the  stop  of 
Truth,  not  only  by  disexercising  and  blunting 
our  abilities  in  what  we  know  already,  but  by 
hindering  and  cropping  the  discjovery  that 
might  be  yet  further  made  both  in  religious 
and  civil  Wisdom. 

I  deny  not,  but  that  it  is  of  greatest  con- 
cernment in  the  Church  and  Commonwealth,  to 
have  a  vigilant  eye  how  books  demean  them- 
selves as  well  as  men;  and  thereafter  to  con- 
fine, imprison,  and  do  sharpest  justice  on  them 
as  malefactors:  For  books  are  not  absolutely 
dead  things,  but  do  contain  a  potency  of  life  in 
them  to  be  as  active  as  that  soul  was  whose 
progeny  they  are;  nay,  they  do  preserve  as  in 
a  vial  the  purest  eflScacy  and  extraction  of  that 
living  intellect  that  bred  them.  I  know  they 
are  as  lively,  and  as  vigorously  productive,  as 

Areopagus  because  it  held  Its  meetings  on 
the  Areopagus,  or  "Hill  of  Ares"  ("Mars' 
Hill,"  where  Paul  preached:  Acts  xvil.  22). 
The  tract  was  written  late  in  1644.  Parlia- 
ment, In  Its  long  struggle  with  Charles,  had 
brought  about  many  changes,  the  Westminster 
Assembly  even  going  so  far  as  practically  to 
abolish  prelacy,  or  episcopacy,  and  establish 
Presbyterianism.  But  an  ordinance  had  been 
enacted  In  1643  re-establishing  the  censorship 
of  the  press.  Milton  pleads  to  have  this  re- 
voked;  and  his  opening  words  (here  omitted) 
praise  Parliament  for  its  professed  willing- 
ness to  "obey  the  voice  of  reason." 

1  copyright  keeping    of    Lent 

2  painstaking  and    marriage. 

3  Orders  concerning  the 


those  fabulous  dragon's  teeth ;<  and  being  sown 
up  and  down,  may  chance  to  spring  up  armed 
men.  And  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  unless 
wariness  be  used,  as  good  almost  kill  a  man  as 
kill  a  good  book:  who  kills  a  man  kills  a 
reasonable  creature,  God's  image;  but  he  who 
destroys  a  good  book,  kills  reason  itself,  kills 
the  image  of  God,  as  it  were  in  the  eye.*  Many 
a  man  lives  a  burden  to  the  earth;  but  a  good 
book  is  the  precious  life-blood  of  a  master 
spirit,  embalmed  and  treasured  up  on  purpose 
to  a  life  beyond  life.  'Tis  true,  no  age  can 
restore  a  life,  whereof  perhaps  there  is  no  great 
loss;  and  revolutions  of  ages  do  not  oft  recover 
the  loss  of  a  rejected  truth,  for  the  want  of 
which  whole  nations  fare  the  worse.  We  should 
be  wary  therefore  what  persecution  we  raise 
against  the  living  labours  of  public  men,  how  we 
spill  that  seasoned  life  of  man,  preserved  and 
stored  up  in  books;  since  we  see  a  kind  of 
homicide  may  be  thus  committed,  sometimes 
a  martyrdom,  and  if  it  extend  to  the  whole 
impression,5  a  kind  of  massacre,  whereof  the 
execution  ends  not  in  the  slaying  of  an  ele- 
mental life,  but  strikes  at  that  ethereal  and 
fifth  essence,t  the  breath  of  reason  itself,  slays 
an  immortality  rather  than  a  life.  But  lest  1 
should  be  condemned  of  introducing  license, 
while  I  oppose  licensing,  I  refuse  not  the  pains 
to  be  so  much  historical,  as  will  serve  to  show 
what  hath  been  done  by  ancient  and  famous 
commonwealths  against  this  disorder,  till  the 
very  time  that  this  project  of  licensing  crept 
out  of  the  inquisition,  was  catched  up  by  our 
prelates,  and  hath  caught  some  of  our  presby- 
ters. 

I  conceive,  therefore,  that  when  God  did 
enlarge  the  universal  diet  of  man's  body,  sav- 
ing ever  the  rules  of  temperance.  He  then  also, 
as  before,  left  arbitrary  the  dieting  and  repast- 
ing  of  our  minds ;  as  wherein  every  mature  man 
might  have  to  exercise  his  own  leading  capacity. 
How  great  a  virtue  is  temperance,  how  much  of 
moment  through  the  whole  life  of  man!  Yet 
God  commits  the  managing  so  great  a  trust, 
without  particular  law  or  prescription,  wholly 
to  the  demeanour  of  every  grown  man.  And 
therefore  when  He  Himself  tabled^  the  Jews 
from  heaven,  that  omer,  which  was  every  man 's 
daily  portion  of  manna,  is  computed  to  have 
been  more  than  might  have  well  sufficed  the 

4  Sown    by    Cadmus    of      5  edition 

Thebes.  «  fed    (Exodus  xvi,   16) 

*  The  reason  of  man  is,  as  It  were,  the  eye  of  his 

divine  nature, 
t  Aristotle's   fifth   element ;   "quintessence,"   etber, 

or  spirit. 


264 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY 


heartiest  feeder  thrice  as  many  meals.  For 
those  actions  which  enter  into  a  man,  rather 
than  issue  out  of  him,  and  therefore  defile  not, 
God  uses  not  to  captivate  under  a  perpetual 
childhood  of  prescription,  but  trusts  him  with 
the  gift  of  reason  to  be  his  own  chooser;  there 
were  but  little  work  left  for  preaching,  if  law 
and  compulsion  should  grow  so  fast  upon  those 
things  which  heretofore  were  governed  only  by 
exhortation.  Solomon  informs  us,  that  much 
reading  is  a  weariness  to  the  flesh;  but  neither 
he  nor  other  inspired  author  tells  us  that  such, 
or  such,  reading  is  unlawful:  yet  certainly,  had 
God  thought  good  to  limit  us  herein,  it  had  been 
much  more  expedient  to  have  told  us  what  was 
unlawful,  than  what  was  wearisome.  As  for 
the  burning  of  those  Ephesian  books^  by  St. 
Paul's  converts;  'tis  replied  the  books  were 
magic,  the  Syriae  so  renders  them.  It  was  a 
private  act,  a  voluntary  act,  and  leaves  us  to  a 
voluntary  imitation:  the  men  in  remorse  burnt 
those  books  which  were  their  own;  the  magis- 
trate by  this  example  is  not  appointed:  these 
men  practised  the  books,  another  might  perhaps 
have  read  them  in  some  sort  usefully.  Good 
and  evil  we  know  in  the  field  of  this  world  grow 
up  together  almost  inseparably;  and  the  knowl- 
edge of  good  is  so  involved  and  interwoven  with 
the  knowledge  of  evil,  and  in  so  many  cunning 
resemblances  hardly  to  be  discerned,  that  those 
confused  seeds  which  were  imposed  upon  Psyche 
as  an  incessant  labour  to  cull  out,  and  sort 
asunder,  were  not  more  intermixed.  It  was 
from  out  the  rind  of  one  apple  tasted,  that  the 
knowledge  of  good  and  evil,  as  two  twins  cleav- 
ing together,  leaped  forth  into  the  world.  And 
perhaps  this  is  that  doom  which  Adam  fell  into 
of  knowing  good  and  evil,  that  is  to  say  of 
knowing  good  by  evil.  As  therefore  the  state 
of  man  now  is,  what  wisdom  can  there  be  to 
choose,  what  continence  to  forbear  without  the 
knowledge  of  evil  I  He  that  can  apprehend  and 
consider  vice  with  all  her  baits  and  seeming 
pleasures,  and  yet  abstain,  and  yet  distinguish, 
and  yet  prefer  that  which  is  truly  better,  he  is 
the  true  warfaring  Christian.  I  cannot  praise 
a  fugitive  and  cloistered  virtue,  unexercised  and 
unbreathed,  that  never  sallies  out  and  sees  her 
adversary,  but  slinks  out  of  the  race,  where  that 
immortal  garland  is  to  be  run  for,  not  without 
dust  and  heat.t  Assuredly  we  bring  not  inno- 
cence into  the  world,  we  bring  impurity  much 
rather ;  that  which  purifies  us  is  trial,  and  trial 

7  Act$  xix,  19. 
t  This   is  one — but  only  one — of  the  noble  senti- 
ments   80    nobly    exprcHScd,    which    make    the 
Areopaffitica    one    of    the    most    prized    docu- 
vaeutB  in  our  literature. 


is  by  what  is  contrary.  That  virtue  therefore 
which  is  but  a  youngling  in  the  contemplation 
of  evil,  and  knows  not  the  utmost  that  vice 
promises  to  her  followers,  and  rejects  it,  is  but 
a  blank  virtue,  not  a  pure;  her  whiteness  is  but 
an  excremental8  whiteness;  which  was  the 
reason  why  our  sage  and  serious  poet  Spenser, 
whom  I  dare  be  known  to  think  a  better  teacher 
than  Scotus  or  Aquinas,^  describing  true  tem- 
perance under  the  person  of  Guion,io  brings 
him  in  with  his  palmer  through  the  cave  of 
Mammon,  and  the  bower  of  earthly  bliss,  that 
he  might  see  and  know,  and  yet  abstain.  Since 
therefore  the  knowledge  and  survey  of  vice  is 
in  this  world  so  necessary  to  the  constituting 
of  human  virtue,  and  the  scanning  of  error  to 
the  confirmation  of  truth,  how  can  we  more 
safely,  and  with  less  danger  scout  into  the 
regions  of  sin  and  falsity  than  by  reading  all 
manner  of  tractates  and  hearing  all  manner  of 
reason?  And  this  is  the  benefit  which  may  be 
had  of  books  promiscuously  read. 


IZAAK  WALTON  (1593-1683) 

THE  COMPLETE  ANGLER 

From  Chapter  IV.    Of  the  Trout,  and  How 

TO  Fish  for  Him.    And  of  the 

Milkmaid's  Song 

Venator.*  Trust  me,  master,  I  see  now  it  is 
a  harder  matter  to  catch  a  trout  than  a  chub; 
for  I  have  put  on  patience,  and  followed  you 
these  two  hours,  and  not  seen  a  fish  stir,  neither 
at  your  minnow  nor  your  worm. 

Piscator.  "Well,  scholar,  you  must  endure 
worse  luck  some  time,  or  you  will  never  make 
a  good  angler.  But  what  say  you  now?  There 
is  a  trout  now,  and  a  good  one  too,  if  I  can 
but  hold  him,  and  two  or  three  turns  more 
will  tire  him.  Now  you  see  he  lies  still,  and 
the  sleight  is  to  land  him.  Reach  me  that  land- 
ing-net; so.  Sir,  now  he  is  mine  own.  "What 
say  you  now?  is  not  this  worth  all  my  labour 
and  your  patience? 

Ten.  On  my  word,  master,  this  is  a  gallant 
trout:  what  shall  we  do  with  him? 

Pise.  Marry,  e'en  eat  him  to  supper:  we'll 
go  to  my  hostess,  from  whence  we  came;  she 
told  me,  as  I  was  going  out  of  door,  that  my 

8  surface  lo  Faerie  Queene,  Bk.  IL  ; 

9  Scholastic  p  h  1 1  0  s  0  • 

phers. 

*  The  Complete  Angler  is  in  the  form  of  a  dia« 
loRue,  chiefly  between  a  fisherman,  Piscator, 
and  a  scholar-hunter,  Venator. 


IZAAK  WALTON 


265 


brother  Peter,  a  good  angler  and  a  cheerful 
companion,  had  sent  word  that  he  would  lodge 
there  to-night,  and  bring  a  friend  with  him. 
My  hostess  has  two  beds,  and  I  know  you  and 
I  may  have  the  best:  we'll  rejoice  with  my 
brother  Peter  and  his  friend,  tell  tales,  or  sing 
ballads,  or  make  a  catch,i  or  find  some  harmless 
sport  to  content  us  and  pass  away  a  little  time, 
without  offence  to  God  or  man. 

Ven.  A  match,2  good  master,  let's  go  to 
that  house;  for  the  linen  looks  white  and  smells 
of  lavender,  and  I  long  to  lie  in  a  pair  of  sheets 
that  smell  so.  Let's  be  going,  good  master, 
for  I  am  hungry  again  with  fishing. 

Pise.  Nay,  stay  a  little,  good  scholar.  I 
caught  my  last  trout  with  a  worm;  now  I  will 
put  on  a  minnow,  and  try  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
about  yonder  trees  for  another;  and  so  walk 
towards  our  lodging.  Look  you,  scholar,  there- 
about we  shall  have  a  bite  presently  or  not  at 
all.  Have  with  you.  Sir!  o'  my  word  I  have 
hold  of  him.  Oh!  it  is  a  great  logger-headed 
chub;  come  hang  him  upon  that  willow  twig, 
and  let 's  be  going.  But  turn  out  of  the  way 
a  little,  good  scholar,  towards  yonder  high 
honeysuckle  hedge;  there  we'll  sit  and  sing, 
whilst  this  shower  falls  so  gently  upon  the 
teeming  earth,  and  gives  yet  a  sweeter  smell  to 
the  lovely  flowers  that  adorn  these  verdant 
meadows. 

Look!  under  that  broad  beech-tree  I  sat 
down,  when  1  was  last  this  way  a-fishing.  And 
the  birds  in  the  adjoining  grove  seemed  to  have 
a  friendly  contention  with  an  echo,  whose  dead 
voice  seemed  to  live  in  a  hollow  tree,  near  to 
the  brow  of  that  primrose  hill.  There  I  sat 
viewing  the  silver  streams  glide  silently  towards 
their  centre,  the  tempestuous  sea;  yet  some- 
times opposed  by  rugged  roots  and  pebble- 
stones, which  broke  their  waves,  and  turned 
them  into  foam.  And  sometimes  I  beguiled 
time  by  viewing  the  harmless  lambs;  some  leap- 
ing securely  in  the  cool  shade,  whilst  others 
sported  themselves  in  the  cheerful  sun;  and 
saw  others  craving  comfort  from  the  swollen 
udders  of  their  bleating  dams.  As  I  thus  sat, 
these  and  other  sights  had  so  fully  possessed 
my  soul  with  content,  that  I  thought,  as  the 
poet  hath  happily  expressed  it, 

"I  was  for  that  time  lifted  above  earth. 
And  possessed  joys  not  promised  In  my  birth," 

As  I  left  this  place,  and  entered  into  the 
next  field,  a  second  pleasure  entertained  me; 
'twas  a  handsome  milkmaid,  that  had  not  yet 
attained  so  much  age  and  wisdom  as  to  load 


1  a  singing  "round" 


2  a  bargain 


her  mind  with  any  fears  of  many  things  that 
will  never  be,  as  too  many  men  too  often  do; 
but  she  cast  away  all  care,  and  sang  like  a 
nightingale:  her  voice  was  good,  and  the  ditty 
fitted  for  it:  it  was  that  smooth  song  which 
was  made  by  Kit  Marlow,  now  at  least  fifty 
years  ago;  and  the  milkmaid's  mother  sang 
an  answer  to  it,  which  was  made  by  Sir  Walter 
Kaleigh  in  his  younger  days. 

They  were  old-fashioned  poetry,  but  choicely 
good,  I  think  much  better  than  the  strong  lines 
that  are  now  in  fashion  in  this  critical  age. 
Look  yonder!  on  my  word,  yonder  they  both  be 
a-milking  again.  I  will  give  her  the  chub,  and 
persuade  them  to  sing  those  two  songs  to  us. 

God  speed  you,  good  woman!  I  have  been 
a-fishing,  and  am  going  to  Bleak  Hall  to  my 
bed,  and  having  caught  more  fish  than  will  sup 
myself  and  my  friend,  I  will  bestow  this  upon 
you  and  your  daughter,  for  I  use  to  sell  none. 

Milk-W.  Marry,  God  requite  you.  Sir,  and 
we'll  eat  it  cheerfully;  and  if  you  come  this 
way  a-fishing  two  months  hence,  a2  grace  of 
God,  I'll  give  you  a  syllabub  of  new  ver- 
juice,3  in  a  new-made  hay-cock,  for  it,  and  my 
Maudlin  shall  sing  you  one  of  her  best  ballads; 
for  she  and  I  both  love  all  anglers,  they  be 
such  honest,  civil,  quiet  men:  in  the  meantime 
will  you  drink  a  draught  of  red  cow's  milkt 
you  shall  have  it  freely. 

Pise.  No,  I  thank  you;  but,  I  pray,  do  us 
a  courtesy  that  shall  stand*  you  and  your 
daughter  in  nothing,  and  yet  we  will  think 
ourselves  still  something  in  your  debt;  it  is 
but  to  sing  us  a  song  that  was  sung  by  your 
daughter  when  I  last  passed  over  this  meadow, 
about  eight  or  nine  days  since. 

MiR-W.  What  song  was  it,  I  prayf  Was 
it  "Come,  Shepherds,  deck  your  heads"?  or, 
"As  at  noon  Dulcina  rested"!  or,  "Phillida 
flouts  me"?  or  "Chevy  Chace"!  or,  "Johnny 
Armstrong"!  or,  "Troy  Town"! 

Pise.  No,  it  is  none  of  those;  it  is  a  song 
that  your  daughter  sang  the  first  part,  and 
you  sang  the  answer  to  it. 

Milk-W.  Oh,  I  know  it  now.  I  learned  the 
first  part  in  my  golden  age,  when  I  was  about 
the  age  of  my  poor  daughter;  and  the  latter 
part,  which  indeed  fits  me  best  now,  but  two 
or  three  years  ago,  when  the  cares  of  the  world 
began  to  take  hold  of  me:  but  you  shall,  God 
willing,  hear  them  both,  and  sung  as  well  as 
we  can,  for  we  both  love  anglers.  Come, 
Maudlin,  sing  the  first  part  to  the  gentlemen 

2  by  the 

3  whipped  cream  and  grape-Juice 

4  cost 


066 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY 


with  a  merry  heart,  and  I'll  sing  the  second, 
when  you  have  done. 

THE    milkmaid's    SONG 
Come,  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love,  etct 

Ven.  Trust  me,  master,  it  is  a  choice  song, 
and  sweetly  sung  by  honest  Maudlin.  I  now 
see  it  was  not  without  cause  that  our  good 
Queen  Elizabeth  did  so  often  wish  herself  a 
milkmaid  all  the  month  of  May,  because  they 
are  not  troubled  with  fears  and  cares,  but 
sing  sweetly  all  the  day,  and  sleep  securely  all 
the  night;  and  without  doubt,  honest,  innocent, 
pretty  Maudlin  does  so.  I'll  bestow  Sir 
Thomas  Overbury's  milkmaid's  wish  upon  her, 
"That  she  may  die  in  the  spring,  and  being 
dead,  may  have  good  store  of  flowers  stuck 
round  about  her  winding-sheet. '  '$ 

From  Chapter  XXI.    A  Seemon  on  Content 

Piscator.  Let  me  tell  you,  scholar,  that 
Diogenes  walked  on  a  day,  with  his  friend,  to 
see  a  country  fair;  where  he  saw  ribbons  and 
looking-glasses,  and  nut-crackers,  and  fiddles, 
and  hobby-horses,  and  many  other  gimcracks; 
and,  having  observed  them,  and  all  the  other 
finnimbrunsi  that  make  a  complete  country  fair, 
he  said  to  his  friend,  "Lord,  how  many  things 
are  there  in  this  world  of  which  Diogenes  hath 
no  need ! ' '  And  truly  it  is  so,  or  might  be 
so,  with  very  many  who  vex  and  toil  them- 
selves to  get  what  they  have  no  need  of. 
Can  any  man  charge  God  that  He  hath  not 
given  him  enough  to  make  his  life  happy?  No, 
doubtless;  for  nature  is  content  with  , a  little. 
And  yet  you  shall  hardly  meet  with  a  man 
that  complains  not  of  some  want;  though  he, 
indeed,  wants  nothing  but  his  will;  it  may  be, 
nothing  but  his  will  of  his  poor  neighbour,  for 
not  worshipping  or  not  flattering  him:  and 
thus,  when  we  might  be  happy  and  quiet,  we 
create  trouble  to  ourselves.  I  have  heard  of 
a  man  that  was  angry  with  himself  because 
he  was  no  taller;  and  of  a  woman  that  broke 
her  looking-glass  becau8'>  it  would  not  show  her 
face  to  be  as  young  and  handsome  as  her  next 
neighbour 's  was.  And  I  knew  another  to  whom 
God  had  given  health  and  plenty,  but  a  wife 
that  nature  had  made  peevish,  and  her  hus- 
band 's  riches  had  made  purse-proud ;  and  must, 

t  For  this  Bong.  see  p.  146.  ^.  ^ 

1  The  mother  then  fllnsrs  the  answer,   which  may 

be  found  on  p.  146.     Overbury'R  milk-maid  is 

one  of  the  moat  famous  of  his  "Characters ; 

see  Ena.  Ut.,  p.  193.  note. 
i  Walton  appears  to  have  coined  this  word.     It  Is 

found   only    here. 


because  she  was  rich,  and  for  no  other  virtue, 
sit  in   the  highest  pew  in   the  church;    which 
being  denied  her,  she  engaged  her  husband  into 
a  contention   for  it,   and  at   last   into  a  law- 
suit with  a  dogged  neighbour  who  was  as  rich 
as  he,  and  had  a  wife  as  peevish  and  purse- 
proud  as   the  other;    and  this   law-suit    begot 
higher  oppositions,  and  actionablei  words,  and 
more   vexations   and   law-suits;    for   you    must 
remember  that  both  were  rich,  and  must  there- 
fore have  their  wills.     Well,  this  wilful,  purse- 
proud   law-suit   lasted   during  the   life   of   the 
first  husband;   after  which  his  wife  vext  and 
chid,  and  chid  and  vext  till  she  also  chid  and 
vext  herself  into  her  grave;  and  so  the  wealth 
of    these   poor   rich   people    was    curst   into    a 
punishment,    because    they    wanted    meek    and 
thankful  hearts;   for  those  only  can  make  us 
happy.     I   knew   a  man   that  had   health   and 
riches,   and   several  houses,   all  beautiful,   and 
ready  furnished,  and,  would  often  trouble  him- 
self and  family  to  be  removing  from  one  house 
to  another;  and  being  asked  by  a  friend  why 
he  removed   so   often   from   one  house  to   an- 
other, replied,  "It  was  to  find  content  in  some 
one  of  them."     But   his  friend,  knowing  his 
temper,  told  him,  if  he  would  find  content  in 
any  of  his  houses,  he  must  leave  himself  be- 
hind  him;    for   content   will   uever    dwell    but 
in  a  meek  and  quiet  soul.     And  this  may  ap- 
pear, if  we  read  and  consider  what  our  Saviour 
says  in   St.   Matthew's  Gospel;    for   He  there 
says:  "Blessed  be  the  merciful,  for  they  shall 
obtain  mercy. — Blessed  be  the  pure  in  heart, 
for  they  shall  see  God. — Blessed  be  the  poor 
in  spirit,  for  theirs  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven. ' ' 
And,    "Blessed    be   the   meek,    for    they   shall 
possess  the  earth."     Not  that  the  meek  shall 
not  also   obtain  mercy,   and  see  God,  and  be 
comforted,   and  at  last  come  to  the  kingdom 
of  heaven;   but  in  the  meantime  he,   and   he 
only,  possesses   the  earth   as  he  goes   towards 
that  kingdom  of  heaven,  by  being  humble  and 
cheerful,  and  content  with  what  his  good  God 
has  allotted  him.     He  has  no  turbulent,  repin- 
ing, vexatious  thoughts  that  he  deserves  better ; 
nor  is  vext  when  he  sees  others  possest  of  more 
honour  or  more  riches  than  his  wise  God  has 
allotted  for  his  share;   but  he  possesses  what 
he  has  with  a  meek  and  contented  quietness, 
such    a   quietness    as    makes   his   very    dreams 
pleasing,  both  to  God  and  himself. 

My  honest  scholar,  all  this  is  told  to  incline 
you  to  thankfulness;  and  to  incline  you  the 
more,  let  me  tell  you,  that  though  the  prophet 

•  1  affording  cause  for  legal  action 


JOHN  BUNYAN 


267 


David  was  guilty  of  murder  antl,  indeed,  of 
many  other  of  tlie  most  deadly  sina,  yet  he 
was  said  to  be  a  man  after  God's  own  heart, 
because  he  abounded  more  with  thankfulness 
than  any  other  that  is  mentioned  in  holy 
Scripture,  as  may  appear  in  his  book  of 
Psalms;  where  there  is  such  a  commixture  of 
his  confessing  of  his  sins  and  unworthiness, 
and  such  thankfulness  for  God's  pardon  and 
mercies,  as  did  make  him  to  be  accounted,  even 
by  God  Himself,  to  be  a  man  after  His  own 
heart.  And  let  us,  in  that,  labour  to  be  as  like 
him  as  we  can;  let  not  the  blessings  we  receive 
daily  from  God  make  us  not  to  value  or  not 
praise  Him  because  they  be  common;  let  us 
not  forget  to  praise  Him  for  the  innocent 
mirth  and  pleasure  we  have  met  with  since  we 
met  together.  What  would  a  blind  man  give  to 
see  the  pleasant  rivers,  and  meadows,  and 
flowers,  and  fountains,  that  we  have  met  with 
since  we  met  together?  I  have  been  told,  that 
if  a  man  that  was  born  blind  could  obtain  to 
have  his  sight  for  but  only  one  hour  during  his 
whole  life,  and  should,  at  the  first  opening 
of  his  eyes,  fix  his  sight  upon  the  sun  when 
it  was  in  its  full  glory,  either  at  the  rising  or 
setting  of  it,  he  would  be  so  transported  and 
amazed,  and  so  admire  the  glory  of  it,  that  he 
would  not  willingly  turn  his  eyes  from  that 
first  ravishing  object,  to  behold  all  the  other 
various  beauties  this  world  could  present  to 
him.  And  this,  and  many  other  like  blessings, 
we  enjoy  daily.  And  for  most  of  them,  because 
they  be  so  common,  most  men  forget  to  pay 
their  praises;  but  let  not  us,  because  it  is  a 
sacrifice  so  pleasing  to  Him  that  made  that 
sun  and  us,  and  still  protects  us,  and  gives  us 
flowers  and  showers,  and  stomachs  and  meat, 
and  content  and  leisure  to  go  a-fishing. 

JOHN  BUNYAN  (1628-1688) 

Feom    the   PILGRIM'S   PKOGRESS* 

Christian  Flees  from  the  City  of 
Destruction 

As  I  walked  through  the  wilderness  of  this 
world,  I  lighted  on  a  certain  place  where  was 
a  den,i  and  I  laid  me  down  in  that  place  to 
sleep;  and  as  I  slept  I  dreamed  a  dream.     1 

1  Bedford  JaU   (See  Eng.  Lit.,  p.  159). 

*  "The  Pilgrim's  Progress  from  This  World  to  That 
which  is  to  come  :  Delivered  under  the  Simil- 
itude of  a  Dream,  wherein  Is  Discovered  the 
manner  of  his  setting  out.  his  Dangerous  Jour- 
nev.  and  safe  Arrival  at  the  Desired  Country." 
Title  of  the  first  edition,  1678,  whence  our 
text  is  taken. 


dreamed,  and  behold,  I  saw  a  man  clothed  with 
rags  standing  in  a  certain  place,  with  his  face 
from  his  own  house,  a  book  in  bis  hand,  and 
a  great  burden  upon  his  back.  I  looked  and 
saw  him  open  the  book,  and  read  therein;  and 
as  he  read,  he  wept  and  trembled;  and  not 
being  able  longer  to  contain,  he  brake  out 
with  a  lamentable  cry,  saying,  "What  shall 
I   do?" 

I  saw  also  that  he  looked  this  way,  and  that 
way,  as  if  he  would  run;  yet  he  stood  still, 
because,  as  I  perceived,  he  could  not  tell  which 
way  to  go.  1  looked  then,  and  saw  a  man 
named  Evangelist  coming  to  him,  and  [he] 
asked,  "Wherefore  dost  thou  cry?" 

He  answered,  "Sir,  I  perceive,  by  the  book 
in  my  hand,  that  I  am  condemned  to  die,  and 
after  that  to  come  to  judgment;  and  I  find 
that  I  am  not  willing  to  do  the  first,  nor  able 
to  do  the  second." 

Then  said  Evangelist,  "Why  not  willing  to 
die,  since  this  life  is  attended  with  so  many 
evils?"  The  man  answered,  "Because  I  fear 
that  this  burden  that  is  upon  my  back  will 
sink  me  lower  than  the  grave,  and  I  shall  fall 
into  Tophet.2  And  Sir,  if  I  be  not  fit  to  go 
to  prison,  I  am  not  fit  (I  am  sure)  to  go  to 
judgment,  and  from  thence  to  execution;  and 
the  thoughts  of  these  things  make  me  cry." 

Then  said  Evangelist,  "If  this  be  thy  con- 
dition, why  standest  thou  still?"  He  an- 
swered, ' '  Because  I  know  not  whither  to  go. ' ' 
Then  he  gave  him  a  parchment  roll,  and  there 
was  written  within,  "Fly  from  the  wrath  to 
come." 

The  man  therefore  read  it,  and,  looking  upon 
Evangelist  very  carefully,  said,  ' '  Whither  must 
I  fly  ? "  Then  said  Evangelist,  pointing  with 
his  finger  over  a  very  wide  field,  "Do  you  see 
yonder  wicket  gate?"  The  man  said,  "No." 
Then  said  the  other,  "Do  you  see  yonder  shin- 
ing light?"  He  said,  "I  think  I  do."  Then 
said  Evangelist,  "Keep  that  light  in  your 
eye,  and  go  up  directly  thereto,  so  shalt  thou 
see  the  gate;  at  which  when  thou  knockest, 
it  shall  be  told  thee  what  thou  shalt  do." 

So  I  saw  in  my  dream  that  the  man  began 
to  run.  Now  he  had  not  run  far  from  his  own 
door,  but  his  wife  and  children,  perceiving  it, 
began  to  cry  after  him  to  return;  but  the  man 


2  hell 


"The  Pilgrim's  Progress  is  composed  in  the 
lowest  style  of  English  without  slang  or  false 
grammar.  If  you  were  to  polish  it,  you  would 
at  once  destroy  the  reality  of  the  vision.  For 
works  of  imagination  should  be  written  in  very 
plain  language ;  the  more  purely  imaginative 
they  are  the  more  necessary  it  is  to  be  plain." 
— Coleridge. 


268 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY 


put  his  fingers  in  his  ears  and  ran  on,  crying,  ] 
*  *  Life !  life !  eternal  life !  "     So  he  looked  not 
behind  him,  but  fled  towards  the  middle  of  the 
plain. 

The  neighbors  also  came  out  to  see  him  run; 
and  as  he  ran,  some  mocked,  others  threatened, 
and  some  cried  after  him  to  return.  Now 
among  those  that  did  so,  there  were  two  that 
were  resolved  to  fetch  him  back  by  force.  The 
name  of  the  one  was  Obstinate,  and  the  name 
of  the  other  Pliable.  Now  by  this  time  the 
man  was  got  a  good  distance  from  them;  but, 
however,  they  were  resolved  to  pursue  him, 
which  they  did,  and  in  a  little  time  overtook 
him.  Then  said  the  man,  '  *  Neighbors,  where- 
fore are  you  come?"  They  said,  "To  per- 
suade you  to  go  back  with  us."  But  he  said, 
"That  can  by  no  means  be.  You  dwell," 
said  he,  "in  the  City  of  Destruction  (the 
place  also  where  I  was  born) :  I  see  it  to  be 
80;  and  dying  there,  sooner  or  later,  you  will 
sink  lower  than  the  grave,  into  a  place  that 
burns  with  fire  and  brimstone:  be  content, 
good  neighbors,  and  go  along  with  me." 

What,  said  Obstinate,  and  leave  our  friends 
and  our  comforts  behind  us! 

Yes,  said  Christian  (for  that  was  his  name), 
because  that  all  is  not  worthy  to  be  com- 
pared with  a  little  of  that  that  I  am  seeking 
to  enjoy;  and  if  you  will  go  along  with  me, 
you  shall  fare  as  I  myself;  for  there,  where 
I  go,  is  enough  and  to  spare.  Come  away,  and 
prove  my  words. 

Obst.  What  are  the  things  you  seek,  since 
you  leave  all  the  world  to  find  them? 

Chr.  I  seek  an  inheritance,  incorruptible, 
undefiled,  and  that  fadeth  not  away;  and  it  is 
laid  up  in  heaven,  and  fast  there,  to  be  be- 
stowed, at  the  time  appointed,  on  them  that 
diligently  seek  it.  Read  it  so,  if  you  will,  in 
my  book. 

Obst.  Tush,  said  Obstinate,  away  with  your 
book:  will  you  go  back  with  us  or  no? 

Chr.  No,  not  I,  said  the  other,  because  1 
have  laid  my  hand  to  the  plough. 

Obst.  Come  then,  neighbor  Pliable,  let  us 
turn  again,  and  go  home  without  him :  there 
is  a  company  of  these  craz 'd-headed  coxcombs, 
that  when  they  take  a  fancy  by  the  end,  are 
wiser  in  their  own  eyes  than  seven  men  that 
can  render  a  reason. 

Then  said  Pliable,  Don't  revile;  if  what 
the  good  Christian  says  is  true,  the  things  he 
looks  after  are  better  than  ours:  my  heart 
inclines  to  go  with  my  neighbor. 

Obst.  What,  more  fools  still!  Be  ruled  by 
me,  and  go  back;   who  knows  whither  such  a 


brain-sick  fellow  will  lead  you  I     Go  back, 
back,  and  be  wise. 

Chr.  Come  with  me,  neighbor  Pliable; 
there  are  such  things  to  be  had  which  I  spoke 
of,  and  many  more  glories  besides.  If  you 
believe  not  me,  read  here  in  this  book;  and 
for  the  truth  of  what  is  expressed  therein,  be- 
hold, all  is  confirmed  by  the  blood  of  Hin» 
that  made  it. 

Fli.  Well,  neighbor  Obstinate,  said  Pliable, 
I  begin  to  come  to  a  point;  I  intend  to  ga 
along  with  tliis  good  man,  and  to  cast  in  my 
lot  with  him ;  but,  my  good  companion,  do  yoa 
know  the  way  to   this  desired  place? 

Chr.  I  am  directed  by  a  man,  whose  name 
is  Evangelist,  to  speed  me  to  a  little  gate 
that  is  before  us,  where  we  shall  receive  in- 
struction about  the  way. 

Pli.  Come  then,  good  neighbor,  let  us  be 
going.     Then  they  went  both  together. 

Obst.  And  I  will  go  back  to  my  place,  said 
Obstinate:  I  will  be  no  companion  of  such 
misled,  fantastical  fellows. 

Now  I  saw  in  ray  dream,  that  when  Obsti- 
nate was  gone  back,  Christian  and  Pliable  went 
talking  over  the  plain;  and  thus  they  began 
their  discourse. 

Chr.  Come,  neighbor  Pliable,  how  do  you 
do?  I  am  glad  you  are  persuaded  to  go  along 
with  me;  and  had  even  Obstinate  himself  bu^ 
felt  what  I  have  felt  of  the  powers  and  terrors 
of  what  is  yet  unseen,  he  would  not  thus 
lightly  have  given  us  the  back. 

Pli.  Come,  neighbor  Christian,  since  there 
is  none  but  us  two  here,  tell  me  now  further, 
what  the  things  are,  and  how  to  be  enjoyed, 
whither  we  are  going. 

Chr.  I  can  better  conceive  of  them  with  m; 
mind,  than  speak  of  them  with  my  tongue: 
but  yet,  since  you  are  desirous  to  know,  I  will 
read  of  them  in  my  book. 

Pli.  And  do  you  think  that  the  words  of 
your  book  are  certainly  true? 

Chr.  Yes,  verily;  for  it  was  made  by  him 
that  cannot  lie. 

Pli.     Well  said;  what  things  are  theyt 

Chr.  There  is  an  endless  kingdom  to  be 
inhabited,  and  everlasting  life  to  be  given  us, 
that  we  may  inhabit  that  kingdom  forever. 

Pli.     Well  said;   and  what  else? 

Chr.  There  are  crowns  of  glory  to  be  given 
us;  and  garments  that  will  make  us  shine 
like  the  sun  in  the  firmament  of  heaven. 

Pli.     This  is  excellent ;  and  what  else! 

Chr.  There  shall  be  no  more  crying,  r.or 
sorrow;  for  he  that  is  owner  of  the  place  will 
wipe  all  tears  from  our  eyes. 


JOHN  BUNYAN 


269 


Pit.     And  what  company  shall  we  have  there? 

Chr.  There  we  shall  be  with  seraphims  and 
eherubims:  creatures  that  will  dazzle  your  eyes 
to  look  on  them.  There  also  you  shall  meet 
with  thousands  and  ten  thousands  that  have 
gone  before  us  to  that  place;  none  of  them  are 
hurtful,  but  lo\-ing  and  holy;  every  one  walking 
in  the  sight  of  God,  and  standing  in  his  pres- 
ence with  acceptance  forever.  In  a  word,  there 
we  shall  see  the  elders  with  their  golden 
crowns;  there  we  shall  see  the  holy  virgins 
with  their  golden  harps;  there  we  shall  see 
men,  that  by  the  world  were  cut  in  pieces, 
burned  in  flames,  eaten  of  beasts,  drowned  in 
the  seas,  for  the  love  that  they  bare  to  the 
Lord  of  the  place;  all  well,  and  clothed  with 
immortality  as  with  a  garment. 

Pit.  The  hearing  of  this  is  enough  to  ravish 
one's  heart.  But  are  these  things  to  be  en- 
joyed!   How  shall  we  get  to  be  sharers  hereof? 

Chr.  The  Lord,  the  governor  of  that  coun- 
try, hath  recorded  that  in  this  book;  the  sub- 
stance of  which  is,  If  we  be  truly  willing  to 
have  it,  he  will  bestow  it  upon  us  freely. 

Pli.  Well,  my  good  companion,  glad  am 
I  to  hear  of  these  things:  come  on,  let  us 
mend  our  pace. 

Chr.  I  cannot  go  so  fast  as  I  would,  by 
reason  of  this  burden  that  is  upon  my  back. 

Now  I  saw  in  my  dream,  that  just  as  they 
had  ended  this  talk,  they  drew  near  to  a  very 
miry  slough  that  was  in  the  midst  of  the  plain : 
and  they  being  heedless,  did  both  fall  sudden- 
ly into  the  bog.  The  name  of  the  slough  was 
Despond.  Here,  therefore,  they  wallowed  for 
a  time,  being  grievously  bedaubed  with  the 
dirt;  and  Christian,  because  of  the  burden  that 
was  on  his  back,  began  to  sink  in  the  mire. 

Pli.  Then  said  Pliable,  Ah,  neighbor  Chris- 
tian, where  are  you  nowf 

Chr.     Truly,  said  Christian,  I  do  not  know. 

Pli.  At  that  Pliable  began  to  be  offended, 
and  angerly  said  to  his  fellow,  Is  this  the 
happiness  you  have  told  me  all  this  while  off 
If  we  have  such  ill  speed  at  our  first  setting 
out,  what  may  we  expect  'twixt  this  and  our 
journey's  endf  May  I  get  out  again  with  my 
life,  you  shaU  possess  the  brave  country  alone 
for  me.  And  with  that  he  gave  a  desperate 
struggle  or  two,  and  got  out  of  the  mire  on 
that  side  of  the  slough  which  was  next  to  his 
own  house:  so  away  he  went,  and  Christian 
saw  him  no  more. 

Wherefore  Christian  was  left  to  tumble  in 
the  Slough  of  Despond  akme;  but  still  he  en- 
deavored to  struggle  to  that  side  of  the  slough 
that  was  still  further  from  his  own  house,  and 


next  to  the  wicket  gate;  the  which  he  did,  but 
could  not  get  out  because  of  the  burden  that 
was  upon  his  back:  but  I  beheld  in  my  dream, 
that  a  man  came  to  him,  whose  name  was  Help, 
and  asked  him  what  he  did  there. 

Chr.  Sir,  said  Christian,  I  was  directed  this 
way  by  a  man  called  Evangelist,  who  directed 
me  also  to  yonder  gate,  that  I  might  escape 
the  wrath  to  come.  And  as  I  was  going  thither, 
I  fell  in  here. 

Help.  But  why  did  you  not  look  for  the 
steps t 

Chr.  Fear  followed  me  so  hard  that  I  fled 
the  next3  way,  and  fell  in. 

Help.     Give  me  thy  hand. 

So  he  gave  him  his  hand,  and  he  drew  him 
out,  and  set  him  upon  sound  ground,  and  bid 
him  go  on  his  way.* 


The   Hill   of   Difficulty   axd   the    Sixful 
Sleep 

I  beheld  then,  that  they  all  went  on  tUl 
they  came  to  the  foot  of  an  hill,  at  the  bottom 
of  which  was  a  spring.  There  was  also  in  the 
same  place  two  other  ways  besides  that  which 
came  straight  from  the  gate:  one  turned  to  the 
left  hand,  and  the  other  to  the  right,  at  the 
bottom  of  the  hill;  but  the  narrow  way  lay 
right  up  the  hill,  and  the  name  of  the  going  up 
the  side  of  the  hill  is  called  Difficulty.  Chris- 
tian now  went  to  the  spring  and  drank  thereof 
to  refresh  himself,  and  then  began  to  go  up 
the  hill,  saying. 

This  hill,  though  high,  I  covet  to  ascend ; 

The  difiBcuIty  will  not  me  offend ; 

For  I  perceive  the  way  to  life  lies  here : 

Come,  pluck  up.  Heart,  let's  neither  faint  nor  fear ; 

Better,  though  difficult,  the  right  way  to  go. 

Than   wrong,   though  easy,   where  the  end  Is  wo. 

The  other  two  also  came  to  the  foot  of  the 
hill.  But  when  they  saw  that  the  hill  was 
steep  and  high,  and  that  there  was  two  other 
ways  to  go;  and  supposing  also  that  these  two 
ways  might  meet  again  with  that  up  which 
Christian  went,  on  the  other  side  of  the  hill; 
therefore  they  were  resolved  to  go  in  those 
ways.  Now  the  name  of  one  of  those  ways 
was  Danger,  and  the  name  of  the  other  De- 
struction. So  the  one  took  the  way  which  is 
called    Danger,    which    led    him   into    a    great 

•  Christian  passes  through  the  gate,  where  he  gets 
instructions  for  his  Journey  ;  visits  the  House 
of  the  Interpreter :  loses  his  burden  at  the 
foot  of  the  Cross ;  receives  a  Roll  from  three 
Shining  Ones;  and  after  falling  in  with  For- 
malist and  Hypocrisy,  comes  to  the  Hill  of 
Difficulty. 


270 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTUKY 


wood;  and  the  other  took  directly  up  the  way 
to  Destruction,  which  led  him  into  a  wide  field, 
full  of  dark  mountains,  where  he  stumbled  and 
fell,  and  rose  no  more. 

I  looked  then  after  Christian,  to  see  him  go 
up  the  hill,  where  I  perceived  he  fell  from 
running  to  going,i  and  from  going  to  clamber- 
ing upon  his  hands  and  his  knees,  because  of 
the  steepness  of  the  place.  Now  about  the 
midway  to  the  top  of  the  hill  was  a  pleasant 
arbor,  made  by  the  Lord  of  the  hill  for  the 
refreshment  of  weary  travellers.  Thither, 
therefore.  Christian  got,  where  also  he  sat 
down  to  rest  him.  Then  he  pulled  his  Boll 
out  of  his  bosom,  and  read  therein  to  his  com- 
fort; he  also  now  began  afresh  to  take  a  review 
of  the  coat  or  garment  that  was  given  him  as 
he  stood  by  the  cross.  Thus  pleasing  himself 
awhile,  he  at  last  fell  into  a  slumber,  and 
thence  into  a  fast  sleep,  which  detained  him 
in  that  place  until  it  was  almost  night;  and 
in  his  sleep  his  Boll  fell  out  of  his  hand.  Now, 
as  he  was  sleeping,  there  came  one  to  him, 
and  awaked  him,  saying,  "Go  to  the  ant,  thou 
sluggard ;  consider  her  ways,  and  be  wise. ' ' 
And  with  that.  Christian  suddenly  started  up, 
and  sped  him  on  his  way,  and  went  apace  till 
he  came  to  the  top  of  the  hill. 

Now  when  he  was  got  up  to  the  top  of  the 
hill,  there  came  two  men  running  against  him 
amain;  the  name  of  the  one  was  Timorous, 
and  the  name  of  the  other  Mistrust:  to  whom 
Christian  said.  Sirs,  what's  the  matter?  you 
run  the  wrong  way.  Timorous  answered,  that 
they  were  going  to  the  City  of  Zion,  and  had 
got  up  that  difficult  place:  but,  said  he,  the 
further  we  go,  the  more  danger  we  meet  with; 
wherefore  we  turned,  and  are  going  back  again. 

Yes,  said  Mistrust,  for  just  before  us  lie  a 
couple  of  lions  in  the  way,  whether  sleeping 
or  waking  we  know  not;  and  we  could  not 
think,  if  we  came  within  reach,  but  they  would 
presently  pull  us  in  pieces. 

Chr.  Then  said  Christian,  You  make  me 
afraid;  but  whither  shall  I  fly  to  be  safe?  If 
I  go  back  to  mine  own  country,  that  is  pre- 
pared for  fire  and  brimstone;  and  I  shall  cer- 
tainly perish  there.  If  I  can  get  to  the 
Celestial  City,  I  am  sure  to  be  in  safety  there. 
I  must  venture.  To  go  back  is  nothing  but 
death:  to  go  forward  is  fear  of  death,  and 
life  everlasting  beyond  it:  I  will  yet  go  for- 
ward. So  Mistrust  and  Timorous  ran  down 
the  hill,  and  Christian  went  on  his  way.  But 
thinking  again  of  what  he  had  heard  from  the 
men,  he  felt  in  bis  bosom  for  his  Boll,  that  he 
1  walking 


might  read  therein  and  be  comforted;   but  he 
felt,  and  found  it  not. 

Then  was  Christian  in  great  distress,  and 
knew  not  what  to  do;  for  he  wanted  that 
which  used  to  relieve  him,  and  that  which 
should  have  been  his  pass  into  the  Celestial 
City.  Here,  therefore,  he  began  to  be  much 
perplexed,  and  knew  not  what  to  do.  At  last 
he  bethought  himself  that  he  had  slept  in  the 
arbor  that  is  on  the  side  of  the  hill;  and  fall- 
ing down  upon  his  knees,  he  asked  God  for- 
giveness for  that  his  foolish  fact,2  and  then 
went  back  to  look  for  his  roll.  But  all  tlie 
way  he  went  back,  who  can  sufficiently  set 
forth  the  sorrow  of  Christian's  heart?  Some- 
times he  sighed,  sometimes  he  wept,  and  often- 
times he  chid  himself  for  being  so  foolish  to 
fall  asleep  in  that  place,  which  was  erected 
only  for  a  little  refreshment  from  his  weari- 
ness. Thus  therefore,  he  went  back,  carefully 
looking  on  this  side  and  on  that,  all  the  way 
as  he  went,  if  happily  he  might  find  his  Boll, 
that  had  been  his  comfort  so  many  times  in 
his  journey.  He  went  thus  till  he  came  again 
within  sight  of  the  arbor  where  he  sat  and 
slept;  but  that  sight  renewed  his  sorrow  the 
more,  by  bringing  again,  even  afresh,  his  evil 
of  sleeping  into  his  mind.  Thus,  therefore,  he 
now  went  on  bewailing  his  sinful  sleep,  saying, 
Oh,  wretched  man  that  I  am,  that  I  should 
sleep  in  the  daytime!  that  I  should  sleep  in 
the  midst  of  difficulty!  that  I  should  so  in- 
dulge the  flesh  as  to  use  that  rest  for  ease  to 
my  flesh  which  the  Lord  of  the  hill  hath  erected 
only  for  the  relief  of  the  spirits  of  pilgrims! 
How  many  steps  have  I  taken  in  vain!  Thus 
it  happened  to  Israel;  for  their  sin  they  were 
sent  back  again  by  the  way  of  the  Bed  Sea ; 
and  I  am  made  to  tread  those  steps  with  sor- 
row, which  I  might  have  trod  with  delight,  had 
it  not  been  for  this  sinful  sleep.  How  far 
might  I  have  been  on  my  way  by  this  time! 
T  am  made  to  tread  those  steps  thrice  over, 
which  I  needed  not  to  have  trod  but  once:  yea, 
now  also  T  am  like  to  be  benighted,  for  the 
day  is  almost  spent.    Oh,  that  I  had  not  slept! 

Now  by  this  time  he  was  come  to  the  arbor 
again,  where  for  a  while  he  sat  down  and  wept ; 
but  at  last  (as  Providence  would  have  it),  look- 
ing sorrowfully  down  under  the  settle,  there  he 
espied  his  Boll,  the  which  he  with  trembling 
and  haste  catched  up,  and  put  it  into  his  bosom. 
But  who  can  tell  how  joyful  this  man  was 
when  he  had  gotten  his  Boll  again?  For  this 
Boll  was  the  assurance  of  his  life,  and  accept- 
ance at  the  desired  haven.  Therefore  he  laid 
2  deed 


SAMUEL  PEPYS 


271 


it  up  in  his  bosom,  gave  thanks  to  God  for  j 
directing  his  eye  to  the  place  where  it  lay,  { 
and  with  joy  and  tears  betook  himself  again 
to  his  journey.  But  oh,  how  nimbly  now  did 
he  go  up  the  rest  of  the  hill!  Yet  before  he 
got  up,  the  sun  went  down  upon  Christian; 
and  this  made  him  again  recall  the  vanity  of 
his  sleeping  to  his  remembrance;  and  thus  he 
again  began  to  condole  with  himself:  Ah, 
thou  sinful  sleep!  how  for  thy  sake  am  I  like 
to  be  benighted  in  my  journey!  I  must  walk 
without  the  sun,  darkness  must  cover  the  path 
of  my  feet,  and  I  must  hear  the  noise  of  dole- 
ful creatures,  because  of  my  sinful  sleep! 
Now  also  he  remembered  the  story  that  Mis- 
trust and  Timorous  told  him  of,  how  they  were 
frighted  with  the  sight  of  the  lions.  Then 
said  Christian  to  himself  again,  These  beasts 
range  in  the  night  for  their  prey;  and  if  they 
should  meet  with  me  in  the  dark,  how  should 
I  shift  themf  how  should  I  escape  being  by 
them  torn  in  pieces?  Thus  he  went  on  his 
way.  But  whUe  he  was  thus  bewailing  his 
unhappy  miscarriage,  he  lift  up  his  eyes,  and 
behold,  there  was  a  very  stately  Palace  before 
him,  the  name  whereof  was  Beautiful,  and  it 
stood  just  by  the  highway-side. 


SAMUEL  PEPYS  (1633-1703) 

Feom  His  diary* 

Pepys  Appointed  Secretary  to  the  Generals 

OF  THE  Fleet.     The  Return  op 

King  Charles 

Jan.  1.  1660  (Lord's  day).  This  morning 
(we  living  lately  in  the  garret)  I  rose,  put  on 
my  suit  with  great  skirts,  having  not  lately 
worn  any  other  clothes  but  them.  Went  to 
Mr.  Gunning's  chapel  at  Exeter  House,  where 
he  made  a  very  good  sermon.  Dined  at  home 
in  the  garret,  where  my  wife  dressed  the  re- 
mains of  a  turkey,  and  in  the  doing  of  it  she 
burned  her  hand.  I  stayed  at  home  all  the 
afternoon,  looking  over  my  accounts ;  then  went 
with  my  wife  to  my  father's  and  in  going 
observed  the  great  posts  which  the  City  have 
set  up  at  the  Conduit  in  Fleet  Street. 

Mar.  5th.  To  Westminster  by  water,  only 
seeing  Mr.  Pinkney  at  his  own  house,  where  he 

*  Pepys's  Diary  belongs  to  what  may  be  called 
unconscious  literature.  It  was  not  intended 
for  publication,  is  reckless  in  grammar,  un- 
concerned for  style,  ignorant  of  any  sort  of 
propriety,  yet  famous  for  its  portrayal  of 
an  interesting  man  in  an  interesting  period. 
See  Eng.   Lit.,  p.   156. 


showed  me  how  he  had  always  kepc  the  lion 
and  unicorn,  in  the  back  of  his  chimney, 
bright,  in  expectation  of  the  King's  coming 
again.  At  home  I  found  Mr.  Hunt,  who  told  me 
how  the  Parliament  had  voted  that  the  Covenantt 
be  printed  and  hung  in  churches  again.  Great 
hopes  of  the  King's  coming  again. 

6th.  Everybody  now  drinks  the  King 's  health 
without  any  fear,  whereas  before  it  was  very 
private  that  a  man  dare  do  it. 

22nd.  To  Westminster,  and  received  my  war- 
rant of  Mr.  Blaekbume  to  be  secretary  to  the 
two  Generals  of  the  Fleet. 

23rd.  My  Lord,t  Captain  Isham,  Mr.  Thomas, 
John  Crewe,  W.  Howe,  and  I  to  the  Tower,  where 
the  barges  stayed  for  us;  my  Lord  and  the  Cap- 
tain in  one,  and  W.  Howe  and  I,  &c.,  in  the  other, 
to  the  Long  Reach,  where  the  Swiftswre  lay  at 
anchor;  (in  our  way  we  saw  the  great  breach 
which  the  late  high  water  had  made,  to  the  loss  of 
many  £1,000  to  the  people  about  Limehouse). 
Soon  as  my  Lord  on  board,  the  guns  went  off 
bravely  from  the  ships.  And  a  little  while  after 
comes  the  Vice-Admiral  Lawson,  and  seemed 
very  respectful  to  my  Lord,  and  so  did  the 
rest  of  the  commanders  of  the  frigates  that 
were  thereabouts.  I  to  the  cabin  allotted  for 
me,  which  was  the  best  that  any  had  that  be- 
longed to  my  Lord.  We  were  late  writing  of 
orders,  for  the  getting  of  ships  ready,  &e. 

May  1.  To-day  I  hear  they  were  very  merry 
at  Deal,i  setting  up  the  King's  flag  upon  one 
of  their  maypoles,  and  drinking  his  health  upon 
their  knees  in  the  streets,  and  firing  the  guns, 
which  the  soldiers  of  the  castle  threatened,  but 
durst  not  oppose. 

2nd.  In  the  morning  at  a  breakfast  of 
radishes  in  the  Purser's  cabin.  After  that, 
to  writing  till  dinner.  At  which  time  comes 
Dunne  from  London,  with  letters  that  tell  us 
the  welcome  news  of  the  Parliament's  votes 
yesterday,  which  will  be  remembered  for  the 
happiest  May-day  that  hath  been  many  a  year 
to  England.  The  King's  letter  was  read  in 
the  House,  wherein  he  submits  himself  and  all 
things  to  them,  as  to  an  Act  of  Oblivion  to 
all,  unless  they  shall  please  to  except  any. 

May  29th.  Abroad  to  shore  with  my  Lord 
(which  he  offered  me  of  himself,  saying  that 
I  had  a  great  deal  of  work  to  do  this  month, 
which  was  very  true) .    On  shore  we  took  horses, 

1 A  port  near  Dover. 

t  The  Scottish  "Covenant  with  God,"  a  declaration 

of  resistance  to  the  Roman  Church.     The  next 

year  it  was  ordered  to  be  publicly  burnt. 
t  Sir   Edward   Montagu,    whose   service   Pepys   had 

entered,    and    who,    as    admiral    and    general. 

was    appointed    to    convey    Charles    11.    from 

Holland  to  England. 


272 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTUEY 


my  Lord  and  Mr.  Edward,  Mr.  Hetly  and  I, 
and  three  or  four  servants,  and  had  a  great 
deal  of  pleasure  in  riding.  .  .  At  last  we  came 
upon  a  very  high  cliff  by  the  sea-side,  and 
rode  under  it,  we  having  laid  great  wagers,  I 
and  Dr.  Mathews,  that  it  was  not  so  high  as 
Paul's,2  my  Lord  and  Mr.  Hetly,  that  it  was. 
But  we  riding  under  it,  my  Lord  made  a  pretty 
good  measure  of  it  with  two  sticks,  and  found  it 
to  be  not  above  thirty-five  yards  high,  and  Paul 's 
is  reckoned  to  be  about  ninety.  From  thence 
toward  the  barge  again,  and  in  our  way  found 
the  people  of  Deal  going  to  make  a  bonfire 
for  joy  of  the  day,  it  being  the  King's  birth- 
day, and  had  some  guns  which  they  did  fire  at 
my  Lord 's  coming  by.  For  which  I  did  give 
twenty  shillings  among  them  to  drink.  While 
we  were  on  the  top  of  the  cliff,  we  saw  and 
heard  our  guns  in  the  fleet  go  off  for  the  same 
joy.  And  it  being  a  pretty  fair  day,  we  could 
see  above  twenty  miles  into  France.  Being 
returned  on  board,  my  Lord  called  for  Mr. 
Sheply's  book  of  Paul's,  by  which  we  were 
confirmed  in  our  wager.  .  .  .  This  day,  it  is 
thought,  the  King  do  enter  the  City  of  London. 
30th.  All  this  morning  making  up  my  ac- 
counts, in  which  I  counted  that  I  had  made 
myself  now  worth  about  £80,  at  which  my 
heart  was  glad,  and  blessed  God. 

Matters  Personal  and  Domestic 

Oct.  13th.  I  went  out  to  Charing  Cross,  to 
see  Major-General  Harrison*  hanged,  drawn, 
and  quartered ;  which  was  done  there,  he  look- 
ing as  cheerful  as  any  man  could  do  in  that 
condition.  He  was  presently  cut  down,  and 
his  head  and  heart  shown  to  the  people,  at 
which  there  was  great  shouts  of  joy.  It  is 
said  that  he  said  that  he  was  sure  to  come 
shortly  at  the  right  hand  of  Christ  to  judge 
them  that  now  had  judged  him;  and  that  his 
wife  do  expect  his  coming  again.  Thus  it 
was  my  chance  to  see  the  King  beheaded  at 
Whitehall,  and  to  see  the  first  blood  shed  in 
revenge  for  the  blood  of  the  King  at  Charing 
Cross.  From  thence  to  my  Lord's,  and  took 
Captain  Cuttance  and  Mr.  Sheply  to  the  Sun 
Tavern,  and  did  give  them  some  oysters.  After 
that  I  went  by  water  home,  where  I  was  angry 
with  my  wife  for  her  things  lying  about,  and 
in  my  passion  kicked  the  little  fine  basket, 
which  I  bought  her  in  Holland,  and  broke  it, 
which  troubled  me  after  I  had  done  it.     With- 

2  Ht.    Paul's    Cathedral,  London. 
*  He  bad  served  under  Cromwell,  and  had  Rigncd 
the  warrant  for  the  executlou  ot  Charles   I. 


in  all  the  afternoon  setting  up  shelves  in  mj 
study.     At  night  to  bed. 

Nov.  22nd.  This  morning  come  the  aai 
penters  to  make  me  a  door  at  the  other  sidcT 
of  my  house,  going  into  the  entry,  which  I  was 
much  pleased  with.  At  noon,  my  wife  and  1 
walked  to  the  Old  Exchange,  and  there  she 
bought  her  a  white  whiski  and  put  it  on,  and 
I  a  pair  of  gloves,  and  so  we  took  coach  for 
Whitehall  to  Mr.  Fox's,  where  we  found  Mrs. 
Fox  within,  and  an  alderman  of  London  paying 
£1,000  or  £1,400  in  gold  upon  the  table  for 
the  King,  which  was  the  most  gold  that  ever 
I  saw  together  in  my  life.  Mr.  Fox  come  in 
presently  and  did  receive  us  with  a  great  deal 
of  respect;  and  then  did  take  my  wife  and  I  to 
the  Queen's  presence-chamber,  where  he  got  my 
wife  placed  behind  the  Queen 's  chair,  and  I  got 
into  the  crowd,  and  by  and  by  the  Queen  and 
the  two  Princesses  come  to  dinner.  The  Queen  a 
very  little  plain  old  woman,*  and  nothing  more 
in  her  presence  in  any  respect  nor  garb  than 
any  ordinary  woman.  The  Princess  of  Orange  I 
had  often  seen  before.  The  Princess  Henri- 
etta is  very  pretty,  but  much  below  my  expecta- 
tion: and  her  dressing  of  herself  with  her  hair 
frizzed  short  up  to  her  ears,  did  make  her 
seem  so  much  the  less  to  me.  But  my  wife 
standing  near  her  with  two  or  three  black 
patches  on,  and  well  dressed,  did  seem  to  me 
much  handsomer  than  she. 

Feb.  27th,  1661.  I  called  for  a  dish  of  fish, 
which  we  had  for  dinner,  this  being  the  first 
day  of  Lent;  and  I  do  intend  to  try  whether 
I  can  keep  it  or  no. 

28th.  I  took  boat  at  Whitehall  for  Bedriffe, 
but  in  my  way  overtook  Captain  Cuttance  and 
Tiddiman  in  a  boat  and  so  ashore  with  them 
at  Queenhithe,  and  so  to  a  tavern  with  them 
to  a  barrel  of  oysters,  and  so  away.  Capt. 
Cuttance  and  I  walked  from  Eedriffe  to  Dept- 
ford,  and  there  we  dined,  and  notwithstanding 
my  resolution,  yet  for  want  of  other  victuals, 
I  did  eat  flesh  this  Lent,  but  am  resolved  to 
eat  as  little  as  I  can. 

The  Coronation  of  Charles  II 
Apr.  23rd.  Coronation  Day.  About  four  I 
rose  and  got  to  the  Abbey,  where  I  followed 
Sir  J.  Denham,  the  Surveyor,  with  some  com- 
pany that  he  was  leading  in.  And  with  much 
ado,  by  the  favour  of  Mr.  Cooper,  his  man, 
did  get  up  into  a  great  scaffold  across  the 
north  end  of  the  Abbey,  where  with  a  great 
deal    of   patience    I    sat    from    past    four    till 

1  neckerchief 

•  Henrietta  Maria,  mother  of  Charles.     The  prin- 
cesses montioned  were  two  of  her  daughters. 


SAMUEL  PEPYS 


273 


eleven  before  the  King  come  in.  And  a  great 
pleasure  it  was  to  see  the  Abbey  raised  in  the 
middle,  all  covered  with  red,  and  a  throne 
(that  is  a  chair)  and  foot-stool  on  the  top  of 
it;  and  all  the  officers  of  all  kinds,  so  much 
as  the  very  fiddlers,  in  red  vests. 

At  last  comes  in  the  Dean  and  Prebends  of 
Westminster,  with  the  Bishops  (many  of  them 
in  cloth-of-gold  copes),  and  after  them  the 
Nobility,  all  in  their  Parliament  robes,  which 
was  a  most  magnificent  sight.  Then  the  Duke 
and  the  King  with  a  sceptre  (carried  by  my 
Lord  Sandwich)  and  sword  and  wand  before 
him,  and  the  crown  too.  The  King  in  his 
robes,  bare-headed,  which  was  very  fine.  And 
after  all  had  placed  themselves,  there  was  a 
sermon  and  the  service;  and  then  in  the  Choir 
at  the  high  altar,  the  King  passed  through 
all  the  ceremonies  of  the  Coronation,  which 
to  my  great  grief  I  and  most  in  the  Abbey 
could  not  see.  The  crown  being  put  upon  his 
head,  a  great  shout  began,  and  he  come  forth 
to  the  throne,  and  there  passed  more  ceremo- 
nies: as  taking  the  oath,  and  having  things 
read  to  him  by  the  Bishop;  and  his  Lords 
(who  put  on  their  caps  as  soon  as  the  King 
put  on  his  crown)  and  bishops  come,  and 
kneeled  before  him.  And  three  times  the  King 
at  Arms2  went  to  the  three  open  places  on  the 
scaflfold,  and  proclaimed,  that  if  any  one  could 
show  any  reason  why  Charles  Stewart  should 
not  be  King  of  England,  that  now  he  should 
come  and  speak.  And  a  General  Pardon  also 
was  read  by  the  Lord  Chancellor,  and  medals 
flung  up  and  down  by  my  Lord  Cornwallis,  of 
silver,  but  I  could  not  come  by  any.  But  so 
great  a  noise  that  I  could  make  but  little  of 
the  music;  and  indeed,  it  was  lost  to  every- 
body. 

I  went  out  a  little  while  before  the  King 
had  done  all  his  ceremonies,  and  went  round 
the  Abbey  to  Westminster  Hall,  all  the  way 
within  rails,  and  10,000  people,  with  the  ground 
covered  with  blue  cloth;  and  scaffolds  all  the 
way.  Into  the  Hall  I  got,  where  it  was  very 
fine  with  hangings  and  scaffolds  one  upon  an- 
other full  of  brave  ladies;  and  my  wife  in  one 
little  one,  on  the  right  hand.  Here  I  stayed 
walking  up  and  down,  and  at  last,  upon  one 
of  the  side  stalls  I  stood  and  saw  the  King  come 
in  with  all  the  persons  (but  the  soldiers)  that 
were  yesterday  in  the  cavalcade;  and  a  most 
pleasant  sight  it  was  to  see  them  in  their  sev- 
eral robes.  And  the  King  come  in  with  his 
crown  on,  and  his  sceptre  in  his  hand,  under  a 

aThe  Gftrter  King-at-Arms,  head  of  the  heralds. 


canopy  borne  up  by  six  silver  staves,  carried 
by  Barons  of  the  Cinque  Ports,3  and  little  bells 
at  every  end. 

And  after  a  long  time,  he  got  up  to  the 
farther  end,  and  all  set  themselves  down  at 
their  several  tables;  and  that  was  also  a  brave 
sight:  and  the  King's  first  course  carried  up 
by  the  Knights  of  the  Bath.  And  many  fine 
ceremonies  there  was  of  the  herald's  leading 
up  people  before  him,  and  bowing;  and  my 
Lord  of  Albemarle's  going  to  the  kitchen  and 
eat  a  bit  of  the  first  dish  that  was  to  go  to 
the  King's  table.  But,  above  all,  was  these 
three  Lords,  Northumberland,  and  Suffolk,  and 
the  Duke  of  Ormond,  coming  before  the  courses 
on  horseback,  and  staying  so  all  dinner-time, 
and  at  last  to  bring  up*  [Dymock]  the  King's 
champion,  all  in  armour  on  horseback,  with  his 
spear  and  target  carried  before  him.  And  a 
herald  proclaims,  "That  if  any  dare  deny 
Charles  Stewart  to  be  lawful  King  of  England, 
here  was  a  champion  that  would  fight  with 
him ; ' '  and  with  these  words,  the  champion 
flings  down  Ms  gauntlet,  and  all  this  he  do 
three  times  in  his  going  up  towards  the  King's 
table.  At  last  when  he  is  come,  the  King 
drinks  to  him,  and  then  sends  him  the  cup, 
which  is  of  gold,  and  he  drinks  it  off,  and  then 
rides  back  again  with  the  cup  in  his  hand.  I 
went  from  table  to  table  to  see  the  bishops  and 
all  others  at  their  dinner,  and  was  infinitely 
pleased  with  it.  And  at  the  Lord 's  table,  1 
met  with  William  Howe,  and  he  spoke  to  my 
Lord  for  me,  and  he  did  give  me  four  rabbits 
and  a  pullet,  and  so  I  got  it  and  Mr.  Creed  and 
I  got  Mr.  Minshell  to  give  us  some  bread,  and  so 
we  at  a  stall  eat  it,  as  everybody  else  did  what 
they  could  get.  I  took  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  to 
go  up  and  down,  and  look  upon  the  ladies,  and 
to  hear  the  music  of  all  sorts,  but  above  all,  the 
twenty-four  violins. 

About  six  at  night  they  had  dined,  and  1 
went  up  to  my  wife.  And  strange  it  is  to 
think,  that  these  two  days  have  held  up  fair 
till  now  that  all  is  done,  and  the  King  gone 
out  of  the  Hall;  and  then  it  fell  a-raining 
and  thundering  and  lightening  as  I  have  not 
seen  it  do  for  some  years;  which  people  did 
take  great  notice  of;  God's  blessing  of  the 
work  of  these  two  days,  which  is  a  foolery  to 
take  too  much  notice  of  such  things.  I  ob- 
served little  disorder  in  all  this,  only  the  King's 
footmen  had  got  hold  of  the  canopy,  and 
would  keep  it  from  the  Barons  of  the  Cinque 

3  The  five  English  Channel  ports,  Hastings,  Sand- 

wich, Dover,  Romney,  Hythe. 

4  This  ceremony  is  no  longer  observed. 


274 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTUEY 


Ports,  which  they  endeavoured  to  force  from 
them  again,  but  could  not  do  it  till  my  Lord 
Duke  of  Albemarle  caused  it  to  be  put  into 
Sir  B.  Pye's  hand  till  to-morrow  to  be  decided. 

At  Mr.  Bowyer's;  a  great  deal  of  company, 
some  I  knew,  other  I  did  not.  Here  we  stayed 
upon  the  leads"  and  below  till  it  was  late,  ex- 
pecting to  see  the  fireworks,  but  they  were  not 
performed  to-night:  only  the  City  had  a  light 
like  a  glory  round  about  it  with  bonfires.  At 
last  I  went  to  King  Street,  and  there  sent 
Crockford  to  my  father's  and  my  house,  to 
tell  them  I  could  not  come  home  to-night,  be- 
cause of  the  dirt,  and  a  coach  could  not  be  had. 
And  so  I  took  my  wife  and  Mrs.  Frankleyn 
(who  I  proffered  the  civility  of  lying  with  my 
wife  at  Mrs.  Hunt's  to-night)  to  Axe  Yard, 
in  which  at  the  farther  end  there  were  three 
great  bonfires,  and  a  great  many  great  gallants, 
men  and  women;  and  they  laid  hold  of  us, 
and  would  have  us  drink  the  King's  health 
upon  our  knees,  kneeling  upon  a  faggot,  which 
we  all  did,  they  drinking  to  us  one  after  an- 
other: which  we  thought  a  strange  frolic;  but 
these  gallants  continued  thus  a  great  while, 
and  I  wondered  to  see  how  the  ladies  did  tip- 
ple. At  last  I  sent  my  wife  and  her  bedfellow 
to  bed,  and  Mr.  Hunt  and  I  went  in  with  Mr. 
Thornbury  (who  did  give  the  company  all  their 
wine,  he  being  yeoman  of  the  winecellar  to  the 
King)  to  his  home;  and  there,  with  his  wife  and 
two  of  his  sisters,  and  some  gallant  sparks  that 
were  there,  we  drank  the  King's  health,  and 
nothing  else,  till  one  of  the  gentlemen  fell  down 
stark  drunk,  and  there  lay;  and  I  went  to  my 
Lord's  pretty  well. 

Thus  did  the  day  end  with  joy  everywhere; 
and  blessed  be  God,  I  have  not  heard  of  any 
mischance  to  anybody  through  it  all,  but  only 
to  Serjt.  Glynne,  whose  horse  fell  upon  him 
yesterday,  and  is  like  to  kill  him,  which  people 
do  please  themselves  to  see  how  just  God  is  to 
punish  the  rogue  at  such  a  time  as  this:  he 
being  now  one  of  the  King's  Serjeants,  and 
rode  in  the  cavalcade  with  Maynard,  to  whom 
people  wish  the  same  fortune. §  There  was  also 
this  night  in  King  Street,  a  woman  had  her 
eye  put  out  by  a  boy's  flinging  a  firebrand 
into  the  coach.  Now,  after  all  this,  I  can  say 
that,  besides  the  pleasure  of  the  sight  of  these 
glorious  things,  I  may  now  shut  my  eyes 
against  any  other  objects,  nor  for  the  future 
trouble  myself  to  see  things  of  state  and  show 


r.  roof  (of  sheets  of  load) 

I  Both  these  men  had  served  Cromwell  during  the 
Protectorate,  but  unBcrnpuloiisIy  transferred 
their  allegiance  to  Charles  at  the  time  of  the 
Restoration. 


as  being  sure  never  to  see  the  like  again  in 
this  world. 

24th.  At  night,  set  myself  to  write  down 
these  three  days'  diary,  and  while  I  am  about 
it,  I  hear  the  noise  of  the  chambers,  and  other 
things  of  the  fireworks,  which  are  now  playing 
upon  the  Thames  before  the  King;  and  I  wish 
myself  with  them,  being  sorry  not  to  see  them. 


JOHN  EVELYN  (1620-1706) 

From  His  DIAEY* 
The  Restoration  of  Charles  II 

May  29, 1660.  This  day  his  Majesty  Charles  II 
came  to  London  after  a  sad  and  long  exile 
and  calamitous  suffering  both  of  the  King  and 
Church,  being  17  years.  This  was  also  his 
birth-day,  and  with  a  triumph  of  above  20,000 
horse  and  foot,  brandishing  their  swords  and 
shouting  with  inexpressible  joy;  the  ways 
strewed  with  flowers,  the  bells  ringing,  the 
streets  hung  with  tapestry,  fountains  running 
with  wine;  the  Mayor,  Aldermen,  and  all  the 
Companiesf  in  their  liveries,  chains  of  gold 
and  banners;  Lords  and  Nobles  clad  in  cloth 
of  silver,  gold,  and  velvet;  the  windows  and 
balconies  all  set  with  ladies;  trumpets,  music, 
and  myriads  of  people  flocking,  even  so  far  as 
from  Eochester,  so  as  they  were  seven  hours 
in  passing  the  City,  even  from  2  in  the  after- 
noon till  9  at  night. 

I  stood  in  the  Strand  and  beheld  it,  and 
blessed  God.  And  all  this  was  done  without 
one  drop  of  blood  shed,  and  by  that  very  army 
which  rebelled  against  him;  but  it  was  the 
Lord's  doing,  for  such  a  Eestoration. was  never 
mentioned  in  any  history,  ancient  or  modern, 
since  the  return  of  the  Jews  from  the  Babylon- 
ish captivity;  nor  so  joyful  a  day  and  so  bright 
ever  seen  in  this  nation,  this  happening  when 
to  expect  or  effect  it  was  past  all  human  policy. 

July  6,  His  Majesty  began  first  to  touch  for 
the  evil,%  according  to  custom,  thus :  his  Majesty 

*  .John  Evelyn,  "a  good  man  in  dIflScult  times." 
a  favorite  of  Charles  II.,  traveler,  and  mem- 
ber of  the  Royal  Society  of  London,  was  a 
man  of  real  culture  and  wide  intellectual  in- 
terests. His  Diary  extends  from  1640  to  1706, 
covering  a  much  longer  period  than  that  of 
Pepys.  Austin  Dobson  says  of  it :  "If  it  does 
not,  like  the  Diary  of  Pepys,  disclose  the 
inner  character  of  the  writer,  it  nevertheless 
possesses  a  distinctive  Interest.  Its  entries 
have  the  precise  value  of  veracious  statements ; 
It  Is  a  magazine — a  mine,  Scott  called  it— 
of  contemporary  memories  of  a  definite  kind." 

t  The  Livery  Companies,  or  Guilds,  established  as 
a  part  of  the  city  government  to  protect  the 
members  of  the  various  crafts. 

%  The  scrofula  was  familiarly  known  as  "the  king's 
evil,"  from  the  superstition  that  it  could  oe 
healed  by  the  royal  touch. 


JOHN  EVELYN 


275 


sitting  under  his  Statei  in  the  Banqueting- 
Hoiise,  the  chirurgeons  cause  the  sick  to  be 
brought  or  led  to  the  throne,  where  they  kneel- 
ing, the  King  strokes  their  faces  or  cheeks  with 
both  his  hands  at  once,  at  which  instant  a  chap- 
lain in  his  formalities  says,  '  He  put  his  hands 
upon  them  and  he  healed  them.'  This  is  said 
to  every  one  in  particular.  When  they  have 
been  all  touched  they  come  up  again  in  the 
same  order,  and  the  other  chaplain  kneeling, 
and  having  angel  gold-  strung  on  white  ribbon 
on  his  arm,  delivers  them  one  by  one  to  his 
Majesty,  who  puts  them  about  the  necks  of  the 
touched  as  they  pass,  whilst  the  first  chaplain 
repeats,  'That  is  the  true  light  who  came  into 
the  world.'  Then  follows  an  epistle  (as  at  first 
a  gospel)  with  the  liturgy,  prayers  for  the  sick, 
with  some  alteration,  lastly  the  blessing;  and 
then  the  Lord  Chamberlain  and  Comptroller  of 
the  Household  bring  a  basin,  ewer,  and  towel, 
for  his  Majesty  to  wash. 

Jan.  30,  1661.  Was  the  first  solemn  fast  and 
day  of  humiliation  to  deplore  the  sins  Avhich  so 
long  had  provoked  God  against  this  afflicted 
church  and  people,  ordered  by  Parliament  to  be 
annually  celebrated  to  expiate  the  guilt  of  the 
execrable  murder  of  the  late  King. 

This  day  (O  the  stupendous  and  inscrutable 
judgments  of  God!)  were  the  carcasses  of  those 
arch  rebels,  Cromwell,  Bradshaw,  the  Judge 
who  condemned  his  Majesty,  and  Ireton,  son-in- 
law  to  the  Usurper,  dragged  out  of  their  superb 
tombs  in  Westminster  among  the  Kings,  to 
Tyburn,  and  hanged  on  the  gallows  there  from 
9  in  the  morning  till  6  at  night,  and  then  buried 
under  that  fatal  and  ignominious  monument  in 
a  deep  pit;  thousands  of  people  who  had  seen 
them  in  all  their  pride  being  spectators.  Look 
back  at  October  22,  1658,  [Oliver's  funeral,] 
and  be  astonished!  and  fear  God  and  honour 
the  King;  but  meddle  not  with  them  who  are 
given  to  change! 

Nov.  11.  I  was  so  idle  as  to  go  see  a  play 
called  Love  and  Honour. — Dined  at  Arundel 
House ;  and  that  evening  discoursed  with  his 
Majesty  about  shipping,  in  which  he  was  ex- 
ceeding skilful. 

26.  I  saw  Hamlet,  Prince  of  BenmarTc,  played, 
but  now  the  old  plays  began  to  disgust  this 
refined  age,  since  his  Majesty's  being  so  long 
abroad. 

Dec.  14.  I  saw  otter  lumting  with  the  King, 
and  killed  one. 

23.  I  heard  an  Italian  play  and  sing  to  the 
guitar  with  extraordinary  skill  before  the  Duke. 

Jan.    6,    1662.      This    evening,    according    to 

1  canopy  of  state 

2  standard,  or  "guinea"  gold  (bearing  the  figure  of 

an  angel) 


custom,  his  Majesty  opened  the  revels  of  that 
night  by  throwing  the  dice  himself  in  the  privy 
chamber,  where  was  a  table  set  on  purpose,  and 
lost  his  £100.  (The  year  before  he  won  £1,500.) 
The  ladies  also  played  very  deep.  I  came  away 
when  the  Duke  of  Ormond  had  won  about  £1,000, 
and  left  them  still  at  pa^sage,^  cards,  etc.  At 
other  tables,  both  there  and  at  the  Groom- 
porter's,*  observing  the  wicked  folly  and  mon- 
strous excess  of  passion  amongst  some  losers; 
sorry  I  am  that  such  a  wretched  custom  as  play 
to  that  excess  should  be  countenanced  in  a  Court 
which  ought  to  be  an  example  of  virtue  to  the 
rest  of  the  kingdom. 

The  Great  Plague 

Aug.  2,  1665.  A  solemn  fast  thro'  England 
to  deprecate  God's  displeasure  against  the  land 
by  pestilence  and  war;  our  Doctor  preaching 
on  26  Levit,  41,  42,  that  the  means  to  obtain 
remission  of  punishment  was  not  to  repine  at  it, 
but  humbly  submit  to  it. 

28.  The  contagion  still  increasing  and  grow- 
ing now  all  about  us,  I  sent  my  wife  and  whole 
family  (two  or  three  necessary  servants  ex- 
cepted) to  my  brother's  at  Wotton,  being  re- 
solved to  stay  at  my  house  myself  and  to  look 
after  my  charge,  trusting  in  the  providence  and 
goodness  of  God. 

Hept.  7.  Came  home,  there  perishing  near 
10,000  poor  creatures  weekly;  however,  I  went 
all  along  the  City  and  suburbs  from  Kent  Street 
to  St.  James's,  a  dismal  passage,  and  dangerous 
to  see  so  many  coffins  exposed  in  the  streets, 
now  thin  of  people;  the  shops  shut  up,  and  all 
in  mournful  silence,  as  not  knowing  whose  turn 
might  be  next.  I  went  to  the  Duke  of  Albe- 
marle for  a  pest-ship,  to  wait  on  our  infected 
men,  who  were  not  a  few. 

Dec.  31.  Now  blessed  be  God  for  his  extraordi- 
nary mercies  and  preservation  of  me  this  year, 
when  thousands  and  ten  thousands  perished  and 
were  swept  away  on  each  side  of  me,  there  dying 
in  our  parish  this  year  406  of  the  pestilence! 

The  Great  Fire 

Sept.  2,  1666.  This  fatal  night  about  ten, 
began  that  deplorable  fire  near  Fish  Street  in 
London. 

3.  I  had  public  prayers  at  home.  The  fire 
continuing,  after  dinner  I  took  coach  with  my 
wife  and  son,  and  went  to  the  Bankside  in 
Southwark,  where  we  beheld  the  dismal  spec- 
tacle, the  whole  City  in  dreadful  flames  near 
the  water  side;  all  the  houses  from  the  Bridge, 
all  Thames  Street,  and  upwards  towards  Cheap- 
side,  down  to  the  Three  Cranes,  Avere  now  con- 

3  A  game  of  dice. 

4  The  royal  director  of  games. 


276 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY 


sumed:    and  so  returned  exceeding  astonished 
what  would  become  of  the  rest. 

The  fire  having  continued  all  this  night  (if 
I  may  call  that  night  which  was  light  as  day  for 
ten  miles  round  about,  after  a  dreadful  manner) 
when  conspiring  with  a  fierce  Eastern  wind  in  a 
very  dry  season;  I  went  on  foot  to  the  same 
place,  and  saw  the  whole  South  part  of  the  City 
burning  from  Cheapside  to  the  Thames,  and  all 
along  Cornhill  (for  it  likewise  kindled  back 
against  the  wind  as  well  as  forward).  Tower 
Street,  Fenchurch  Street,  Gracious  Street,  and 
so  along  to  Baynard's  Castle,  and  was  now 
taking  hold  of  St.  Paul's  Church,  to  which  the 
scaffolds  contributed  exceedingly.  The  confla- 
gration was  so  universal,  and  the  people  so 
astonished,  that  from  the  beginning,  I  know  not 
by  what  despondency  or  fate,  they  hardly  stirred 
to  quench  it,  so  that  there  was  nothing  heard  or 
seen  but  crying  out  and  lamentation,  running 
about  like  distracted  creatures,  without  at  all 
attempting  to  save  even  their  goods;  such  a 
strange  consternation  there  was  upon  them,  so 
as  it  burned  both  in  breadth  and  length,  the 
Churches,  Public  Halls,  Exchange,  Hospitals, 
Monuments,  and  ornaments,  leaping  after  a  pro- 
digious manner  from  house  to  house  and  street 
to  street,  at  great  distances  one  from  the  other ; 
for  the  heat  with  a  long  set  of  fair  and  warm 
weather  had  even  ignited  the  air  and  prepared 
the  materials  to  conceive  the  fire,  which  de- 
voured after  an  incredible  manner  houses,  furni- 
ture, and  everything.  Here  we  saw  the  Thames 
covered  with  goods  floating,  all  the  barges  and 
boats  laden  with  what  some  had  time  and  cour- 
age to  save,  as,  on  the  other  side,  the  carts,  etc., 
carrying  out  to  the  fields,  which  for  many  miles 
were  strewed  with  movables  of  all  sorts,  and 
tents  erecting  to  shelter  both  people  and  what 
goods  they  could  get  away.  Oh,  the  miserable 
and  calamitous  spectacle!  such  as  haply  the 
world  had  not  seen  the  like  since  the  founda- 
tion of  it,  nor  be  outdone,  till  the  universal 
conflagration  of  it.  All  the  sky  was  of  a  fiery 
aspect,  like  the  top  of  a  burning  oven,  and  the 
light  seen  above  40  miles  round  about  for  many 
nights.  God  grant  mine  eyes  may  never  behold 
the  like,  who  now  saw  above  10,000  houses  all  in 
one  flame ;  the  noise  and  cracking  and  thunder  of 
the  impetuous  flames,  and  shrieking  of  women 
and  children,  the  hurry  of  people,  the  fall  of 
towers,  houses  and  churches,  was  like  an  hideous 
storm,  and  the  air  all  about  so  hot  and  inflamed 
that  at  the  last  one  was  not  able  to  approach  it, 
so  that  they  were  forced  to  stand  still  and  let 
the  flames  burn  on,  which  they  did  for  near  two 
miles  in  length  and  one  in  breadth.  The  clouds, 
also,  of  smoke  were  dismal,  and  reached,  upon 


computation,  near  50  miles  in  length.  Thus  I 
left  it  this  afternoon  burning,  a  resemblance  of 
Sodom,  or  the  last  day.  It  forcibly  called  to  my 
mind  that  passage — non  enim  hie  habemus  sta- 
bilem  civitatevi:^  the  ruins  resembling  the  pic- 
ture of  Troy.  London  was,  but  is  no  more. 
Thus  I  returned  home. 

The  Death  of  Cowley 

Aug.  1,  1667.  I  received  the  sad  news  of 
Abraham  Cowley's  death,  that  incomparable 
poet  and  virtuous  man,  my  very  dear  friend, 
and  was  greatly  deplored. 

3.  Went  to  Mr.  Cowley 's  funeral,  whose  corpse 
lay  at  Wallingford  House,  and  was  thence  con- 
veyed to  Westminster  Abbey  in  a  hearse  with 
six  horses  and  all  funeral  decency,  near  an  hun- 
dred coaches  of  noblemen  and  persons  of  quality 
following;  among  these  all  the  wits2  of  the 
town,  divers  bishops  and  clergymen.  He  was 
interred  next  Geoffrey  Chaucer  and  near  to 
Spenser.  A  goodly  monument  has  been  since 
erected  to  his  memory. 

Popular  Pastimes 

June  16,  1670.  I  went  with  some  friends  to 
the  Bear  Garden,  where  was  cock-fighting,  dog- 
fighting,  bear  and  bull  baiting,  it  being  a  famous 
day  for  all  these  butcherly  sports,  or  rather  bar- 
barous cruelties.  The  bulls  did  exceeding  well, 
but  the  Irish  wolf-dog  exceeded,  which  was  a 
tall  greyhound,  a  stately  creature  indeed,  who 
beat  a  cruel  mastiff.  One  of  the  bulls  tossed  a 
dog  full  into  a  lady's  lap,  as  she  sate  in  one  of 
the  boxes  at  a  considerable  height  from  the 
arena.  Two  poor  dogs  were  killed,  and  so  all 
ended  with  the  ape  on  horseback,  and  I  most 
heartily  weary  of  the  rude  and  dirty  pastime, 
which  I  had  not  seen,  I  think,  in  twenty  years 
before. 

The  Death  of  Chaeles  II 

Feb.  4,  1685.  I  went  to  London,  hearing  his 
Majesty  had  been  the  Monday  before  (2  Feb.) 
surprised  in  his  bed-chamber  with  an  apoplectic 
fit.  On  Thursday  hopes  of  recovery  were  signi- 
fied in  the  public  Gazette,  but  that  day,  about 
noon,  the  physicians  thought  him  feverish.  He 
passed  Thursday  night  with  great  difficulty, 
when  complaining  of  a  pain  in  his  side,  thoy 
drew  two  ounces  more  of  blood  from  him;  this 
was  by  6  in  the  morning  on  Friday,  and  it  gave 
him  relief,  but  it  did  not  continue,  for  being 
now  in  much  pain,  and  struggling  for  breath,  he 
lay  dozing,  and  after  some  conflicts,  the  physi- 
cians despairing  of  him,  he  gave  up  the  ghost 
at  half  an  hour  after  eleven  in  the  morning, 

1  "For  wp  have  no  abiding  city." 

2  men  of  culture 


JOHN  DRYDEN 


277 


being  6  Feb.  IG80,  in  the  36tli  year  of  his  reign, 
and  54th  of  his  age. 

Thus  died  King  Charles  II,  of  a  vigorous  a«d 
robust  constitution,  and  in  all  ap{>earance  prom- 
ising a  long  life.  He  was  a  Prince  of  many 
virtues,  and  many  great  imperfections;  debo- 
nair, easy  of  access,  not  bloody  nor  cruel;  his 
countenance  fierce,  his  voice  great,  proj)er  of 
person,  every  motion  became  him ;  a  lover  of  the 
sea,  and  skilful  in  shipping;  not  affecting  other 
studies,  yet  he  had  a  laboratory  and  knew  of 
many  empiricals  medicines,  and  the  easier  nie- 
clianical  mathematics;  he  loved  planting  and 
building,  and  brought  in  a  politer  way  of  living, 
which  passed  to  luxury  and  intolerable  expense. 
He  had  a  particular  talent  in  telling  a  story, 
and  facetious  passages,  of  which  he  had  in- 
numerable; this  made  some  buffoons  and  vicious 
wretches  too  presumptuous  and  familiar,  not 
worthy  the  favour  they  abused.  He  took  delight 
in  ha\ing  a  number  of  little  spaniels  follow  him 
and  lie  in  his  bed-chamber.    .    .    . 

Certainly  never  had  King  more  glorious  oppor- 
tunities to  have  made  himself,  his  people,  and 
all  Europe  happy,  and  prevented  innumerable 
mischiefs,  had  not  his  too  easy  nature  resigned 
him  to  be  managed  by  crafty  men,  and  some 
abandoned  and  profane  wretches  who  corrupted 
his  otherwise  sufficient  parts,  disciplined  as  he 
had  been  by  many  afflictions  during  his  banish- 
ment, which  gave  him  much  experience  and 
knowledge  of  men  and  things ;  but  those  wicked 
creatures  took  him  off  from  all  application  be- 
coming so  great  a  King.  The  history  of  his 
reign  will  certainly  be  the  most  wonderful  for 
the  variety  of  matter  and  accidents,  above  any 
extant  in  former  ages:  the  sad  tragical  death 
of  his  father,  his  banishment  and  hardships,  his 
miraculous  restoration,  conspiracies  against  him, 
parliaments,  wars,  plagues,  fires,  comets,  revolu- 
tions abroad  happening  in  his  time,  with  a  thou- 
sand other  particulars.  He  was  ever  kind  to  me. 
and  very  gracious  upon  all  occasions,  and  there- 
fore I  cannot,  without  ingratitude,  but  deplore 
his  loss,  which  for  many  respects,  as  well  as 
duty.  T  do  with  all  my  soul.    .    .    . 

I  can  never  forget  the  inexpressible  luxury 
and  profaneness,  gaming  and  all  dissoluteness, 
and  as  it  were  total  forgetfulness  of  God  (it 
being  Sunday  evening)  which  this  day  se  'nnight 
I  was  witness  of,  the  King  sitting  and  toying 
with  his  concubines,  Portsmouth,  Cleaveland,  and 
Mazarine,  etc.,  a  French  boy  singing  love  songs, 
in  that  glorious  gallery,  whilst  about  twenty  of 
the  great  courtiers  and  other  dissolute  persons 
were  at  Basset*  round  a  large  table,  a  bank  of 

3  Approved  by  unscientific  observation. 
*  A  game  at  cards. 


at  least  2,000  in  gold  before  them;  upon  wJiich 
two  gentlemen  who  were  with  me  made  reflec- 
tions with  astonishment.  Six  days  after  was  all 
in  the  dust ! 


JOHN  DRYDEN  (1631-1700) 

From   ABSALOM   AND   ACHITOPHEL* 

The  inhabitants  of  old  Jerusalem^ 
Were    Jebusites;-    the    town    so    called    from 

them, 
And  theirs  the  native  right. 
But  when  the  chosen  people^  grew  more  strong, 
The  rightful  cause  at  length  became  the  wrong; 
And  every  loss  the  men  of  Jebus  bore,         90 
They    still    were    thought    God's    enemies    the 

more. 
Thus  worn  and  weakened,  well  or  ill  content, 
Submit   they  must  to   David's*   government: 
Impoverished  and  deprived  of  all  connnand, 
Their  taxes  doubled  as  they  lost  their  land; 
And,  what  was  harder  yet  to  flesh  and  blood. 
Their  gods  disgraced,  and  burnt  like  common 

wood. 
This  set  the  heathen  priesthood  in  a  flame, 
For  priests  of  all  religions  are  the  same. 
Of  whatso'er  descent  their  godhead  be,         100 
Stock,  stone,  or  other  homely  pedigree. 
In  his  defence  his  servants  are  as  bold, 
As  if  he  had  been  born  of  beaten  gold. 
The  Jewish  Kabbins,^  though  their  enemies, 
In   this   conclude  them   honest   men   and   wise: 
For   'twas  their  duty,  all  the  learned  think. 
To   espouse  his  cause  by  whom   they  eat  and 

drink. 
From    hence    began    that    Plot,«    the    nation's 

curse. 
Bad  in  itself,  but  represented  worse,  109 

Baised  in  extremes,  and  in  extremes  decried, 
With  oaths  aflBrmed,  with  dying  vows  denied, 

1  London.  *  Charles  II. 

2  Roman   Catliolics.  o  Uignitarics     of     the 

3  Used  ironically  of  the  Church  of  England. 

Puritans.  6  The   Popish   IMot. 

♦  This,  the  first  of  Dryden's  satires,  was  directed 
against  the  Earl  of  Shaftesbury  (Aehitophel) 
and  the  opponents  of  the  court.  The  strong 
excitement  aroused  by  the  "Popish  Plot,"  an 
alleged  attempt  to  strengthen  Roman  Catholic 
power  in  England  by  the  murder  of  Charles 
II.,  had  impelled  Shaftesbury,  a  Whig,  to  en- 
deavor to  secure  the  succession  to  the  Prot- 
estant Duke  of  Monmouth  (Absalom),  thus 
preventing  the  Catholic  Dnlte  of  York  from 
ascending  the  throne.  Charles  II..  who  was 
secretiv  a  Catholic,  and  was  receiving  aid 
from  France,  waited  a  favorable  moment ; 
then,  aided  by  the  Tories,  lie  recalled  his 
brother,  the  Duke  of  York,  and  threw 
Shaftesbury  into  prison  on  the  charge  of  high 
treason.  The  poem  appeared  November  17. 
1681.  Shaftesbury's  case  was  to  come  up 
November  24. 


278 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY 


Not  weighed  or  winnowed  by  the  multitude, 
But    swallowed    in    the    mass,    unchewed    and 

crude. 
Some  truth  there  was,  but  dashed  and  brewed 

with  lies 
To  please  the  fools  and  puzzle  all  the  wise: 
Succeeding  times  did  equal  folly  call 
Believing  nothing  or  believing  all. 
The  Egyptian^  rites  the  Jebusites  embraced, 
Where  gods  were  recommended  by  their  taste; 
Such  savoury  deities  must  needs  be  good       l-O 
As  served  at  once  for  worship  and  for  food.* 
By  force  they  could  not  introduce  these  gods. 
For  ten  to  one  in  former  days  was  odds: 
So  fraud  was  used,  the  sacrificer's  trade; 
Fools  are  more  hard  to  conquer  than  persuade. 
Their  busy  teachers  mingled  with  the  Jews 
And    raked   for    converts    even   the   court   and 

stews : 
Which  Hebrew  priests  the  more  unkindly  took. 
Because  the  fleece  accompanies  the  flock. 
Some  thought   they  God's   anointed  meant   to 
slay  130 

By  guns,  invented  since  full  many  a  day: 
Our  author  swears  it  not;  but  who  can  know 
How  far  the  Devil  and  Jebusites  may  go? 
This  plot,  which  failed  for  want   of  common 

sense, 
Had  yet  a  deep  and  dangerous  consequence; 
I'or  as,  when  raging  fevers  boil  the  blood, 
The  standing  lake  soon  floats  into  a  flood, 
And  every  hostile  humour  which  before 
Slept  quiet  in  its  channels  bubbles  o'er; 
So  several  factions  from  this  first  ferment    HO 
Work  up  to  foam  and  threat  the  government. 
Some    by    their    friends,    more    by    themselves 

thought  wise, 
Opposed  the  power  to  which  they  could  not  rise. 
Some  had   in   courts  been   great   and,   thrown 

from  thence, 
Like  fiends  were  hardened  in  impenitence. 
Some  by  their  Monarch's  fatal  mercy  grown 
From  pardoned  rebels  kinsmen  to  the  throne 
Were  raised  in  power  and  public  office  high ; 
Strong  bands,  if  bands  ungrateful  men  could 

tie. 
Of  these  the  false  Achitophel  was  first,         150 
A  name  to  all  succeeding  ages  curst: 
For  close  designs  and  crooked  counsels  fit. 
Sagacious,  bold,  and  turbulent  of  wit, 
Restless,  unfixed  in  principles  and  place, 
In  power  unpleased,  impatient  of  disgrace; 
A  fiery  soul,  which  working  out  its  way, 
Fretted  the  pigmy  body  to  decay 


7  Frencb. 

8  A  reference  to  the  doctrine  of  transubstantlatlon. 


And  0 'er-informedo  the  tenement  of  clay.  * 

A  daring  pilot  in  extremity. 
Pleased  with  the  danger,  when  the  waves  went 
high,  160 

He  sought  the  storms;  but,  for  a  calm  unfit. 
Would  steer  too  nigh  the  sands  to  boast  his  wit. 
Great  wits  are  sure  to  madness  near  allied 
And  thin  partitions  do  their  bounds  divide; 
Else,  why  should  he,  with  wealth  and  honour 

blest, 
Refuse  his  age  the  needful  hours  of  rest? 
Punish  a  body  which  he  could  not  please. 
Bankrupt  of  life,  yet  prodigal  of  ease? 
And  all  to  leave  what  with  his  toil  he  won 
To  that  unfeathered  two-legged  thing,  a  son. 
Got  while  his  soul  did  huddled  notions  try,         171 
And  born  a  shapeless  lump,  like  anarchy.io 
In  friendship  false,  implacable  in  hate. 
Resolved  to  ruin  or  to  rule  the  state; 
To  compass  this  the  triple  bondu  he  broke, 
The  pillars  of  the  public  safety  shook. 
And  fitted  Israelis  for  a  foreign  yoke;i3 
Then,  seized  with  fear,  yet  still  affecting  fame. 
Usurped  a  patriot's  all-atoning  name. 
So  easy  still  it  proves  in  factious  times  180 

AVith  public  zeal  to  cancel  private  crimes. 
How  safe  is  treason  and  how  sacred  ill, 
Where  none  can  sin  against  the  people 's  will, 
Where    crowds   can   wink    and    no    offence    be 

known. 
Since  in  another's  guilt  they  find  their  own! 
Yet  fame  deserved  no  enemy  can  grudge; 
The  statesman  we  abhor,  but  praise  the  judge. 
In  Israel's  court  ne'er  sat  an  Abbethdini* 
With  more  discerning  eyes  or  hands  more  clean, 
Unbribed,  unsought,  the  wretched  to  redress, 
Swift  of  despatch  and  easy  of  access.  191 

Oh!  had  he  been  content  to  ser\-e  the  crown 
With  virtues  only  proper  to  the  gown. 
Or  had  the  rankness  of  the  soil  been  freed 
From  cockle  that  oppressed  the  noble  seed, 
David  for  him  his  tuneful  harp  had  strung 
And  Heaven  had  wantedis  one  immortal  song. 
But  wild  ambition  loves  to  slide,  not  stand, 
And  Fortune's  ice  prefers  to  Virtue's  land. 
Achitophel,  grown  weary  to  possess  200 

A  lawful  fame  and  lazy  happiness. 
Disdained  the  golden  fruit  to  gather  free 
And  lent  the  crowd  his  arm  to  shake  the  tree. 


9  filled  to  excess 

10  Shaftesbury's  son  wa-j  a  weakling. 

11  The  alliance  of  England,  Holland,  and  Swoden. 

broken  by  the  alliance  in  1670  of  England  and 
France   against   Holland. 

12  England. 

13  That  of  France.  „.    ^     . 

14  Chief  Judge  of   the  .Tewish   court    (Shaftesbury 

had  been  Lord  Chancellor  in  1672-3). 

15  lacked  (Diyden  is  referring  to  his  own  poem) 


JOHN  DRYDEN 


279 


Now,  manifest  of  crimes  contrived  long  since, 
He  stood  at  bold  defiance  with  his  Prince, 
Held  up  the  buckler  of  the  people's  cause 
Against  the  crown,  and  skulked  behind  the  laws. 
The  wished  occasion  of  the  Plot  he  takes; 
Some  circumstances  finds,  but  more  he  makes; 
By  buzzing  emissaries  fills  the  ears  210 

Of  listening  crowds  with  jealousies  and  fears 
Of  arbitrary  counsels  brought  to  light, 
And  proves  the  King  himself  a  Jebusite. 
Weak  arguments!   which  yet  he  knew  full  well 
Were  strong  with  people  easy  to  rebel. 
For  governed  by  the  moon,  the  giddy  Jews 
Tread  the  same  track  when  she  the  prime  re- 
news : 
And  once  in  twenty  years,  their  scribes  record, 
By  natural  instinct  they  change  their  lord. 
Achitophel  still  wants  a  chief,  and  none         220 
Was  found  so  fit  as  warlike  Absalon. 
Not  that  he  wished  his  greatness  to  create, 
For  politicians  neither  love  nor  hate: 
But,  for  he  knew  his  title  not  allowed 
Would  keep  him  still  depending  on  the  crowd, 
That  kingly  power,  thus  ebbing  out,  might  be 
Drawn  to  the  dregs  of  a  democracy. 
Him  he  attempts  with  studied  arts  to  please 
And  sheds  his  venom  in  such  -words  as  these: 

He  said,  and  this  adviceis  above  the  rest 
With  Absalom  's  mild  nature  suited  best ; 
Unblamed  of  life  (ambition  set  aside), 
Not    stained    with    cruelty    nor    puflfed    with 
pride,  *80 

How  happy  had  he  been,  if  Destiny 
Had  higher  placed  his  birth  or  not  so  high! 
His  kingly  virtues  might  have  claimed  a  throne 
And  blessed  all  other  countries  but  his  own; 
But  charming   greatness  since  so   few   refuse, 
'Tis  juster  to  lament  him  than  accuse. 
Strong  were  his  hopes  a  rival  to  remove. 
With  blandishments  to  gain  the  public  love, 
To  head  the  faction  while  their  zeal  was  hot, 
And  popularly  prosecute  the  plot.  •ISO 

To  further  this,  Achitophel  unites 
The  malcontents  of  all  the  Israelites, 
Whose  differing  parties  he  could  wisely  join 
For  several  ends  to  serve  the  same  design; 
The  best,  (and  of  the  princes  some  were  such,) 
Who  thought  the  power  of  monarchy  too  much ; 
Mistaken  men  and  patriots  in  their  hearts. 
Not  wicked,  but  seduced  by  impious  arts; 
By  these  the  springs  of  property  were  bent 
And  wound  so  high  they  cracked  the  govern- 
ment. •'500 


16  Achitophel  has  been  urging  Absalom  to  advance 
his  cause  by  securing  possession  of  the  person 
of  the  king. 


The   next  for  interest  sought  to   embroil  the 

state 
To  sell  their  duty  at  a  dearer  rate, 
And  make  their  Jewish  markets  of  the  throne; 
Pretending  public  good  to  serve  their  own. 
Others  thought  kings  an  useless  heavy  load, 
Who  cost  too  much  and  did  too  little  good. 
These  were  for  laying  honest  David  by 
On   principles   of   pure   good    husbandry. 
With    them  joined   all   the   haranguers   of   the 

throng 
That  thought  to  get  preferment  by  the  tongue. 
Who  follow  next  a  double  danger  bring,       511 
Not  only  hating  David,  but  the  King; 
The  Solymsean  rout,i'^  well  versed  of  old 
In  godly  faction  and  in  treason  bold. 
Cowering  and  quaking  at  a  conqueror's  sword, 
But  lofty  to  a  lawful  prince  restored. 
Saw  with  disdain  an  Ethnici^  plot  begun 
And  scorned  by  Jebusites  to  be  outdone. 
Hot  Levitesi9  headed  these;  who  pulled  before 
From    the    ark,    which   in    the   Judges'    days-c 
they  bore,  520 

Resumed  their  cantj  and  with  a  zealous  cry 
Pursued  their  old  beloved  theocracy, 
Where    Sanhedrin     and     priest     enslaved     the 

nation 
And  justified  their  spoils  by  inspiration; 
For  who  so  fit  for  reign  as  Aaron's  race. 
If  once  dominion  they  could  found  in  grace? 
These  led  the  pack;  though  not  of  surest  scent, 
Yet  deepest  mouthed  against  the  government. 
A  numerous  host  of  dreaming  saints  succeed 
Of  the  true  old  enthusiastic  breed:  530 

'Gainst  form  and  order  they  their  power  em- 
ploy. 
Nothing  to  build  and  all  things  to  destroy. 
But  far  more  numerous  was  the  herd  of  such 
Who  think  too  little  and  who  talk  too  much. 
These  out  of  mere  instinct,  they  knew  not  why, 
Adored  their  fathers'  God  and  property, 
And  by  the  same  blind  benefit  of  Fate 
The  Devil  and  the  Jebusite  did  hate: 
Born  to  be  saved  even  in  their  own  despite, 
Because  they  could  not  help  believing  right.      540 
Such  were  the  tools;  but  a  whole  Hydra  more 
Remains  of  sprouting  heads  too  long  to  score. 
Some  of  their  chiefs  were  princes  of  the  land; 
I  In  the  first  rank  of  these  did  Zimri2i  stand, 

populace     (Jerusalem  =  Hieroso- 


17  The     London 
lyma). 

18  Gentile   (i.  e.,  the  Popish  Plot). 

19  Presbyterian    ministers   deprived   of   their   oflSce 

by  the  act  of  Uniformity. 

20  The  days  of  the  Commonwealth,  when   (1.  .">23) 

the  clergy  were  unusually  prominent  in  affairs 
of  state. 

21  The  Duke  of  Buckingham,  favorite,  and  former 

minister,    of    Charles    II.      He    had    ridiculed 
Dryden. 


280 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY 


A  man  so  various  that  be  seemed  to  be 
Not  one,  but  all  mankind 's  epitome : 
Stiff  in  opinions,  always  in  the  wrong, 
Was  everything  by  starts  and  nothing  long; 
But  in  the  course  of  one  revolving  moon 
Was  chemist,   fiddler,   statesman,  and   buffoon ; 
Then  all  for  women,  painting,  rhyming,  drink- 
ing, 551 
Besides  ten  thousand  freaks  that  died  in  think- 
ing. 
Blest  madman,  who  could  every  hour  employ 
With  something  new  to  wish  or  to  enjoy! 
Eailing  and  jjraising  were  his  usual  themes. 
And  both,  to  show  his  judgment,  in  extremes: 
So  over  violent  or  over  civil 
That  every  man  with  him  was  God  or  Devil, 
In  squandering  wealth  was  his  peculiar  art; 
Nothing  went  unrewarded  but  desert.  560 
Beggared    by    fools   whom   still   he   found   too 

late. 
He  had  his  jest,  and  they  had  his  estate. 
He  laughed  himself  from  Court;   then  sought 

relief 
By  forming  parties,  but  could  ne'er  be  chief: 
For  spite  of  him,  the  weight  of  business  fell 
On  Absalom  and  wise  Achitophel; 
Thus  wicked  but  in  Avill,  of  means  bereft. 
He  left  not  faction,  but  of  that  was  left. 

MAC  FLECKNOE.* 

All  human  things  are  subject  to  decay 

And,  when  Fate  summons,  monarchs  must  obey. 

This    Flecknoe    found,    who,    like    Augustus,i 

young 
Was  called  to  empire  and  had  governed  long. 
In  prose  and  verse  was  owned  without  dispute 
Through  all  the  realms  of  Nonsense  absolute. 
This  aged  prince,  now  flourishing  in  peace 
And  blest  witli  issue  of  a  large  increase, 
Worn  out  with  business,  did  at  length  debate 
To  settle  the  succession  of  the  state;  10 

And  pondering  which  of  all  his  sons  was  fit 
To  reign  and  wage  immortal  war  with  wit. 
Cried,  "   'Tis  resolved,  for  Nature  pleads  that 

he 
Should  only  rule  who  most  resembles  me. 
Shadwell  alone  my  perfect  image  bears, 
Mature  in  dulncss  from  his  tender  years; 
Sliadwell  alone  of  all  my  sons  is  he 
Who  stands  confirmed  in  full  stupidity. 

1  Siicrr88or  of  Caosar  iit  Mic  jitri-  <»f  ol^'lilocn,  ami 
virtual  I'lnpiTor  al   thirly-two. 

•  "Son  of  Flecknoe."  Mr.vrlen  Is  sallrl/.lnj;  'riioinas 
Shadwell.  a  rival  drama!  is)  and  jtersonnl 
eneniv.  I>v  making  him  tlio  son  of  a  very  dull 
poet.  "I'leeknoe,  who  had  died  several  years  be- 
fore tlie  date  of  this  poem  (1«8'2)  at  an  ad- 
vanced age. 


The  rest  to  some  faint  meaning  make  pretence, 
But  Shadwell  never  deviates  into  sense.  20 

Some  beams  of  wit  on  other  souls  may  fall, 
Strike  through  and  make  a  lucid  interval; 
But   Shadwell's  genuine   night   admits   no  ray, 
His  rising  fogs  prevail  upon  the  day. 
Besides,  his  goodly  fabric-  fills  the  eye 
And  seems  designed  for  thoughtless  majesty, 
Thoughtless    as   monarch   oaks   tliat   shade   the 

plain 
And,  spread  in  solemn  state,  supinely  reign. 
Heywood  and  Shirleys  were  but  types  of  thee. 
Thou  last  great  prophet  of  tautology.  30 

Even  I,  a  dunce  of  more  renown  than  they, 
Was  sent  before  but  to  prepare  thy  way. 
And  coarsely  clad  in  Norwich   drugget*   came 
To  teach  the  nations  in  thy  greater  name. 
My  warbling  lute,  tlie  lute  I  whilom  strung, 
When  to  King  John  of  Portugal^  I  sung. 
Was  but  the  prelude  to  that  glorious  day, 
When  thou  on  silver  Thames  didst  cut  thy  way, 
With  well-timed  oars  before  the  royal  barge, 
Swelled  with  the  pride  of  thy  celestial  charge,« 
And,  big  Avith  hymn,  commander  of  an  host;  41 
The  like  was  ne'er  in  Epsom  blankets  tost.^ 
Methinks  I  see  the  new  Arions  sail. 
The  lute  still  trembling  underneath  thy  nail. 
At    thy    well-sharpened    thumb    from    shore    to 

shore 
The  treble  squeaks  for  fear,  the  basses  roar; 
Echoes   from  Private-alley  Shadwell  call. 
And  Shadwell  they  resound  from  Aston-hall. 
About  thy  boat  the  little  fishes  throng, 
As  at  the  morning  toast  that  floats  along.     r.O 
Sometimes,  as  prince  of  thy  harmonious  band. 
Thou  wieldst  thy  papers  in  thy  threshing  hand. 
St.  Andre's"  feet  ne'er  kept  more  equal  time,  ! 
Not  even  the  feet  of  thy  own  "  Psyche 's  "i>*  ! 

rhyme : 
Though  they  in  number  as  in  sense  excel,  | 

So  just,  so  like  tautology,  they  fell,  | 

That,  pale  with  envy,  Singleton^  forswore        \ 
The  lute  and  sword  which  he  in  triumph  bore, 
And    vowed    he    ne'er    would    act    Villeriu8>^ 


2  Shadwell  was  a  corpu- 

lent man. 

3  Two    17th    century 

dramatists. 

4  rough  woollen  cloth 

5  Klecknoe    had    visited 

the  court  of  l.lsUon. 

6  The    precise    weaslon 

of  this  has  not 
heen  traced,  hut 
Shadwell  Is  known 
to  have  heen  pro- 
ficient   In    music. 

7  A     familiar     form     of 

punishment,  with 
an   allusion    to   the 


title   of    Shadwell's 
play  Ki)Kom    Wcllx. 

8  A     (irccian     musician 
who,    when    thrown  i 
Into    the    s(>a,    was 
saved    by    the    dol- 
phins. . 

0  A    French    d  a  n  c  1  n  j:  i 
nuister. 

HI  An    opera    I>y    Shad  i 
well. 

1 1  .\    shm<r. 

I -■The  principal  char 
acter  In  one  of 
Davenant's  plays. 


JOHN  DRYDEX 


281 


Here  stopped  the  good  old  sire  and  wept  for 

joy, 
In  silent  raptures  of  the  hopeful  boy. 
All  arguments,  but  most  his  plays,  persuade 
That  for  anointed  dulness  he  was  made. 

Close  to  the  walls  which  fair  Augusta' '^  bind, 
(The  fair  Augusta  much  to  fearsn   inclined,) 
An  ancient  fabric  raise<l  to  inform  the  sight 
There  stood  of  yore,  and  Barbican  it  hight ; 
A  watch-tower  once,  but  now,  so  fate  ordains, 
Of  all  the  pile  an  empty  name  remains; 

Near  these  a  Nursery i^  erects  its  head  "H 

Where  queens  are   formed  and   future  heroes 

bred, 
Where  unfledged  actors  learn  to  laugh  and  cry. 
Where  infant  trulls  their  tender  voices  try. 
And  little  Maximingis  the  gods  defy. 
Great  Fletcheri^  never  treads  in  buskinsis  here. 
Nor  greater  Jonson  dares  in  socksis  appear;  80 
But   gentle  Simkin  just  reception  finds 
Amidst  this  monument  of  vanished  minds; 
Pure  clinches20  the  suburbian  muse  affords 
And  Panton  waging  harmless  war  with  words. 
Here  Flecknoe,  as  a  place  to  fame  well  known, 
Ambitiously  designed  his  Shadwell's  throne. 
For  ancient  Dekker  prophesied  long  since 
That  in  this  pile  should  reign  a  mighty  prince, 
Born  for  a  scourge  of  wit  and  flail  of  sense. 
To    whom    true    dulness    should    some    "  Psy- 
ches "lo  owe,  90 
But    worlds    of    "Misers "21    from    his    pen 

should  flow; 
"  Humorists  "21  and  Hypocrites  it  should  pro- 
duce. 
Whole  Raymond  families  and  tribes  of  Bruce.22 
Now   empress   Fame   had   published   the   re- 
nown 
Of  Shadwell  's  coronation  through  the  town. 
Roused  by  report  of  fame,  the  nations  meet 
From  near  Bunhill  and  distant  Watling-street. 
No  Persian  carpets  spread  the  imperial  way. 
But  scattered  limbs  of  mangled  poets  lay; 
From  dusty  shops  neglected  authors  come,     100 


13  London.  is  High-heeled     shoes 

14  Of  Popish  and  other  worn  by  tragic  act- 

plots,  ors,     hence     "trag- 

15  A  school  for  training  edy." 

boys    and    girls    to       i9  Low    shoes    worn    by 
the  stage.  comic  actors,  hence 

10  A    character,    in    one  "comedy" 

of    Dryden's    o  w  n       20  puns 
early   "  plays,     who      21  A    play  by   Shadwell. 
defies  the  gods.  22  Characters     in     his 

plays. 

17  Fletcher.  .Tonson.  and  Dekker  were  prominent 
dramatists  contpmporary  with  and  lator  than 
Shakospeare.  Simkin  was  "a  stupid  clown" 
in  a  farcp  (see  Cambridge  Drfidrn)  and  Pan- 
ton   a    punster. 


Much  Heywood,  Shirley,23  Ogleby-'»  there  lay. 
But  loads  of  Shadwell  almost  choked  the  way. 
Bilked  stationers  for  yeomen2j  stood  prepared 
And  Herringman26  T;\as  captain  of  the  guard. 
The  hoary  prince27  in  majesty  apf>eared, 
High  on  a  throne  of  his  own  labours  reared. 
At  his  right  hand  our  young  Ascaniiis^x  sate, 
Rome's  other  hope  and  pillar  of  the  state.     109 
His  brows  thick  fogs  instead  of  glories  grace, 
And  lambent  dulness  played  around  his  face. 
As  Hannibal  did  to  the  altars  come. 
Sworn  by  his  sire  a  mortal  foe  to  Rome; 29 
So  Shadwell  swore,  nor  should  his  vow  be  vain, 
That  he  till  death  true  dulness  would  maintain ; 
And,  in  his  father's  right  and  realm's  defence. 
Ne'er  to  have  peace  with  wit  nor  truce  with 

sense. 
The  king  himself  the  sacred  unction  made. 
As  king  by  office  and  as  priest  by  trade. 
In  his  sinisterso  hand,  instead  of  ball,  120 

He  placed  a  mighty  mug  of  potent  ale; 
"Love's  Kingdom "31  to  his  right  he  did  con- 
vey, 
At  once  his  sceptre  and  his  rule  of  sway ; 
Whose  righteous  lore  the  prince  had  practised 

young 
And    from    whose    loins    recorded    ' '  Psyche ' ' 

sprung. 
His    temples,   last,  with   poppies32    were    o  'er- 

spread, 
That  noilding  seemed  to  consecrate  his  head. 
Just  at  that  point  of  time,  if  fame  not  lie. 
On  his  left  hand  twelve  reverend  owls  did  fly. 
So  Romulus,   'tis  sung,  by  Tiber's  brook,       130 
Presage  of  sway  from  twice  six  vultures  took. 
The  admiring  throng  loud  acclamations  make 
And  omens  of  his  future  empire  take. 
The  sire  then  shook  the  honours  of  his  head, 
And  from  his  brows  damps  of  oblivion  shed 
Full  on  the  filial  dulness:   long  he  stood, 
Repelling  from  his  breast  the  raging  god; 
At  length  burst  out  in  this  prophetic  mood: 
"Heavens  bless  my  son!  from  Ireland  let  him 

reign 
To  far  Barbadoes  on  the  western  main;         140 
Of  his  dominion  may  no  end  be  known 
And  greater  than  his  father's  be  his  throne; 
Beyond  'Love's  Kingdom'  let  him  stretch  his 

pen ! ' ' 

23  Seventeenth     century      28  Shadwell       (Ascanius 

dramatists.  was  the  son  of 

24  An  inferior  poet,  Aeneas,    the    myth- 

25  defrauded  booksellers  leal     founder    o  f 

as  guardsmen  Rome). 

26  Shadwell's    publisher.      29  Livy,  Book  xxi. 

27  Flecknoe.  30  left 

31  A   play  by    Flecknoe. 
32  "Perhaps  in  allusion  to  Shadwell's  frequent  use 
of  opium,  as  well  as  to  his  dulness."   (Scott). 
Poppies  are  symbolic  of  sleep. 


282 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY 


He  paused,  and  all  the  people  cried  "Amen." 
Then  thus  continued  he:  "My  son,  advance 
Still  in  new  impudence,  new  ignorance. 
Success  let  others  teach,  learn  thou  from  me 
Pangs  without  birth  and  fruitless  industry. 
Let  *  Virtuosos '33  in  five  years  be  writ, 
Yet  not  one  thought  accuse  thy  toil  of  wit.    150 
Let  gentle  Georges*  in  triumph  tread  the  stage. 
Make  Dorimant  betray,  and  Loveit  rage ; 
Let   Cully,   Cockwood,   Fopling,   charm   the   pit, 
And  in  their  folly  show  the  writer's  wit. 
Yet  still  thy  fools  shall  stand  in  thy  defence 
And  justify  their  author  's  want  of  sense. 
Let  them  be  all  by  thy  own  model  made 
Of  dulness  and  desire  no  foreign  aid, 
That  they  to  future  ages  may  be  known. 
Not  copies  drawn,  but  issue  of  thy  own.         Kxi 
Nay,  let  thy  men  of  wit  too  be  the  same, 
All  full  of  thee  and  differing  but  in  name. 
But  let  no  alien  Sedleyss  interpose 
To  lard  with  wit  thy  hungry  Epsom  prose. 
And    when     false    flowers    of    rhetoric     thou 

wouldst  cull. 
Trust  nature,  do  not  labour  to  be  dull; 
But  write  thy  best  and  top,36  and  in  each  line 
Sir  Formal 's37  oratory  will  be  thine. 
Sir  Formal,  though  unsought,  attends  thy  quill 
And  does  thy  northern  dedications  fill.^s       170 
Nor  let  false  friends  seduce  thy  mind  to  fame 
By  arrogating  Jonson 's  hostile  name;39 
Let  father  Flecknoe  fire  thy  mind  with  praise 
And  uncle  Oglebys*  thy  envy  raise. 
Thou  art  my  blood,  where  Jonson  has  no  part: 
What  share  have  we  in  nature  or  in  art? 
"Where  did  his  wit  on  learning  fix  a  brand 
And  rail  at  arts  he  did  not  understand? 
Where   made    he    love    in    Prince    Nicander 's'" 

vein 
Or     s\Vept     the     dust     in     Psyche's     humble 

strain?  180 

Promised  a  play  and  dwindled  to  a  farce? 
When    did    his    Muse    from    Fletcher'"    scenes 

purloin. 
As   thou    whole    Ethereges*    dost   transfuse    to 

thine? 
But  so  transfused  as  oil  on  waters  flow, 
His  always  floats  above,  thine  sinks  below. 


83  .\   play  by   Shad  well. 

34  lOtncroge,  a  comic 
dramatist ;  Dori- 
mant, etc..  are 
characters  in  bis 
plays. 

sfi  Writer  of  tho  pro- 
ioKUP  to  Shad  well's 
Kpnom    Wellit. 

38  OXC*'\ 

37  A  character  in  Rhad- 
well'H    MrtunMO. 


3s  Shadwoll  dedicated 
much  of  blH  work 
to  tbe  Duke  of 
Newcastle. 

Sit  I.  e.,  by  comparing 
him  with  .TonHon, 
who  was  quite  bis 
contrary  (see  also 
I.    19;5) 

40  A  character  In  Shad- 
well's    PHyche. 


)U 


This  is  thy  province,  this  thy  wondrous  way, 
New  humours  to  invent  for  each  new  play: 
Tliis  is  that  boasted  bias  of  thy  mind. 
By  which  one  way  to  dulness   'tis  inclined,     190 
Which    makes   thy    writings   lean   on   one   side 

still. 
And,  in  all  changes,  that  way  bends  thy  will. 
Nor  let  thy  mountain  belly  make  pretence 
Of  likeness;  thine 's  a  tympany*i  of  sense. 
A  tun  of  man*2  in  thy  large  bulk  is  writ. 
But  sure  thou  'rt  but  a  kilderkin*^  of  wit. 
Like  mine,  thy  gentle  numbers  feebly  creep ; 
Thy  tragic  Muse  gives  smiles,  thy  comic  sleep. 
With  whate'er  gall  thou  setst  thyself  to  write. 
Thy  inoffensive  satires  never  bite ;  200 

In  thy  felonious  heart  though  venom  lies. 
It  does  but  touch  thy  Irish**  pen,  and  dies, 
Thy  genius  calls  thee  not  to  purchase  fame 
In  keen  Iambics,*''  but  mild  Anagram. 
Leave  writing  plays,  and  choose  for  thy  com 

mand 
Some  peaceful  province  in  Acrostic  land 
There  thou   mayest   wings   display   and   altairt 

raise. 
And  torture  one  poor  word  ten  thousand  ways 
Or,  if  thou  wouldst  thy  different  talents  suit, 
Set    thy    own    songs,    and    sing    them    to    th] 

lute."  21! 

He  said,  but  his  last  words  were  scarcely  heard 
For   Bruce   and    Longville^s   had    a   trap    pre 

pared. 

And  down  they  sent  the  yet  declaiming  bard 
Sinking  he  left  his  drugget  robe  behind, 
Borne   upwards  by  a  subterranean   wind. 
The  mantle  fell  to  the  young  proi)het 's  part 
With  double  portion  of  his  father  's  art. 

A  SONG  FOR  ST.  CECILIA'S  DAY.* 
November  22,  1687. 
1 
From   harmony,   from   heavenly   harmonj' 
This  universal  frame  began ; 
When  Nature  underneath  a  heap 

Of  jarring  atoms  lay, 
And  could  not  heave  her  head, 

41  dropsy 

42  Cp.   /  Hcnni  IV.,  II.  iv.  403. 

43  small  barrel 

4*  Shadwell  was  not  Irish  and  insisted  that  he 
had   never   been    in    Ireland   more   than   a    few 

hO(H"S. 

40  Iambics  were  the  standard  verse-form  of  satire 
in  classical  poetry. 

*  St.  Cecilia,  as  patroness  of  music.  Is  commonly 
represented  In  paintinRs  with  a  harp  or 
organ,  and  Dryden  makes  her  the  Inventor  of 
the  latter.  rul)lic  festivals  In  her  honor  were 
held  annually  at  London  at  this  pi-riod.  Com- 
pare  the  following   Ode,   and  also   Pope's,   p. 


.TOTIX  DRYDEX 


283 


The  tuneful  voice  was  heard  from  high, 
Arise,  ye  more  than  dead. 

Then  cold  and  hot  and  moist  and  dry 
In  order  to  their  stations  leap. 

And   Music's  power  obey.  10 

From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony 

This  universal  frame  began: 

From  harmony  to  harmony 
Through  all  the  compass  of  the  notes  it  ran. 
The  diapasoni  closing  full  in  Man. 


What  passion  cannot  ^lusic  raise  and  quell? 

When  Jubal-  struck  the  chorded  shell, 

His  listening  brethren  stood  around. 
And,  wondering,  on  their   faces   fell 

To  worship  that  celestial  sound:  20 

Less  than  a  god  they  thought  there  could  not 
dwell 

Within  the  hollow  of  that  shell. 

That  spoke  so  sweetly,  and  so  well. 
What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell? 

3 

The  trumpet 's  loud  clangor 

Excites  us  to  arms 
With  shrill  notes  of  anger 

And  mortal  alarms. 
The  double,  double,  double  beat 

Of  the  thundering  drum  30 

Cries,  hark!   the  foes  come; 
Charge,  charge,    'tis  too  late  to  retreat. 


The  soft  complaining  flute 

In  dying  notes  discovers 

The  woes  of  hopeless  lovers, 
Whose  dirge  is  whispered  by  the  warbling  lute. 


Sharp  violins  proclaim 
Their  jealous  pangs  and  desperation. 
Fury,  frantic  indignation, 
Depth  of  pains  and  height  of  passion,  40 

For  the  fair,  disdainful  dame. 

6 

But  oh!  what  art  can  teach. 
What  human  voice  can  reach 

The  sacred  organ's  praise? 
Notes  inspiring  holy  love. 
Notes  that  wing  their  heavenly  ways 
To  mend  the  choirs  above. 

1  A  chord  including  all  tones. 

2  "The  father  of  all   such,  as  handle  the  harp  or 

organ."     Gen.  4  :21. 


Orpheus  could  lead  the  savage  race. 
And  trees  unrooted  left  their  place, 

Sequacious  of 3  the  lyre; 
But  bright  Cecilia  raised  the  wonder  higher: 
When  to  her  organ  vocal  breath  was  given, 
An   angel   heard,   and   straight  appeared 
Mistaking  earth  for  heaven. 

GRAND    CHORUS. 

As  from  the  power  of  sacred  lays 

The  spheres  began  to  move, 
And  sung  the  great  Creator's  praise 

To  all  the  blessed  above; 
So  when  the  last  and  dreadful  hour 
This  crumbling  pageant  shall  devour,  60 

The  trumpet  shall  be  heard  on  high, 
The  dead  shall  live,  the  living  die. 
And  Music  shall  tintune  the  sky. 

ALEXANDER'S  FEAST;  OR,  THE  POWER 
OF  MUSIC. 

A  Song  in  Honour  of  St.  Cecilia  's  Day  :  1697. 


Twas  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won 
By  Philip 's  warlike  son :  i 
Aloft  in  avi'ful  state 
The  godlike  hero  sate 

On  his  imperial  throne. 
His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around; 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles  bound 

(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned.) 
The  lovely  Thais,  by  his  side. 
Sate  like  a  blooming  Eastern  bride. 
In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pair! 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave. 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair. 


10 


CHORUS. 

Happy,  happy,  happy  pair! 

None  but  the  brave. 

None  but  the  brave. 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair. 


Timotheu82  placed  on  high 

Amid  the  tuneful  quire, 
With  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre: 

The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky, 

3  following 


20 


1  Alexander    the    Great    conquered    Persia    In 

B.  C. 

2  Musician  to  Alexander. 


331 


284 


THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY 


And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  froms  Jove, 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above, 
(Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love.) 
A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  the  god: 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires  he  rode, 
When  he  to  fair  Olympia*  pressetl:  30 

And  while  he  sought  her  snowy  breast. 
Then  round  her  slender  waist  he  curled. 
And  stamped  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign 
of  the  world. 
The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound, 
A  present  deity,  they  shout  around ; 
A  present  deity,  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound: 

With  ravished  ears 

The  monarch  hears, 

Assumes  the  god, 

Affects  to  nod,  40 

And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

CHORUS. 

With  ravished  ears 
The  monarch  hears. 
Assumes  the  god. 
Affects  to  nod, 
And  seems  to  shale  the  spheres. 


The  praise  of  Bacchus  then  the  sweet  musician 
sung, 
Of  Bacchus  ever  fair,  and  ever  young. 
The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes; 
Sound  the  trumpets,  beat  the  drums;       50 
Flushed  Avith  a  purple  grace 
He  shows  his  honest  face: 
Now  give  the  hautboys'*  breath;  he  comes,  he 
comes. 
Bacchus  ever  fair  and  young, 

Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain ; 
Bacchus '   blessings  are  a   treasure. 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure; 
Rich  the  treasure. 
Sweet  the  pleasure, 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain.  60 

CHORUS. 

Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure. 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure; 

Rich  the  treasure. 

Sweet    the   pleasure. 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 


Soothed  with  the  sound  the  king  grew  vain; 
Fought   all  his  battles  o'er  again; 


3  nang  flrnt  of 

*  Aloxandor'M    mothor. 


obooH 


And   thrice   he  routed   all   his  foes,   and  thrice 
he  slew  the  slain. 
The  master  saw  the  madness  rise, 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes;  70 

And  while  he  heaven  and  earth  defied. 
Changed  his  hand,  and  checked  his  pride. 

He  chose  a  mournful  Muse, 

Soft  pity  to  infuse; 
He  sung  Darius"  great  and  good, 

By  too  severe  a  fate. 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen. 

Fallen  from  his  iiigh  estate, 
And  weltering  in  his  blood; 
Deserted  at  his  utmost  need  80 

By  those  his  former  bounty  fed; 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies, 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 

With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor  sate. 
Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 

The  various  turns  of  chance  below; 
And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole. 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

CHORUS. 

Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 

The  various  turns  of  chance  below;     90 
And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole, 

And  tears  began  to  flow. 


The  mighty  master  smiled  to  see 

That  love  was  in  the  next  degree; 

'Twas  but  a  kindred-soun*!  to  move. 

For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 
Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian"  measures. 
Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures, 

War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble; 

Honour  but  an  empty  bubble;  100 

Never  ending,  still  beginning. 

Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying: 
If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning, 

Think,  O  think  it  worth  enjoying: 
Lovely   Thais   sits   beside   thee. 
Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee. 

Tlie  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  applause; 
So  Love  was  crowned,  but  Music  won  the  cause. 
The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain. 
Gazed  on  the  fair  llO 

Who  caused  his  care. 
And   sighed  and   looked,  sighed   and    looked, 
Sighed  and   looked,  and  sighe<l  again; 


«  King  of  thp  Persians. 

"  A  soft,  natli(>tic  mode  of  Orocinn  music. 


JOHN  DRYDEX 


285 


At    length,    with    love    and    wine    at    ome    op- 
pressed, 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 
CHOEUS. 
The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care, 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked. 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again;       120 
At    length,   with    love   and   wine   at    once   op- 
pressed, 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

6 
Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again; 
A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain. 
Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder, 
And     rouse    him,    like    a    rattling    peal    of 
thunder. 
Hark,   hark,   the   horrid   sound 
Has  raised  up  his  head; 
As  awaked  from  the  dead, 
And  amazed,  he  stares  around.  130 

Revenge,   revenge,  Timotheus  cries, 
See  the  Furies^  arise; 
See  the  snakes  that  they  rear, 
How  they  hiss  in  their  hair, 
And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their  eyes! 
Behold  a  ghastly  band. 
Each  a  torch  in  his  hand! 
Those  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle  were 
slain. 
And  unburied  remain 
Inglorious   on    the   plain:  1-10 

Give  the  vengeance  due 
To  the  valiant  crew. 
Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high. 

How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes. 
And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods. 
The  princes  applaud  with  a  furious  joy; 
And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to 
destroy ; 
Thais  led  the  way. 

To  light  him  to  his  prey,  149 

And.  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy. 

CHORUS. 

And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  seal  to 
destroy; 

Thais  led  the  tvay, 

To  light  him  to  his  prey, 
And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy. 

7 
Thus  long  ago, 
Ere  heaving  bellows  learned  to  blow, 

STho  Enmonides.  avouRinz   spirits. 


While  organs  yet  were  mute, 
Timotheus,  to  his  breathiBg  flute 
And  sounding  lyre, 
<'ould   swell   the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft 
desire.  160 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame; 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds. 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds. 
With  Nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown 
before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize. 

Or  both  divide  the  crown: 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies; 
She  drew  an  angel  down. 


GRAND    CHORUS. 


170 


At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame; 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store. 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 
And  added  length  to  solemn  .rounds. 
With  Nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown 
before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prise. 

Or  both  divide  the  crown: 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies; 
She  drew  an  angel  doicn. 

LINES      PRINTED      UNDER      THE      EN- 
GRAVED PORTRAIT  OF  MILTON. 

Three  poets,"  in  three  distant  ages  born, 
Greece,   Italy,  and  Englan<l  did  adorn. 
The  first  in  loftiness  of  thought  surpassed. 
The  next  in  majesty,  in  both  the  last ; 
The  force  of  nature  could  no  farther  go; 
To  make  a  third  she  joined  the  former  two. 

SONG  FROM  THE  INDIAN  EMPEROR. 

Ah  fading  joy!  how  quickly  art  thou  past! 

Yet  we  thy  ruin  haste. 
As  if  the  cares  of  human  life  were  few, 

We  seek  out  new: 
And  follow  fate,  that  does  too  fast  pursue. 

See,  how  on  every  bough  the  birds  express, 
In  their  sweet  notes,  their  happiness. 
They  all  enjoy,  and  nothing  spare;  8 

But  on  their  mother  nature  lay  their  care: 

Why  then  should  man,  the  lord  of  all  below, 
Such  troubles  choose  to  know. 

As  none  of  all  his  subjects  undergo? 

ft  Homor.  VirRil.  Milton. 


286 


THE  SEVEXTEENTH  CENTURY 


Hark,  hark,  the  waters— fall,  fall,  fall, 
And  with  a  murmuring  sound 
Dash,  dash,  upon  the  ground. 

To  gentle  slumbers  call.  16 

SONG  OF  THAMESIS.* 

Old  father  Ocean  calls  my  tide; 

Come  away,  come  away; 

The  barks  upon  the  billows  ride. 

The  master  will  not  stay; 

The  merry  boatswain  from  his  side 

His  whistle  takes,  to  check  and  chide 

The  lingering  lads'  delay. 

And  all  the  crew  aloud  has  cried,  8 

Come  away,  come  away. 

See,  the  god  of  seas  attends  thee, 

Xymphs  divine,  a  beauteous  train; 

All  the  calmer  gales  befriend  thee. 

In  thy  passage  o'er  the  main; 

Every  maid  her  locks  is  binding, 

Every  Triton's  horn  is  winding; 

Welcome  to  the  wat  'ry  plain !  16 


SONG  FROM  CLEOMENES. 

No,  no,  poor  suff'ring  heart,  no  change  en- 
deavour ; 

Choose  to  sustain  the  smart,  rather  than  leave 
her: 

My  ravished  eyes  behold  such  charms  about 
her, 

I  can  die  with  her,  but  not  live  without  her; 

One  tender  sigh  of  hers  to  see  me  languish. 

Will  more  than  pay  the  price  of  my  past 
anguish. 

Beware,  O  cruel  fair,  how  you  smile  on  me; 

'Twas  a  kind  look  of  yours  that  has  undone 
me.  S 

Love  has  in  store  for  me  one  bappy  minute, 
And  she  will  end  my  pain  who  did  begin  it : 
Then,  no  <lay  void  of  bliss  or  pleasure  leaving. 
Ages  shall  slide  away  without  perceiving; 
Cupid  shall  guard  the  door,  the  more  to  please 
us, 


•  Prom  the  opera  Alblou  atnl  AlbaiitiiK.  108.'i. 
ThamPHlf  Is  tho  River  Ood  Thames,  addressing 
Albaniii8.  who  represents  the  Duke  of  Vork 
(afterward  James  11.)  The  latter.  In  1070, 
had  been  compelled  to  retire  to  Brussels,  in 
temporar.v  exile,  \intll  the  excitement  axainst 
the   Koman   Cathollos.   created  by  the   "Popish 

filot,"  should  die  awa.v.  The  tlattery  of  .Tames 
H  evident  :  but  the  rouk  has  n  lianntinK 
beauty  which  sets  It  apart  from  mere  eulogy. 


And    keep    out    Time    and    Death,    when    they 

would  seize  us; 
Time  and  Death  shall  depart,  and  say  in  flying, 
Love  has  found  out  a  way  to  live  by  dying.    16 


THE  SECULAR   MASQUE. 
Enter  Janus. i 

JAXUS. 

Chronos,  Chronos,2  m.end  thy  pace: 
An  hundred  times  the  rolling  sun 
Around  the  radiant  belt  has  run 

In   his  revolving  race. 
Behold,  behold,   the  goal  in  sight; 
Spread  thy  fans,  and  wing  thy  flight. 

Enler   Chronos,    u-ith    a    scythe    in    his    hand 
and  a  globe  on  his  back,  which  he  sets 
down  at  his  entrance, 

CHRONOS. 

Weary,  weary  of  my  weight. 
Let  me,  let  me  drop  my  freight. 
And  leave  the  world   behind. 

I  could  not  bear,  10 

Another  year. 
The  load  of  humankin«l. 

Enter  MoMus,3  laughing. 

MOMUS. 

Ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!  well  hast  thou  done 

To  lay  down  thy  pack. 

And  lighten  thy  back. 
The  world  was  a  fool,  e'er  since  it  begun; 
And  since  neither  Janus,  nor  Chronos,  nor  1 

Can   hinder   the  crimes 

Or  mend  the  bad  times, 
'Tis  better  to  laugh  than  to  cry.  20 

Chorus  of  all  three, 
'Tis  better  to  laugh  than  to  cry. 

JANUS. 

Since  Momus  comes  to  laugh  below, 

Old  Time,  begin  the  show, 
That  he  may  see,  in  every  scene, 
What  changes  in  this  age  have  been. 

CHRONOS. 

Then,  goddess  of  the  silver  bow,  begin. 

{Horns,   or  hunting    music   within. 


1  Anciently  the  higlieHt  divinity,  who  presided  over 

the  be^innlnKs  of  things. 

2  The  jfod  of  time  :  ruler  of  the  world  hetoro  Zeus. 

3  The  peiHonlfhatlon  of  mockery. 


JOHN  DRYDEX 


287 


Enter   Diana. 

UIANA. 

With  horns  and  with  hounds  I  waken  the  day, 
And  hie  to  my  woodland-walks  away; 
J  tuck  up  my  robe,  and  am  buskined*  soon, 
And  tie  to  my  forehead  a  wexing  moon.  30 

I  course  the  fleet  stag,  unkennel  the  fox, 
And    chase    the    wild    goats    o'er    summits    of 

rocks, 
With  shouting  and  hooting  we  pierce  through 

the  sky. 
And  Echo  turns  hunter,  and  doubles  the  cry. 

Chorus  of  all. 
With  shouting  and  hooting  we  pierce  through 

the  sky, 
And  Echo  turns  hunter,  and  doubles  the  cry. 

JAXUS. 

Then  our  age  was  in  its  prime: 


Free  from  rage: 

DIANA. 

And  free  from  crime. 


A  very  merry,  dancing,  drinking. 

Laughing,  quaffing,  and  unthinking  time.       40 

Chorus  of  (HI. 
Then  our  age  was  in  its  prime, 
Free  from  rage,  and  free  from  crime, 
A  very  merry,  dancing,  drinking, 
Laughing,  quaffing,  and  unthinking  time. 

Dance  of  Diana's  attendants. 
Enter  Mars. 

MARS. 

Inspires  the  vocal  brass,  inspire; 
Tlie  world  is  past  its  infant  age: 
Arms  and  honour. 
Arms  and  honour, 
Set  the  martial  mind  on  fire, 

And  kindle  manly  rage.  50 

Mars  has  looked  the  sky  to  red; 
And  Peace,  the  lazy  good,  is  fled. 
Plenty,  peace,  and  pleasure  fly; 

The  sprightly  green 
In  woodland- walks  no  more  is  seen; 
The  sprightly  green  has  drunk  the  Tynan"  dye. 


4  l)O0tPd 

5  breathe   into,  blow 


8  purple 


Chorus  of  all. 
Plenty,  peace,  and  pleasure  fly; 

The  sprightly  green 
In  woodland- walks  no  more  is  seen; 
The    sprightly    green    has    drunk    the    Tyrian 
dye.  60 

MARS. 

Sound  the  trumpet,  beat  the  drum; 

Through  all  the  world  around, 

Sound  a  reveille,"  sound,  sound, 
The  warrior  god  is  come. 

Chorus  of  all. 
Sound  the  trumpet,  beat  the  drum; 

Through   all  the  world  around, 

Sound  a  reveille,  sound,  sound, 
The  warrior  god  is  come. 

MOMUS. 

Thy  sword  within  the  scabbard   keep, 

And  let  mankind  agree;  70 

Better  the  world  were  fast   asleep, 

Than  kept  awake  by  thee. 
The  fools  are  only  thinner, 

With  all  our  cost  and  care; 
But   neither  side  a  winner. 

For  things  are  as  they  were. 

Chorus  of  all. 
The  fools  are  only  thinner. 
With  all  our  cost  and  care; 

■But  neither  side  a  winner. 

For  things  are  as  they  were.  80 

Enter  Venus. 
Calms  appear  when  storms  are  past; 
Love  will  have  his  hour  at  last; 
Nature  is  my  kindly  care; 
Mars  destroys,  and  I  repair; 
Take  me,  take  me,  while  you  may, 
Venus  comes  not  every  day. 

Chorus  of  all. 
Take  her,  take  her,  while  you  may, 
Venus  comes  not  every  day. 

CHRONOS. 

The  world  was  then  so  light, 
I  scarcely  felt  the  weight;  90 

.Toy  ruled  the  day,  and  Love  the  night. 
But,    since    the    Queen    of    Pleasure    left    the 
ground, 
I  faint,  I  lag, 
And  feebly  drag 
The  ponderous  orb  around. 
7  morning  call 


288 


THE  SEVENTEEN'ni  CE^'TUKY 


MOMUS. 

All,  all,  of  a  piece  throughout: 

{Painting  ta  Diana. 
Thy  chase  had  a  beast  in  view; 

{To  Mars. 
Thy  wars  brought  nothing  about; 

{To  Venus. 
Thy  lovers  were  all  untrue. 

JANUS. 

'Tis  well  an  old  age  is  out.  100 

CHRONOS. 

And  time  to  begin  a  new. 

Chorus  of  all. 
All,  all  of  a  piece  throughout: 

Thy  chase  had  a  beast  in  view; 
Thy  wars  brought  nothing  about; 

Thy  lovers  were  all  untrue. 
'Tis  well  an  old  age  is  out, 

And  time  to  begin  a  new. 
{Dance   of   huntsmen,   nymphs,   warriors,   and 
lovers. ) 

ON   CHAUCEE. 
From  the  Preface  to  the  Fables.* 

It  remains  that  I  say  somewhat  of  Chaucer 
in  particular. 

In  the  first  place,  as  he  is  the  father  of  Eng- 
lish poetry,  so  I  hold  him  in  the  same  degree 
of  veneration  as  the  Grecians  held  Homer  or 
the  Komans  Virgil.  He  is  a  perpetual  foun-* 
tain  of  good  sense,  learned  in  all  sciences, 
and  therefore  speaks  properly  on  all  subjects. 
As  he  knew  what  to  say,  so  he  knows  also  when 
to  leave  off;  a  continence  which  is  practised  by 
few  writers,  and  scarcely  by  any  of  the 
ancients,  excepting  Virgil  and  Horace.  One 
of  our  late  great  poetsi  is  sunk  in  his  reputa- 
tion because  he  could  never  forgive  any  conceit 
which  came  in  his  way,  but  swept,  like  a  drag- 
net, great  and  small.  There  was  plenty  enough, 
but  the  dishes  were  ill  sorted;  whole  pyramids 
of  sweetmeats  for  boys  and  women,  but  little 
of  solid  meat  for  men.  All  this  proceeded, 
not  from  any  want  of  knowledge,  but  of  judg- 
ment.    Neither  did  he  want  that  in  discerning 

•  The  Fables,  published  in  1700,  the  last  year  of 
Drjdon's  life,  were  metrical  tranHlatiouK,  or 
rather  paraphruHeH,  of  Htories  from  Homer, 
Ovid,  Boccacflo,  and  Chaucer.  The  Preface,  In 
addition  to  t)elnK  excellent  criticism,  is  a 
Kood  example  of  Uryden's  style  In  prose — the 
modern  English  prose  which  he  din  so  much 
toward  reRuiatlng  (Una.  Lit.,  106-167).  This 
particular  example  Ih  characterized  by  Mr. 
Oeorge  Haintsbury  as  "forcible  without  the 
itliKhtest  effort,  eloquent  without  declamation, 
Kraci-fiil  yet   thoroughly  manly." 


the  beauties  and  faults  of  other  poets,  but  only 
indulged  himself  in  the  luxury  of  writing;  and 
perhaps  knew  it  was  :i  fault  but  hoped  the 
reader  would  not  find  it.  For  this  reason, 
though  he  must  always  be  thought  a  great  poet, 
he  is  no  longer  esteemed  a  good  writer;  and 
for  ten  impressions,-'  which  his  works  have  had 
in  so  many  successive  years,  yet  at  present  a 
hundred  books  are  scarcely  purchased  once  a 
twelvemonth;  for,  as  my  last  Lord  Kochester 
said,  though  somewhat  profanely,  ' '  Not  being 
of  God,  he  could  not  stand." 

Chaucer  followed  nature  everywhere,  but  was 
never  so  bold  to  go  beyond  her,  and  there  is  a 
great  difference  of  being  poeta  and  nimis 
poeta,^  if  we  believe  Catullus,  as  much  as  be- 
twixt a  modest  behaviour  and  affectation.  The 
verse  of  Chaucer,  I  confess,  is  not  harmonious 
to  us;  but  'tis  like  the  eloquence  of  one  whom 
Tacitus  commends,  it  was  auribus  istius  tern- 
poris  accommodata  :*  they  who  lived  with  him, 
and  some  time  after  him,  thought  it  musical; 
and  it  continues  so  even  in  our  judgment,  if 
compared  with  the  numbers  of  Lydgate  and 
Gower,  his  contemporaries;  there  is  the  rude 
sweetness  of  a  Scotch  tune  in  it,  which  is 
natural  and  pleasing  though  not  perfect.  'Tis 
true  I  cannot  go  so  far  as  he  who  published 
the  last  e<lition  of  him,5  for  he  would  make  us 
believe  the  fault  is  in  our  ears,  and  that  there 
were  really  ten  syllables  in  a  verse  where  we 
find  but  nine;  but  this  opinion  is  not  worth 
confuting;  'tis  so  gross  and  obvious  an  error 
that  common  sense  (which  is  a  rule  in  every- 
thing but  matters  of  faith  and  revelation) 
must  convince  the  reader  that  equality  of  num- 
ber8«  in  every  verse  which  we  call  heroic' 
was  either  not  known  or  not  always  practised 
in  Chaucer 's  age.  It  were  an  easy  matter  to 
produce  some  tliousands  of  his  verses  which 
are  lame  for  want  of  half  a  foot  and  some- 
times a  whole  one,  and  which  no  pronunciation 
can  make  otherwise.!  We  can  only  say  that 
he  lived  in  the  infancy  of  our  poetry,  and  that 
nothing  is  brought  to  perfection  at  the  first. 
We  must  be  children  before  we  grow  men. 
There  was  an   Ennius,  and  in  process  of  time 

1  Abraham  Cowley,  who  could  not  "forgive"   (1.  e. 

give  up,  forego)  strained  fancies  and  distorted 
forms  of  expression. 

2  New  |>rinting8. 

3  "Overmuch  a  poot"   (said  by  Martial,  not  ("atul- 

lUH). 

4  "Suited  to  the  ears  of  that  time." 

r.  That  of  Thomas  Speght,   1.'>!»7-1«02. 

6  Measures. 

7  The    iambic    pentameter   couplet    (see  Enij.   Lit., 

r.8,  165,  187). 
t  Dryden  did  not  understand  Chaucer's  pronuncia- 
tion nor  sufficiently  allow  for  imperfections  in 
the  manuscripts. 


JOILN  DBYDKN 


289 


a  Lucilius  and  a  Lucretius,  before  Virgil  and 
Horace;  even  after  Chaucer  there  was  a  Spen- 
ser, a  Harrington,  a  Fairfax,  before  Waller 
and  Denham  were  in  being,  and  our  numbers 
were  in  their  nonage  till  these  last  appeared.J 

He  must  have  been  a  man  of  a  most  won- 
derful comprehensive  nature,  because,  as  it  has 
been  truly  observed  of  him,  he  has  taken  into 
the  compass  of  his  Canterbury  Tales  the  vari- 
ous manners  and  humours  (as  we  now  call 
them)  of  the  whole  English  nation  in  his  age. 
Not  a  single  character  has  escaped  him.  All 
his  pilgrims  are  severally  distinguished  from 
each  other,  and  not  only  in  their  inclinations 
but  m  their  very  physiognomies  and  persons. 
Baptista  Porta*  could  not  have  describeil  their 
natures  better  than  by  the  marks  which  the 
poet  gives  them. 

The  matter  and  manner  of  their  tales  and  of 
their  telling  are  so  suited  to  their  different 
educations,  humours,  and  callings  that  each  of 
them  would  be  improper  in  any  other  mouth. 

s  A  Neapolitan  physiognomist. 

J  Posterity  has  not  sustained  this  verdict.    But  see 
Eng.   Lit.,  pp.    141,    1(>5. 


Even  the  grave  and  serious  characters  are  dis- 
tinguished by  their  several  sorts  of  gra^ity; 
their  discourses  are  such  as  belong  to  their 
age,  their  calling,  and  their  breeding,  such  aa 
are  becoming  of  them  and  of  them  only.  Some 
of  his  persons  are  vicious  and  some  virtuous; 
some  are  unlearned,  or  (as  Chaucer  calls  them) 
lewd,  and  some  are  learned.  Even  the  ribaldry 
of  the  low  characters  is  different:  the  Beeve, 
the  Miller,  and  the  Cook  are  several  men,  and 
distinguished  from  each  other  as  much  as  the 
mincing  Lady  Prioress  and  the  broad-speaking, 
gap-toothed  Wife  of  Bath.  But  enough  of 
this:  there  is  such  a  variety  of  game  springing 
up  before  me  that  I  am  distracted  in  my 
choice  and  know  not  which  to  follow.  It  is 
sufficient  to  say,  according  to  the  proverb,  that 
here  is  God's  plenty.  We  have  our  fore- 
fathers and  great-grand-dames  all  before  us 
as  they  were  in  Chaucer's  days:  their  general 
characters  are  still  remaining  in  mankind,  and 
even  in  England,  though  they  are  called  by 
other  names  than  those  of  monks  and  friars 
and  canons  and  lady  abbesses  and  nuns;  for 
mankind  is  ever  the  same,  and  nothing  lost  out 
of  nature  though  everything  is  altered. 


EARLY  EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY 


SIR  RICHARD  STEELE 
(1672-1729) 

PROSPECTUS. 

The  Taller,  No.  1.     Tuesday,  April  12,  1709. 

Quicquid   agunt  homines 

Dostri  est  farrago  libelli. 

Juv.  Sat.  i.  85,  86. 
Whate'er  men  do,  or  say,  or  think,  or  dream. 
Our  motley  Paper  seizes  for  its  theme. 

Though  the  other  papers,  which  are  pub- 
lished for  the  use  of  the  good  people  of  Eng- 
land,* have  certainly  very  wholesome  eflfects, 
and  are  laudable  in  their  particular  kinds,  they 
do  not  seem  to  come  up  to  the  main  design  of 
such  narrations,  which,  I  humbly  presume, 
should  be  principally  intended  for  the  use  of 
politic  persons,  who  are  so  public-spirited  as 
to  neglect  their  own  affairs  to  look  into  trans- 
actions of  state.  Now  these  gentlemen,  for 
the  most  part,  being  persons  of  strong  zeal, 
and  weak  intellects,  it  is  both  a  charitable  and 
necessary  work  to  offer  something,  whereby 
such  worthy  and  well-affected  members  of  the 
commonwealth  may  be  instructed,  after  their 
reading,  what  to  think;  which  shall  be  the  end 
and  purpose  of  this  my  paper,  wherein  I  shall, 
from  time  to  time,  report  and  consider  all 
matters  of  what  kind  soever  that  shall  occur 
to  me,  and  publish  such  my  advices  and  reflec- 
tions every  Tuesday,  Thursday,  and  Saturday 
in  the  week,  for  the  convenience  of  the  post. 
I  resolve  to  have  something  which  may  be  of 
entertainment  to  the  fair  sex,  in  honour  of 
whom  I  have  invented  the  title  of  this  paper. 
I  therefore  earnestly  desire  all  persons,  with- 
out distinction,  to  take  it  in  for  the  present 
gratis,  and  hereafter  at  the  price  of  one  penny, 
forbidding  all  hawkers  to  take  more  for  it  at 
their  peril.     And  I  desire  all  persons  to  con- 

•  Newspapers  had  been  published  for  nearly  a  cen- 
tury. Steele  proposed  In  The  Tatler  to  pub- 
lish periodical  essays,  stories,  etc..  which 
should  serve  something  more  than  a  merely 
practical  purpose.     See  Bug.  Lit.,  p.   176. 


sider,  that  T  am  at  a  very  great  charge  for 
proper  materials  for  this  work,  as  well  as  that, 
before  I  resolved  upon  it,  I  had  settled  a 
correspondence  in  all  parts  of  the  known  and 
knowing  world.  And  forasmuch  as  this  globe 
is  not  trodden  upon  by  mere  drudges  of  busi- 
ness only,  but  that  men  of  spirit  and  genius 
are  justly  to  be  esteemed  as  considerable 
agents  in  it,  we  shall  not,  upon  a  dearth  of 
news,  present  you  with  musty  foreign  edicts, 
and  dull  proclamations,  but  shall  divide  our 
relation  of  the  passages  which  occur  in  action 
or  discourse  throughout  this  town,  as  well  as 
elsewhere,  under  such  dates  of  places  as  may 
prepare  you  for  the  matter  you  are  to  expect 
in  the  following  manner. 

All  accounts  of  gallantry,  pleasure,  and  en- 
tertainment, shall  be  under  the  article  of 
White's  Chocolate-house ;t  poetry  under  that 
of  Will's  Coffee-house;  Learning,  under  the 
title  of  Grecian;  foreign  and  domestic  news, 
you  will  have  from  St.  James's  Coffee-house; 
and  what  else  I  have  to  offer  on  any  other 
subject  shall  be  dated  from  my  own  Apartment. 

I  once  more  desire  my  reader  to  consider, 
that  as  I  cannot  keep  an  ingenious  man  to  go 
daily  to  Will's  under  two-pence  each  day, 
merely  for  his  charges;  to  White's  under  six- 
pence; nor  to  the  Grecian,  without  allowing 
him  some  plain  Spanish, i  to  be  as  able  as 
others  at  the  learned  table;  and  that  a  good 
observer  cannot  speak  with  even  Kidneyz  at 
St.  James's  without  clean  linen;  I  say,  these 
considerations  will,  I  hope,  make  all  persons 
willing  to  comply  with  my  humble  request 
(when  my  gratis  stock  is  exhausted)  of  a 
penny  apiece;  especially  since  they  are  sure  of 
some  proper  amusement,  and  that  it  is  impos- 
sible for  me  to  want  means  to  entertain  them, 
having,  besides  the  force  of  my  own  parts,  the 

1  Probably  wine  (which  according  to  The  Tatler, 
No.  252,  "heightens  conversation"). 

■2  A  waiter.  .  .  ,      . 

t  The  public  coffee  and  chocolate  houses  of  London 
were  used  as  headquarters  for  the  meetings  of 
clubs.  White's  and  St.  .Tames's  were  fre- 
quented by  statesmen  and  men  of  fashion ; 
will's  was  a  rendezvous  for  men  of  letters, 
and  The  Grecian  for  lawyers  and  scholars. 


290 


SIR  BICHARD  STEELE 


391 


power  of  di\-ination,  and  that  I  can,  by  cast- 
ing a  figure,3  tell  you  all  that  will  happen 
before  it  conies  to  pass. 

But  this  last  faculty  I  shall  use  very  spar- 
ingly, and  speak  but  of  few  things  until  they 
are  passed,  for  fear  of  divulging  matters  which 
may  oflfcnd  our  superiors. 

MEMORIES 
The  Toiler,  No.  181.     Tuesday,  June  6,  1710. 

Dies,  ni  fallor,  adest,  quem  semper  acer- 

buni, 
Semper  honoratuni,  sic  dii  Toluistis  habebo. 

Virg.   ^n.   V.   49. 

And  now  the  rising  day  renews  the  year, 
A  day  for  ever  sad,  for  ever  dear. 

There  are  those  among  mankind,  who  can 
enjoy  no  relish  of  their  being,  except  the  world 
is  made  acquainted  with  all  that  relates  to 
them,  and  think  every  thing  lost  that  passes 
unobserved;  but  others  find  a  solid  delight  in 
stealing  by  the  crowd,  and  modelling  their  life 
after  such  a  manner,  as  is  as  much  above  the 
approbation  as  the  practice  of  the  vulgar.  Life 
being  too  short  to  give  instances  great  enough 
of  true  friendship  or  good  will,  some  sages 
have  thought  it  pious  to  preserve  a  certain 
reverence  for  the  Manes*  of  their  deceased 
friends;  and  have  withdrawn  themselves  from 
the  rest  of  the  world  at  certain  seasons,  to  com- 
memorate in  their  own  thoughts  such  of  their 
acquaintance  who  have  gone  before  them  out 
of  this  life.  And  indeed,  when  we  are  ad- 
vanced in  years,  there  is  not  a  more  pleasing 
entertainment,  than  to  recollect  in  a  gloomy 
moment  the  many  we  have  parted  with,  that 
have  been  dear  and  agreeable  to  us,  and  to 
cast  a  melancholy  thought  or  two  after  those, 
with  whom,  perhaps,  we  have  indulged  our- 
selves in  whole  nights  of  mirth  and  jollity. 
With  such  inclinations  in  my  heart  I  went  to 
my  closets  yesterday  in  the  evening,  and  re- 
solved to  be  sorrowful;  upon  which  occasion  I 
could  not  but  look  with  disdain  upon  myself, 
that  though  all  the  reasons  which  I  had  to 
lament  the  loss  of  many  of  my  friends  are 
now  as  forcible  as  at  the  moment  of  their  de- 
parture, yet  did  not  my  heart  swell  with  the 
same  sorrow  which  I  felt  at  that  time;  but  I 
could,  without  tears,  reflect  upon  many  pleas- 


3  horoscope 
*  spirits 


5  private  room 


ing   adventures    I    have   had   with    some,    who 
have  long  been  blended  with  common  earth. 

Though  it  is  by  the  benefit  of  nature,  that 
length  of  time  thus  blots  out  the  violence  of 
afflictions;  yet  with  tempers  too  much  given  to 
pleasure,  it  is  almost  necessary  to  revive  the 
old  places  of  grief  in  our  memory;  and  ponder 
step  by  step  on  past  life,  to  lead  the  mind  into 
that  sobriety  of  thought  which  poises  the  heart, 
and  makes  it  beat  with  due  time,  without  being 
quickened  with  desire,  or  retarded  with  despair, 
from  its  proper  and  equal  motion.     When  we 
wind  up  a  clock  that  is  out  of  order,  to  make 
it  go  well  for  the  future,  we  do  not  immediately 
set  the   hand  to  the   present  instant,   but    we 
make  it  strike  the  round  of  all  its  hours,  before 
it  can  recover  the  regularity  of  its  time.   Such, 
thought  I,  shall  be  my  method   this  evening; 
and  since  it  is  that  day  of  the  year  which  I 
dedicate  to  the  memory  of  such  in  another  life 
as  I   much   delighted  in  when  living,   an  hour 
or   two    shall   be    sacred   to    sorrow    and   their 
memory,   while  I  run  over  all  the   melancholy 
circumstances    of    this    kind    which    have    oc- 
curred to  me  in  my  whole  life.     The  first  sense 
of  sorrow  I  ever  knew  was  upon  the  death  of 
my  father,  at  which  time  I  was  not  quite  five 
years  of  age;  but  was  rather  amazed  at  what 
all  the  house  meant,  than  possessed  with  a  real 
understanding  why  nobody  was  willing  to  play 
with  me.     I   remember   I   went   into  the  room 
where  his  body  lay,  and  my  mother  sat  weeping 
alone  by  it.     I  had  my  battledore  in  my  hand, 
and  fell  a-beating  the  coffin,  and  calling  papa; 
for,  I   know  not   how,   I  had  some   slight   idea 
that    he    was    locked    up    there.      My    mother 
catched  me  in  her  arms,  and,  transported  be- 
yond all  patience^  of  the  silent  grief  she  was 
before    in,    she    almost    smothered    me    in    her 
embraces;    and   told   me,  in   a  flood   of   tears, 
"Papa   could    not    hear   me,    and   would    play 
with  me  no  more,  for  they  were  going  to  put 
him  under  ground,  whence  he  could  never  come 
to    us    again."      She    was    a    very    beautiful 
woman,  of  a  noble  spirit,  and  there  was  a  dig- 
nity in  her  grief  amidst  all  the  wildness  of  her 
transport,    which,   methought,    struck    me    with 
an  instinct  of  sorrow,  that,  before  I  was  sensi- 
ble of  what  it  was  to  grieve,  seized  my  very 
soul,  and  has  made  pity  the  weakness  of  my 
heart  ever  since.     The  mind  in  infancy  is,  me- 
thinks,  like  the  body  in  embryo,  and  receives 
impressions  so  forcible,  that  they  are  as  hard 
to  be  removed  by  reason,  as  any  mark,  with 
which  a  child  is  born,  is  to  be  taken  away  by 

6  endurance 


292 


EARLY  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


any  future  application.  Hence  it  is,  that  good- 
nature in  me  is  no  merit;  but  having  been  so 
frequently  overwhelmed  with  her  tears  before 
I  knew  the  cause  of  any  aMction,  or  could 
draw  defences  from  my  own  judgment,  I 
imbibed  commiseration,  remorse,  and  an  un- 
manly gentleness  of  mind,  which  has  since  in- 
snared  me  into  ten  thousand  calamities;  from 
whence  I  can  reap  no  advantage,  except  it  be, 
that,  in  such  a  humour  as  I  am  now  in,  I  can 
the  better  indulge  myself  in  the  softnesses  of 
humanity,  and  enjoy  that  sweet  anxiety  which 
arises  from  the  memory  of  past  afflictions. 

"We,  that  are  very  old,  are  better  able  to  re- 
member things  which  befel  us  in  our  distant 
youth,  than  the  passages  of  later  days.  For 
this  reason  it  is,  that  the  companions  of  my 
strong  and  vigorous  years  present  themselves 
more  immediately  to  me  in  this  office  of  sor- 
row. Untimely  and  unhappy  deaths  are  what 
we  are  most  apt  to  lament ;  so  little  are  we  able 
to  make  it  indifferent  Avhen  a  thing  happens, 
though  we  know  it  must  happen.  Thus  we 
groan  under  life,  and  bcAvail  those  who  are 
relieved  from  it.  Every  object  that  returns  to 
our  imagination  raises  different  passions,  ac- 
cording to  the  circumstances  of  their  departure. 
Who  can  have  lived  in  an  army,  and  in  a 
serious  hour  reflect  upon  the  many  gay  and 
agreeable  men  that  might  long  have  flourished 
in  the  arts  of  peace,  and  not  join  with  the  im- 
precations of  the  fatherless  and  widow  on  the 
tyrant  to  whose  ambition  they  fell  sacrifices? 
But  gallant  men,  who  are  cut  off  by  the  sword, 
move  rather  our  veneration  than  our  pity;  and 
we  gather  relief  enough  from  their  own  con- 
tempt of  death,  to  make  that  no  evil,  which  was 
approached  with  so  much  cheerfulness,  and  at- 
tended with  so  much  honour.  But  when  we 
turn  our  thoughts  from  the  great  parts  of  life 
on  such  occasions,  and  instead  of  lamenting 
those  who  stood  ready  to  give  death  to  those 
from  whom  they  had  the  fortune  to  receive  it; 
1  say,  when  we  let  our  thoughts  wander  from 
such  noble  objects,  and  consider  the  havoc 
which  is  made  among  the  tender  and  the  inno- 
cent, pity  enters  with  an  unmixed  softness,  and 
possesses  all  our  souls  at  once. 

Here  (were  there  words  to  express  such  sen- 
timents with  proper  tenderness)  I  should 
record  the  beauty,  innocence  and  untimely 
death,  of  the  first  object  my  eyes  ever  beheld 
with  love.  The  beauteous  virgin!  how 
ignorantly  did  she  charm,  how  carelessly  excel! 
Ob,  Death!  thou  hast  right  to  the  bold,  to  the 
ambitious,  to   the  high,   and  to   the  haughty; 


but  why  this  cruelty  to  the  humble,  to  the 
meek,  to  the  undiscerning,  to  the  thoughtlesry 
Nor  age,  nor  business,  nor  distress,  can 
the  dear  image  from  my  imagination.  In  thil 
same  week,  I  saw  her  dressed  for  a  ball,  and 
in  a  shroud.  How  ill  did  the  habit  of  death 
become  the  pretty  trifler?     I  still  behold  the 

smiling    earth A    large    train    of    disasters 

were  coming  on  to  my  memory,  when  my  ser- 
vant knocked  at  my  closet-door,  and  inter- 
rupted me  with  a  letter,  attended  with  a  ham- 
per of  wine,  of  the  same  sort  with  that  which 
is  to  be  put  to  sale,  on  Thursday  next,  at 
Garraway's  coffee-house.*  Upon  the  receipt 
of  it,  I  sent  for  three  of  my  friends.  "We  are 
so  intimate,  that  we  can  be  company  in  what- 
ever state  of  mind  we  meet,  and  can  entertain 
each  other  without  expecting  always  to  re- 
joice. The  wine  we  found  to  be  generous  and 
warming,  but  with  such  an  heat  as  moved  us 
rather  to  be  cheerful  than  frolicsome.  It  re- 
vived the  spirits,  without  firing  the  blood.  We 
commended  it  until  two  of  the  clock  this  morn- 
ing; and  having  to-day  met  a  little  before  din- 
ner,t  we  found,  that  though  we  drank  two  bot- 
tles a  man,  we  had  much  more  reason  to  recol- 
lect than  forget  what  had  passed  the  night 
before. 

THE  CLUB. 

The  Spectator,  No.  2,    Friday,  March  2,  1711. 

Ast  alii  sex 

Et  plures  uno  conclamant  ore — 

Juv.  Sat.  vii.  167. 
Six  more  at  least  join  their  consenting  voice. 

The  first  of  our  society  is  a  gentleman  of 
Worcestershire,  of  ancient  descent,  a  baronet, 
his  name  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley.  His  great 
grandfather  was  inventor  of  that  famous 
country-dance  which  is  called  after  him.  All 
who  know  that  shire  are  very  well  acquainted 
with  the  parts  and  merits  of  Sir  Roger.  He  is 
a  gentleman  that  is  very  singular  in  his  be- 
haviour, but  his  singularities  proceed  from  his 
good  sense,  and  are  contradictions  to  the  man- 
ners of  the  world,  only  as  he  thinks  the  world  is 
in  the  wrong.  However,  this  humour  creates 
him  no  enemies,  for  he  does  nothing  with  sour- 
ness or  obstinacy;  and  his  being  unconfined  to 
modes  and  forms,  makes  him  but  the  readier 
and  more  capable  to  please  and  oblige  all  who 
know  him.     When  he   is   in   town,  he  lives  in 

•  This  was  a  place  where  periodical  auctions  were 

held,   and   lotteries  conducted. 
t  Thp  fashionable  dinner  hour  was  four  o'clock. 


SIR  RICHARD  STEELE 


293 


Soho  Square.^  It  is  said,  he  keeps  himself  a 
bachelor  by  reason  he  was  crossed  in  love  by  a 
perverse  beautiful  widow  of  the  next  county 
to  him.  Before  this  disappointment,  Sir  Roger 
was  what  you  call  a  tine  gentleman,  had  often 
supped  with  my  Lord  Rochesters  and  Sir 
George  Etherege,^  fought  a  duel  upon  his  first 
coming  to  town,  and  kicked  bully  Dawson' •>  in 
a  public  coffee-house  for  calling  him  youngster. 
But  being  ill-used  by  the  above-mentioned 
widow,  he  was  very  serious  for  a  year  and  a 
half;  and  though,  his  temper  being  naturally 
jovial,  he  at  last  got  over  it,  he  grew  careless 
of  himself,  and  never  dressed  afterwards.  He 
continues  to  wear  a  coat  and  doublet  of  the 
same  cut  that  were  in  fashion  at  the  time  of 
his  repulse,  which,  in  his  merry  humours,  he 
tells  us,  has  been  in  and  out  twelve  times  since 
he  first  wore  it.  .  .  .  He  is  now  in  his  fifty- 
sixth  year,  cheerful,  gay,  and  hearty;  keeps  a 
good  house  both  in  town  and  country;  a  great 
lover  of  mankind;  but  there  is  such  a  mirthful 
cast  in  his  behaviour,  that  he  is  rather  beloved 
than  esteemed. 

His  tenants  grow  rich,  his  servants  look  satis- 
fied, all  the  young  women  profess  love  to  him, 
and  the  young  men  are  glad  of  his  company. 
When  he  comes  into  a  house,  he  calls  the  ser- 
vants by  their  names,  and  talks  all  the  way 
upstairs  to  a  visit.  I  must  not  omit,  that  Sir 
Roger  is  a  justice  of  the  quorum;*  that  he  fills 
the  chair  at  a  quarter-session  with  great  abili- 
ties, and,  three  months  ago,  gained  universal 
applause  by  explaining  a  passage  in  the  game 
act. 

The  gentleman  next  in  esteem  and  authority 
among  us  is  another  bachelor,  who  is  a  member 
of  the  Inner  Temple ;ii  a  man  of  great  probity, 
wit,  and  understanding;  but  he  has  chosen  his 
place  of  residence  rather  to  obey  the  direction 
of  an  old  humoursome  father,  than  in  pursuit 
of  his  own  inclinations.  He  was  placed  there 
to  study  the  laws  of  the  land,  and  is  the  most 
learned  of  any  of  the  house  in  tliose  of  the 
stage.  Aristotle  and  Longinusi^  are  much  bet- 
ter understood  by  him  than  Littleton  or  Coke.' 3 
The  father  sends  up  every  post  questions  relat- 
ing to  marriage-articles,  leases,  and  tenures,  in 

7  TfapH  a  fasliionaMe  part  of  London. 

8  A  favorite  of  Charles  TI. 
n  A  Kestoration  dramatist. 

10  A  notorious  diaracter  of  tin-  lime. 

11  One  of  the  four  creat  collejres  of  law  in  London. 

12  Ancient   Greek  philosophers  and   critics. 

13  Great  English  lawyers  of  the  l.jth  and  ll>th  cen- 

turies respectively. 
*  Justices  of  the  peace  presided  over  the  criminal 
courts   or  quarter  sessions.      Those   chosen    to 
sit  with  the  higher  court  which  met  twice  a 
year  were  called  "justices  of  the  quorum." 


the  neighborhood;  all  which  questions  he  agrees 
withi*  an  attorney  to  answer  and  take  care 
of  in  the  lump.  He  is  studying  the  passions 
themselves,  when  he  should  be  inquiring  into 
the  debates  among  men  which  arise  from  them. 
He  knows  the  argument  of  each  of  the  orations 
of  Demosthenes  and  Tully,!^  but  not  one  case 
in  the  reports  of  our  own  courts.  No  one  ever 
took  him  for  a  fool;  but  none,  except  his  in- 
timate friends,  know  he  has  a  great  deal  of 
wit.  This  turn  makes  him  at  once  both  disin- 
terested and  agreeable.  As  few  of  his  thoughts 
are  drawn  from  business,  they  are  most  of 
them  fit  for  conversation.  His  taste  of  books 
is  a  little  too  just  for  the  age  he  lives  in;  he 
has  read  all,  but  approves  of  very  few.  His 
familiarity  with  the  customs,  manners,  actions, 
and  writings  of  the  ancients,  makes  him  a  very 
delicate  observer  of  what  occurs  to  him  in  the 
present  world.  He  is  an  excellent  critic,  and 
the  time  of  the  play  is  his  hour  of  business: 
exactly  at  five  he  passes  through  Xew-Inn,i<» 
crosses  through  Russel-court,  and  takes  a  turn 
at  Will 's  till  the  play  begins ;  he  has  his  shoes 
rubbe<l  and  his  periwig  powdered  at  the  bar- 
ber's as  you  go  into  the  Rose.i^  It  is  for  the 
good  of  the  audience  when  he  is  at  the  play, 
for  the  actors  have  an  ambition  to  please  him. 
The  person  of  next  consideration  is  Sir 
Andrew  Freeport,  a  merchant  of  great  eminence 
in  the  city  of  London:  a  person  of  indefatiga- 
ble industry,  strong  reason,  and  great  ex- 
perience. His  notions  of  trade  are  noble  and 
generous,  and  (as  every  rich  man  has  usually 
some  sly  way  of  jesting,  which  would  make  no 
great  figure  were  he  not  a  rich  man)  he  calls 
the  sea  the  British  Common.  He  is  acquainted 
with  commerce  in  all  its  parts;  and  will  tell 
you  that  it  is  a  stupid  and  barbarous  way  to 
extend  dominion  by  arms;  for  true  power  is 
to  be  got  by  arts  and  industry.  He  will  often 
argue  that,  if  this  part  of  our  trade  were  well 
cultivated,  we  should  gain  from  one  nation; 
and  if  another,  from  another.  I  have  heard 
him  prove,  that  diligence  makes  more  lasting 
acquisitions  than  valour,  and  that  sloth  has 
ruined  more  nations  than  the  sword.  He 
abounds  in  several  frugal  maxims,  among  which 
the  greatest  favourite  is,  "A  penny  saved  is  a 
penny  got. ' '  A  general  trader  of  good  sense 
is  pleasanter  company  than  a  general  scholar; 
and  Sir  Andrew  having  a  natural  unaffected 
eloquence,  the  perspicuity  of  his  discourse  gives 

11  engages 

15  Cicero. 

16  Part  of  one  of  the  law  colleges. 

17  A  dissolute  tavern-resort. 


294 


EARLY  EIGHTEENTH  CEMTURY 


the  same  pleasure  that  \^'it  would  in  another 
man.  He  has  made  his  fortune  himself;  and 
says,  that  England  may  be  richer  than  other 
kingdoms,  by  as  plain  methods  as  he  himself 
is  richer  than  other  men;  though  at  the  same 
time  I  can  say  this  of  him,  that  there  is  not  a 
point  in  the  compass  but  blows  home  a  ship  in 
which  he  is  an  owner. 

Next  to  Sir  Andrew  in  the  club-room  sits 
Captain  Sentry,  a  gentleman  of  great  courage, 
good  understanding,  but  invincible  modesty.  He 
is  one  of  those  that  deserve  very  well,  but  are 
very  awkward  at  putting  their  talents  within 
the  observation  of  such  as  should  take  notice 
of  them.  He  was  some  years  a  captain,  and 
behaved  himself  with  great  gallantry  in  sev- 
eral engagements  and  at  several  sieges;  but 
having  a  small  estate  of  his  own,  and  being 
next  heir  to  Sir  Roger,  he  has  quitted  a  way  of 
life  in  which  no  man  can  rise  suitably  to  his 
merit  who  is  not  something  of  a  courtier  as 
well  as  a  soldier.  I  have  heard  him  often 
lament,  that  in  a  profession,  where  merit  is 
placed  in  so  conspicuous  a  view,  impudence 
should  get  the  better  of  modesty.  When  he 
has  talked  to  this  purpose,  I  never  heard  him 
make  a  sour  expression,  but  frankly  confess 
that  he  left  the  world  because  he  was  not  fit 
for  it.  A  strict  honesty  and  an  even  regular 
behaviour  are  in  themselves  obstacles  to  him 
that  must  press  through  crowds,  who  endeavour 
at  the  same  end  with  himself,  the  favour  of  a 
commander.  He  will,  however,  in  his  way  of 
talk,  excuse  generals  for  not  disposing  accord- 
ing to  men's  desert,  or  inquiring  into  it;  for, 
says  he,  that  great  man  who  has  a  mind  to 
help  me  has  as  many  to  break  through  to  come 
at  me,  as  I  have  to  come  at  him:  therefore,  he 
will  conclude,  that  a  man  who  would  make  a 
figure,  especially  in  a  military  way,  must  get 
over  all  false  modesty,  and  assist  his  patron 
against  the  importunity  of  other  pretenders,  by 
a  proper  assurance  in  his  own  vindication.  He 
says  it  is  a  civil  cowardice  to  be  backward  in 
asserting  what  you  ought  to  expect,  as  it  is  a 
military  fear  to  be  slow  in  attacking  when  it 
is  your  duty.  With  this  candour  does  the  gen- 
tleman speak  of  himself  and  others.  The  same 
frankness  runs  through  all  his  conversation. 
The  military  part  of  his  life  has  furnished 
him  with  many  adventures,  in  the  relation  of 
which  he  is  very  agreeable  to  the  company ;  for 
he  is  never  overbearing,  though  accustomed 
to  command  men  in  the  utmost  degree  below 
him;  nor  ever  too  obsequious,  from  an  habit 
of  obeying  men  highly  above  bim.  [ 


But  that  our  society  may  not  appear  a  set 
of  humourists,i8  unacquainted  with  the  gal- 
lantries and  pleasures  of  the  age,  we  have 
among  us  the  gallant  Will  Honeycomb,  a  gen- 
tleman, who,  according  to  his  years,  should  be 
in  the  decline  of  his  life;  but  having  ever  been 
very  careful  of  his  person,  and  always  had 
a  very  easy  fortune,  time  has  made  but  very 
little  impression,  either  by  wrinkles  on  his 
forehead,  or  traces  in  his  brain.  His  person 
is  well  turned,  and  of  a  good  height.  He  is 
very  ready  at  that  sort  of  discourse  with  which 
men  usually  entertain  women.  He  has  all  his 
life  dressed  very  well;  and  remembers  habits,i« 
as  others  do  men.  He  can  smile  when  one 
speaks  to  him,  and  laughs  easily.  He  knows 
the  history  of  every  mode,  and  can  inform  you 
from  which  of  the  French  king's  wenches  our 
wives  and  daughters  had  this  manner  of  curling 
their  hair,  that  May  of  placing  their  hoods; 
whose  frailty  was  covered  by  such  a  sort  of 
petticoat;  and  whose  vanity  to  show  her  foot 
made  that  part  of  the  dress  so  short  in  such 
a  year.  In  a  word,  all  his  conversation  and 
knowledge  has  been  in  the  female  world.  As 
other  men  of  his  age  will  take  notice  to  you 
what  such  a  minister  said  upon  such  and  such 
an  occasion,  he  will  tell  you,  when  the  Duke 
of  Monmouth  danced  at  court,  such  a  woman 
was  then  smitten,  another  was  taken  with  him 
at  the  head  of  his  troop  in  the  park.  In  all 
these  important  relations,  he  has  ever  about 
the  same  time  received  a  kind  glance,  or  a 
blow  of  a  fan,  from  some  celebrated  beaut}', 
mother  of  the  present  Lord  Such-a-one.  If  you 
speak  of  a  young  commoner  that  said  a  lively 
thing  in  the  house,  he  starts  up,  "He  has  good 
blood  in  his  veins;  Tom  Mirabel  begot  him; 
the  rogue  cheated  me  in  that  affair:  that  young 
fellow's  mother  used  me  more  like  a  dog  than 
any  woman  I  ever  made  advances  to. ' '  This 
way  of  talking  of  his  very  much  enlivens  the 
conversation  among  us  of  a  more  sedate  turn ; 
and  I  find  there  is  not  one  of  the  company, 
but  myself,  who  rarely  speak  at  all,  but  speaks 
of  him  as  of  that  sort  of  man  who  is  usually 
called  a  well-bred  fine  gentleman.  To  conclude 
his  character,  where  women  are  not  concerned, 
he  is  an  honest  worthy  man. 

1  cannot  tell  whether  1  am  to  account  him 
whom  1  am  next  to  speak  of  as  one  of  our 
company,  for  he  visits  us  but  seldom;  but 
when  he  does,  it  adds  to  every  man  else  a  new 
enjoyment  of  himself.  He  is  a  clergyman,  a 
very  philosophic  man,  of  general  learning, 
18  queer  fellows  »»  costumes 


JOSEPH  ADDrSON 


295 


great  sanctity  of  life,  and  the  most  exact  good 
breeding.  He  has  had  the  misfortune  to  be  of 
a  very  weak  constitution,  and,  consequently, 
cannot  accept  of  such  cares  and  business  as 
I  preferments  in  his  function  would  oblige  him 
to ;  he  is  therefore  among  divines,  what  a 
chamber-counsellor  is  among  lawyers.  The 
probity  of  his  mind  and  the  integrity  of  his 
life  create  him  followers,  as  being  eloquent  or 
loud  advances  others.  He  seldom  introduces 
the  subject  he  speaks  upon;  but  we  are  so  far 
gone  in  years,  that  he  observes,  when  he  is 
among  us,  an  earnestness  to  have  him  fall  on 
some  divine  topic,  which  he  always  treats  with 
much  authority,  as  one  who  has  no  interest  in 
this  world,  as  one  who  is  hastening  to  the 
object  of  all  his  wishes,  and  conceives  hope 
from  his  decays  and  infirmities.  These  are  my 
ordinary  companion*. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  (1672-1719) 

SIR  ROGER  AT  CHURCH. 

The  Spectator,  Xo.  112.    Monday,  July  9,  1711. 

Adavdrovi  /tkv  irpwTa  Oeoxk,    vofiw  a»s  StoxciTeu, 
T(/ia.  Pythag. 

First,  in  obedience  to  thy  country  's  rites, 
Worship  th '  immortal  gods. 

I  am  always  very  well  pleased  with  a  country 
Sunday,  and  think,  if  keeping  holy  the  sev- 
enth day  were  only  a  human  institution,  it 
would  be  the  best  method  that  could  have  been 
thought  of  for  the  polishing  and  ci\ilizing  of 
mankind.  It  is  certain  the  country  people 
would  soon  degenerate  into  a  kind  of  savages 
and  barbarians,  were  there  not  such  frequent 
returns  of  a  stated  time,  in  which  the  whole 
village  meet  together  with  their  best  faces,  and 
in  their  cleanliest  habits,  to  converse  with  one 
another  upon  indifferent  subjects,  hear  their 
duties  explained  to  them,  and  join  together  in 
adoration  of  the  Supreme  Being.  Sunday  clears 
away  the  rust  of  the  whole  week,  not  only  as  it 
refreshes  in  their  minds  the  notions  of  religion, 
but  as  it  puts  both  the  sexes  upon  appearing 
in  their  most  agreeable  forms,  and  exerting  all 
such  qualities  as  are  apt  to  give  them  a  figure 
in  the  eye  of  the  village.  A  country  fellow 
distinguishes  himself  as  much  in  the  church- 
yard, as  a  citizen  does  upon  the  'Change,  the 
whole  parish-polities  being  generally  diseussed 
in  that  place  either  after  sermon  or  before  the 
bell  rings.. 


1  My  friend  Sir  Roger,  being  a  good  church- 
I  jnan,  has  beautified  the  inside  of  his  church 
with  several  texts  of  his  own  choosing.  He  has 
I  likewise  given  a  handsome  pulpit-cloth,  and 
railed  in' the  communion-table  at  his  own  ex- 
pense. He  has  often  told  me,  that  at  his  com- 
ing to  his  estate  he  found  his  parishioners  very 
irregular;  and  that  in  order  to  make  them 
kneel  and  join  in  the  responses,  he  gave  every 
one  of  them  a  hassock  and  a  common  prayer- 
book;  and  at  the  same  time  employed  an  itin- 
erant singing-master,  who  goes  about  the  coun- 
try for  that  purpose,  to  instruct  them  rightly 
in  the  tunes  of  the  psalms:  upon  which  they 
now  very  much  value  themselves,  and  indeed 
outdo  most  of  the  country  churches  that  I  have 
ever  heard. 

As  Sir  Roger  is  landlord  to  the  whole  con- 
gregation, he  keeps  th«n  in  very  good  order, 
and  will  suffer  nobody  to  sleep  in  it  besides 
himself;  for  if  by  chance  he  has  been  surprised 
into  a  short  nap  at  sermon,  upon  recovering  out 
of  it  he  stands  up  and  looks  about  him,  and  if 
he  sees  anybody  else  nodding,  either  wakes 
them  himself,  or  sends  his  servant  to  them. 
Several  other  of  the  old  knight's  peculiarities 
break  out  upon  these  occasions.  Sometimes  he 
will  be  lengthening  out  a  verse  in  the  singing 
psalms,  half  a  minute  after  the  rest  of  the  con- 
gregation have  done  with  it ;  sometimes  when 
he  is  pleased  with  the  matter  of  his  devotion, 
he  pronounces  Amen  three  or  four  times  to  the 
same  prayer:  and  sometimes  stands  up  when 
everybody  else  is  upon  their  knees,  to  count 
the  congregation,  or  see  if  any  of  his  tenants 
are  missing. 

I  was  yesterday  very  much  surprised  to  hear 
my  old  friend  in  the  midst  of  the  service  call- 
ing out  to  one  John  Matthews  to  mind  what  he 
was  about,  and  not  disturb  the  congregation. 
This  John  Matthews  it  seems  is  remarkable  for 
being  an  idle  fellow,  and  at  that  time  was  kick- 
ing his  heels  for  his  diversion.  This  authority 
of  the  knight,  though  exerted  in  that  odd  man- 
ner which  accompanies  him  in  all  circumstances 
of  life,  has  a  very  good  effect  upon  the  parish, 
who  are  not  politei  enough  to  see  anything 
ridiculous  in  his  behaviour;  besides  that  the 
general  good  sense  and  worthiness  of  his  char- 
acter make  his  friends  observe  these  little 
singularities  as  foils  that  rather  set  off  than 
blemish  his  good  qualities. 

As  soon  as  the  sermon  is  finished,  nobody 
presumes  to  stir  till  Sir  Roger  is  gone  out  of 
the  church.     The  knight  walks  down  from  his 

1  polished 


2U6 


EAKLY  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


seat  in  the  chancel  between  a  double  row  of  his  ! 
tenants,    that    stand    bowing    to    him   on    each  ' 
side:    and    every    now   and   then   inquires   how  ] 
such  an  one's  wife,  or  mother,  or  son,  or  father 
do,  whom  he  does  not  see  at  church;   which  is 
understood  as  a  secret  reprimand  to  the  person 
that  is  absent. 

The  chaplain  has  often  told  me,  that  upon  a 
catechising  day,  when  Sir  Roger  has  been 
pleased  with  a  boy  that  answers  well,  he  has 
ordered  a  Bible  to  be  given  him  next  day  for 
his  encouragement;  and  sometimes  accompanies 
it  with  a  flitch  of  bacon  to  his  mother.  Sir 
Roger  has  likewise  added  five  pounds  a-year  to 
the  clerk's  place;  and,  that  he  may  encourage 
the  young  fclloAvs  to  make  themselves  perfect 
in  the  church  service,  has  promised  upon  the 
death  of  the  present  incumbent,  who  is  very 
old,  to  bestow  it  according  to  merit. 

The  fair  understanding  between  Sir  Roger 
and  his  chaplain,  and  their  mutual  concurrence 
in  doing  good,  is  the  more  remarkable,  because 
the  very  next  village  is  famous  for  the  differ- 
ences and  contentions  that  rise  between  the 
parson  and  the  squire,  who  live  in  a  perpetual 
state  of  war.  The  parson  is  always  preaching 
at  the  squire;  and  the  squire,  to  be  revenged 
on  the  parson,  never  conies  to  church.  The 
squire  has  made  all  his  tenants  atheists  and 
tithe-stealers;2  while  the  parson  instructs  them 
every  Sunday  in  the  dignity  of  his  order,  and 
insinuates  to  them  almost  in  every  sermon  that 
he  is  a  better  man  than  his  patron.  In  short, 
matters  are  come  to  such  an  extremity,  that  the 
squire  has  not  said  his  prayers  either  in  pub- 
lic or  private  this  half  year;  and  that  the  par- 
son threatens  him,  if  he  does  not  mend  his  man- 
ners, to  pray  for  him  in  the  face  of  the  whole 
congregation. 

Feuds  of  this  nature,  though  too  frequent  in 
the  country,  are  very  fatal  to  the  ordinary 
people;  who  are  so  used  to  be  dazzled  with 
riches,  that  they  pay  as  much  deference  to 
the  understanding  of  a  man  of  an  estate,  as  of 
a  man  of  learning;  and  are  very  hardly  brought 
to  regard  any  truth,  how  important  soever  it 
may  be,  that  is  preached  to  them,  when  they 
know  there  :»rc  several  men  of  five  hundretl 
a-year  who  do  nut  believe  it. 

NED  SOFTLY. 
The  Tatlrr,  No.  163.     Tuesday,  April  So,  1710. 

Idem  inficeto  est  inficetior  rurc, 

Bimul  poemata  jtttigit  ;   neqne  idem  uii((u;nn 

?ThoHC  who  do  not  pay  tli<ir  rhiircli  tax. 


><Eque  est  beatus,  ac  poema  cum  scribit: 
Tam  gaudet  in  se,  tamque  se  ipse  miratur. 
Nimirum  idem  omnes  fallimur;  neque  est  quis- 

quara 
Quom  non  in  aliqua  re  videre  Suffenum 

Possis 

Catul.  de  Suffeuo,  xx.  14. 
Suffeuus  has  no  more  wit  than  a  mere  clown 
when  he  attempts  to  write  verses,  and  yet  he  is 
never  happier  than  when  he  is  scribbling;  so 
much  does  he  admire  himself  and  his  composi- 
tions. And,  indeed,  this  is  the  foible  of  every 
one  of  us,  for  there  is  no  man  living  who  is 
not  a  Suffenus  in  one  thing  or  other. 

I  yesterday  came  hithers  about  two  hours 
before  the  company  generally  make  their  ap- 
pearance, with  a  design  to  read  over  all  the 
newspapers;  but,  upon  my  sitting  down,  I  was 
accosted  by  Ned  Softly,  who  saw  me  from  a 
corner  in  the  other  end  of  the  room,  where  I 
found  he  had  been  writing  something.  "Mr. 
Bickerstaff, "*  says  he,  "I  observe  by  a  late 
Paper  of  yours,  that  you  and  I  are  just  of  a 
humour;  for  you  must  know,  of  all  im- 
pertinences, there  is  nothing  which  I  so  much 
hate  as  news.  I  never  read  a  Gazette^  in  my 
life;  and  never  trouble  my  head  about  our 
armies,  whether  they  win  or  lose,  or  in  what 
part  of  the  world  they  lie  encamped."  With- 
out giving  me  time  to  reply,  he  drew  a  pajier 
of  verses  out  of  his  pocket,  telling  me,  ' '  that 
he  had  something  which  would  entertain  me 
more  agreeably ;  and  that  he  would  desire  my 
judgment  upon  every  line,  for  that  we  had 
time  enough  before  us  until  the  company 
came  in." 

Ned  Softly  is  a  very  pretty  poet,  and  a  great 
admirer  of  easy  lines.  Wallers  is  his  favourite: 
and  as  that  admirable  writer  has  the  best  and 
worst  verses  of  any  among  our  great  English 
poets,  Ned  Softly,  has  got  all  the  bad  ones 
without  book;  which  he  repeats  upon  occasion, 
to  show  his  reading,  and  garnish  his  conversa- 
tion. Ned  is  indeed  a  true  English  reader,  in- 
capable of  relishing  the  great  and  masterly 
strokes  of  this  art ;  but  wonderfully  pleased 
with  the  little  Gothic^  ornatnents  of  epigram- 
matical  conceits,  turns,  })oints,  and  quibbles, 
which  are  so  frequent  in  the  most  admired  of 


3  will's    Coffee    House. 

•  Th<*  nssiimort  name  of 
tlic  editor  f>r  77k- 
Tatter.  Steele  had 
chosen  It.  See  Eni/. 
Lit.,  n.    177. 

5  The  offlclal  court  news- 
paper. 


0  .V  very  popular  poet 
of  the  17111  e.Mi 
(iiry. 

■<■  rued  contemptuoii^lv 
as  equivalent  tu 
quaint  or  In  bad 
taste. 


JOSEPH  ADDISOX 


297 


our  Eiiglislt  poets,  and  practised  by  those  who  j  the  former. "     "  1  am  very  glad  to  hear  you 
want  genius  and  strength   to  represent,   after  j  say  so, ' '  says  he ;   "  but  mind  the  next. 
the  manner   of  the  ancients,  simplicity  in  its  j 
natural  beauty  and  perfection. 


You  seem  a  sister  of  the  Nine. 


Finding  myself  unavoidably  engaged  in  such 
a  conversation,  I  was  resolved  to  turn  my  pain 
into  a  pleasure,  and  to  divert  myself  as  well  as 
1  could  witli  so  very  odd  a  fellow.  '  *  You 
must  understand,"  says  Ned,  "that  the  sonnet 
I  am  going  to  read  to  you  was  written  upon  a 
lady,  who  showed  me  some  verses  of  her  own 
making,  and  is,  perhaps,  the  best  poet  of  our 
age.     But  you  shall  hear  it." 

Upon  which  he  began  to  read  as  follows: 

To   iliRA  ox  Her  Ixcojiparable  Poems. 

When  dress 'd  in  laurel  wreaths  you  shine, 
And  tune  your  soft  melodious  notes, 

You  seem  a  sister  of  the  Nine, 
Or  Phcebus'  self  in  petticoats. 

I  fancy,  when  your  song  you  sing, 

(Your  song  you  sing  with  so  much  art) 

Your  pen  was  plucked  from  Cupid 's  wing ; 
For,  ah !    it  wounds  me  like  his  dart. 

"Why,"  says  I,  "this  is  a  little  nosegay  of 
conceits,  a  very  lump  of  salt :  every  verse  has 
something  in  it  that  piques;  and  then  the  dart  \ 
in  the  last  line  is  certainly  as  pretty  a  sting 
in  the  tail  of  an  epigram,  for  so  I  think  you 
critics  call  it,  as  ever  entered  into  the  thought 
of  a  poet."  "Dear  Mr.  Bickerstaff, "  says  he, 
shaking  me  by  the  hand,  "everybody  knows 
you  to  be  a  judge  of  these  things;  and  to  tell 
you  truly,  1  read  over  Eoscommon's  transla- 
tion of  'Horace's  Art  of  Poetry'  three  sev- 
eral times,  before  I  sat  down  to  write  the  son- 
net which  I  have  shown  you.  But  you  shall  hear 
it  again,  and  pray  observe^very  line  of  it;  for 
not  one  of  them  shall  pass  without  your  ap- 
probation. 

When  dress 'd  in  laurel  wreaths  you  shine, 

"That  is,"  says  he,  "when  you  have  your 
garland  on ;  when  you  are  writing  verses. ' ' 
To  which  I  replied,  "I  know  your  meaning:  a 
metaphor!"  "The  same,"  said  he,  and 
went  on. 

And  tune  your  soft  melodious  notes. 

Pray  observe  the  gliding  of  that  verse;  there 
is  scarce  a  consonant  in  it:  I  took  care  to  make 
it  run  upon  liquids.  Give  me  your  opinion  of 
it."     "Tndy. "  said  T,  "  I  think  it  as  good  as 


"That  is,"  says  he,  "you  seem  a  sister  of 
the  ;Muses;  for,  if  you  look  into  ancient 
authors,  you  will  find  it  was  their  opinion  that 
there  were  nine  of  them."  "I  remember  it 
very  well,"  said  I;  "but  pray  proceed." 

"Or  Phcebus'   self   in   petticoats." 

* '  Phoebus, ' '  says  he,  ' '  was  the  god  of  poetry. 
These  little  instances,  Mr.  Bickerstaff,  show  a 
gentleman's  reading.  Then,  to  take  off  from 
the  air  of  learning,  which  Pha?bus  and  the 
Muses  had  given  to  this  first  stanza,  you  may 
observe,  how  it  falls  all  of  a  sudden  into  the 
familiar;  *in  Petticoats'! 

Or  Phcebus'  self  in  petticoats." 

"Let  us  now,"  says  I,  "enter  upon  the  sec- 
ond stanza;  I  find  the  first  line  is  still  a  con- 
tinuation of  the  metaphor, 

I  fancy,  when  your  song  you  sing." 

"It  is  very  right, ^'  says  he,  "but  pray  ob- 
serve the  turn  of  words  in  those  two  lines.  1 
was  a  whole  hour  in  adjusting  of  them,  and 
have  still  a  doubt  upon  me,  whether  in  the  sec- 
ond line  it  should  be  'Your  song  you  sing;' 
or,  '  You  sing  your  song. '  You  shall  hear  them 
both: 

I  fancy,  when  your  song  you  sing, 

(Your  song  you  sing  with  so  much  art) 
or 

I  fancy,  when  your  song  you  sing, 

(You  sing  your  song  with  so  much  art.)  " 

"Truly,"  said  I,  "the  turn  is  so  natural 
either  way,  that  you  have  made  me  almost 
giddy  with  it. "  "  Dear  sir, ' '  said  he,  grasp^ 
ing  me  by  the  hand,  "you  have  a  great  deal  of 
patience;  but  pray  what  do  you  think  of  the 
next  verse t 

Your  pen  was  pluck  'd  from  Cupid 's  wing. ' ' 

"Think!"  says  T;  "I  think  you  have  made 
Cupid  look  like  a  little  goose. "  "  That  was 
my  meaning,"  says  he:  "  I  think  the  ridicule 
is  well  enough  hit  off.  But  we  come  now  to 
the  last,  which  sums  up  the  whole  matter. 

For,  ah!    it  wounds  me  like  his  dart. 

"Pray  how  do  you  like  that  Ah!  doth  it  niof 
make  a  pretty  figure  in  that  place!    Ah! it 


298 


J?AELY  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


looks  as  if  I  felt  the  dart,  and  cried  out  as 
being  pricked  with  it. 

For,  ah!    it  wounds  me  like  his  dart. 

"My  friend  Dick  Easy,"  continued  he,  "as- 
sured me,  he  would  rather  have  written  that 
Ah!  than  to  have  been  the  author  of  the 
iEneid.  He  indeed  objected,  that  I  made 
Mira's  pen  like  a  quill  in  one  of  the  lines,  and 

like  a  dart  in  the  other.    But  as  to  that " 

" Oh !  as  to  that, ' '  says  I,  "it  is  but  supposing 
Cupid  to  be  like  a  porcupine,  and  his  quills  and 
darts  will  be  the  same  thing."  He  was  going 
to  embrace  me  for  the  hint;  but  half  a  dozen 
critics  coming  into  the  room,  whose  faces  he 
did  not  like,  he  conveyed  the  sonnet  into  his 
pocket,  and  whispered  me  in  the  ear,  "he 
would  show  it  me  again  as  soon  as  his  man  had 
written  it  over  fair." 


FROZEN  WORDS. 

The  Tatler,  No.  254.     Thursday,  November  23, 

1710. 


Splendid^  mendaz- 

Hor. 

Gloriously  false  — 


2  Od.  iii.  35. 


There  are  no  books  which  I  more  delight  in 
than  in  travels,  especially  those  that  describe 
remote  countries,  and  give  the  writer  an  oppor- 
tunity of  showing  his  parts  without  incurring 
any  danger  of  being  examined  or  contradicted. 
Among  all  the  authors  of  this  kind,  our  re- 
nowned countryman,  Sir  John  Alandevillei  has 
distinguished  himself,  by  the  copiousness  of  his 
invention,  and  the  greatness  of  his  genius.  The 
second  to  Sir  John  I  take  to  have  been,  Ferdi- 
nand Mendez  Pinto,2  a  person  of  infinite  ad- 
venture, and  unbounded  imagination.  One 
reads  the  voyages  of  these  two  great  wits,  with 
as  much  astonishment  as  the  travels  of  Ulysses 
in  Homer,  or  of  the  Red-Cross  Knight  in 
Spenser.  All  is  enchanted  ground,  and  fairy- 
land. 

I  hare  got  into  my  hands,  by  great  chance, 
several  manuscripts  of  these  two  eminent 
authors,  which  are  filled  with  greater  wonders 
than  any  of  those  they  have  communicated  to 
the  public;  and  indeed,  were  they  not  so  well 
attested,  they  would  appear  altogether  improba- 

1  Soe  p.  63. 

2  A   I'ortugueRe  Rdventurer  and  writer  of  the  six- 

teenth century,  now  generally  believed  to  have 
be«'n  veraclouH. 


ble.  I  am  apt  to  think  the  ingenious  authors 
did  not  publish  them  with  the  rest  of  their 
works,  lest  they  should  pass  for  fictions  and 
fables:  a  caution  not  unnecessary,  when  the 
reputation  of  their  veracity  was  not  yet  estab- 
lished in  the  world.  But  as  this  reason  has 
now  no  farther  weight,  I  shall  make  the  public 
a  present  of  these  curious  pieces,  at  such  times 
as  I  shall  find  myself  unprovided  with  other 
subjects. 

The  present  paper  I  intend  to  fill  with  an 
extract  from  Sir  John  's  Journal,  in  which  that 
learned  and  worthy  knight  gives  an  account 
of  the  freezing  and  thawing  of  several  short 
speeches,  which  he  made  in  the  territories  of 
Nova  Zembla.3  I  need  not  inform  my  reader, 
that  the  author  of  ' '  Hudibras '  '*  alludes  to  this 
strange  quality  in  that  cold  climate,  when, 
speaking  of  abstracted  notions  clothed  in  a 
visible  shape,  he  adds  that  apt  simile, 

"Like  words  congeal 'd  in  northern  air." 

Not  to  keep  my  reader  any  longer  in  suspense, 
the  relation  put  into  modern  language,  is  as 
follows : 

"We  were  separated  by  a  storm  in  the  lati- 
tude of  seventy-three,  insomuch,  that  only  the 
ship  which  I  was  in,  with  a  Dutch  and  French 
vessel,  got  safe  into  a  creek  of  Nova  Zembla. 
We  landed,  in  order  to  refit  our  ressels,  and 
store  ourselves  with  provisions.  The  crew  of 
each  vessel  made  themselves  a  cabin  of  turf 
and  wood,  at  some  distance  from  each  other, 
to  fence  themselves  against  the  inclemencies 
of  the  weather,  which  was  severe  beyond 
imagination.  We  soon  observed,  that  in  talk- 
ing to  one  another  we  lost  several  of  our  words, 
and  could  not  hear  one  another  at  above  two 
yards  distance,  and  that  too  when  we  sat  very 
near  the  fire.  Aft#r  much  perplexity,  1  found 
that  our  words  froze  in  the  air,  before  they 
could  reach  the  ears  of  the  persons  to  whom 
they  were  spoken.  I  was  soon  confirmed  in  this 
conjecture,  when,  upon  the  increase  of  the  cold, 
the  whole  company  grew  dumb,  or  rather  deaf; 
for  every  man  was  sensible,  as  we  afterwards 
found,  that  he  spoke  as  well  as  ever;  but  the 
sounds  no  sooner  took  air  than  they  were  con- 
densed and  lost.  It  was  now  a  miserable 
spectacle  to  see  us  nodding  and  gaping  at  one 
another,  every  man  talking,  and  no  man  heard. 
One  might  observe  a  seaman   that  could   hail 

3  An  Island  in  the  Arctic  ocean.     The  Journal  of 

William  Barentz,  a  Dutch  navigator  who  was 
shipwrecked  there  In  ir»00,  may  have  aflforded 
Addison  a  hint  for  thia  fancy. 

4  A  poem  satirizing  the  Turltans,  by  Samuel  Hutler. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON 


299 


a  ship  at  a  league's  distance,  beckoning  with 
his  hand,  straining  his  lungs,  and  tearing  his 
throat;  but  all  in  vain: 

' ' Nee  vox  nee  verba  sequuntur. 

"Nor  voice,  nor  words  ensued. 

"We  continued  here  three  weeks  in  this  dis- 
mal plight.  At  length,  upon  a  turn  of  wind, 
the  air  about  us  began  to  thaw.  Our  cabin 
was  immediately  filled  with  a  dry  clattering 
sound,  which  I  afterwards  found  to  be  the 
crackling  of  consonants  that  broke  above  our 
heads,  and  were  often  mixed  with  a  gentle  hiss- 
ing, which  I  imputed  to  the  letter  s,  that  oc- 
curs so  frequently  in  the  English  tongue.  I 
soon  after  felt  a  breeze  of  whispers  rushing  by 
my  ear;  for  those,  being  of  a  soft  and  gentle 
substance,  immediately  liquefied  in  the  warm 
wind  that  blew  across  our  cabin.  These  were 
soon  followed  by  syllables  and  short  words, 
and  at  length  by  entire  sentences,  that  melted 
sooner  or  later,  as  they  were  more  or  less 
congealed;  so  that  we  now  heard  every  thing 
that  had  been  spoken  during  the  whole  three 
weeks  that  we  had  been  silent,  if  I  may  use 
that  expression.  It  was  now  very  early  in  the 
morning,  and  yet,  to  my  surprise,  I  heard  some- 
body say,  '  Sir  John,  it  is  midnight,  and  time 
for  the  ship 's  crew  to  go  to-bed. '  This  I  knew 
to  be  the  pilot 's  voice ;  and,  upon  recollecting 
myself,  I  concluded  that  he  had  spoken  these 
words  to  me  some  days  before,  though  I  could 
not  hear  them  until  the  present  thaw.  My 
reader  will  easily  imagine  how  the  whole  crew 
was  amazed  to  hear  every  man  talking,  and  see 
no  man  opening  his  mouth.  In  the  midst  of  this 
great  surprise  we  were  all  in,  we  heard  a  volley 
of  oaths  and  curses,  lasting  for  a  long  while, 
and  uttered  in  a  very  hoarse  voice,  which  1 
knew  belonged  to  the  boatswain,  who  was  a 
very  choleric  fellow,  and  had  taken  his  oppor- 
tunity of  cursing  and  swearing  at  me,  when 
he  thought  I  could  not  hear  him ;  for  I  had  sev- 
eral times  given  him  the  strappados  on  that  ac- 
count, as  I  did  not  fail  to  repeat  it  for  these 
his  pious  soliloquies,  when  I  got  him  on  ship- 
board. 

"I  must  not  omit  the  names  of  several 
beauties  in  Wapping,*  which  were  heard  every 
now  and  then,  in  the  midst  of  a  long  sigh  that 
accompanied  them ;  as,  '  Dear  Kate !  '  *  Pretty 
Mrs.    Peggy ! '    '  When    shall    I    see    my    Sue 


6  A  severe  form  of  mili- 
t  a  r  y  punishment 
which  usually  dis- 
located the  arms. 


6  A   quarter   of  London 

alon?    the  Thames 

frequented  by    sea- 
men. 


again  I '  This  betrayed  several  amours  which 
had  been  concealed  until  that  time,  and  fur- 
nisheil  us  with  a  great  deal  of  mirth  in  our 
return  to  England. 

"When  this  confusion  of  voices  was  pretty 
well  over,  though  I  was  afraid  to  offer  at 
speaking,  as  fearing  I  should  not  be  heard,  I 
proposed  a  \-isit  to  the  Dutch  cabin,  which  lay 
about  a  mile  farther  up  in  the  country.  My 
crew  were  extremely  rejoiced  to  find  they  had 
again  recovered  their  hearing;  though  every 
man  uttered  his  voice  with  the  same  apprehen- 
sions that  I  had  done, 

' ' Et  timidd  verba  intermissa  retentat. 

*  *  And  try  'd  his  tongue,  his  silence  softly  broke. 

"At  about  half -a-mile 's  distance  from  our 
cabin  we  heard  the  groanings  of  a  bear,  which 
at  first  startled  us;  but,  upon  enquiry,  we  were 
informed  by  some  of  our  company,  that  he 
was  dead,  and  now  lay  in  salt,  having  been 
killed  upon  that  very  spot  about  a  fortnight 
before,  in  the  time  of  the  frost.  Not  far  from 
the  same  place,  we  were  likewise  entertained 
with  some  posthumous  snarls,  and  barkings  of 
a  fox. 

"We  at  length  arrived  at  the  little  Dutch 
settlement ;  and,  upon  entering  the  room,  found 
it  filled  with  sighs  that  smelt  of  brandy,  and 
several  other  unsavoury  sounds,  that  were  alto- 
gether inarticulate.  My  valet,  who  was  an 
Irishman,  fell  into  so  great  a  rage  at  what 
he  heard,  that  he  drew  his  sword;  but  not 
knowing  where  to  lay  the  blame,  he  put  it  up 
again.  We  were  stunned  with  these  confused 
noises,  but  did  not  hear  a  single  word  until 
about  half-an-hour  after;  which  I  ascribed  to 
the  harsh  and  obdurate  sounds  of  that  lan- 
guage, which  wanted  more  time  than  ours  to 
melt,  and  become  audible, 

"After  having  here  met  with  a  very  hearty 
welcome,  we  went  to  the  cabin  of  the  French, 
who,  to  make  amends  for  their  three  weeks' 
silence,  were  talking  and  disputing  with  greater 
rapidity  and  confusion  than  I  ever  heard  in  an 
assembly,  even  of  that  nation.  Their  language, 
as  I  found,  upon  the  first  giving  of  the  weather, 
fell  asunder  and  dissolved.  I  was  here  con- 
vinced of  an  error,  into  which  I  had  before 
fallen;  for  I  fancied,  that  for  the  freezing  of 
the  sound,  it  was  necessary  for  it  to  be  wrapped 
up,  and,  as  it  were,  preserved  in  breath:  but 
I  found  my  mistake  when  I  heard  the  sound 
of  a  kitT  playing  a  minuet  over  our  heads.    I 

-  X  small  fiddle. 


300 


EARLY  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


UHked  the  occasion  of  it ;  upon  which  one  of  the 
••onipany  told  me  that  it  would  play  there 
alwve  a  week  longer;  'for,'  says  he,  'finding 
ourselves  bereft  of  speech,  we  prevailed  upon 
one  of  the  company,  who  had  his  musical  in- 
strument about  him,  to  play  to  us  from  morn- 
ing to  night;  all  which  time  was  employed  in 
dancing  in  order  to  dissipate  our  chagrin,  and 
tu-er  le  temps. "^ 

Here  Sir  John  gives  very  good  philosophical 
reason,  why  the  kit  could  not  be  heard  during 
the  frost;  but,  as  they  are  something  prolix, 
1  pass  them  over  in  silence,  and  shall  only  ob- 
serve, that  the  honourable  author  seems,  by 
his  quotations,  to  have  been  well  versed  in  the 
ancient  poets,  which  perhaps  raised  his  fancy 
above  the  ordinary  pitch  of  historians,  and 
very  much  contributed  to  the  embellishment  of 
his  writings. 

A    COQUETTE'S    HEART. 

The  Spectator,  No.  281.     Tuesday,  Januarii  23, 
1712. 

Peetoribus  inhians  spirantia  consulit  exta. 

Virg.  ^n.  iv.  64. 
Anxious  the  reeking  entrails  he  consults. 

Having  already  given  an  account  of  the  dis- 
section of  a  beau's  head,  with  the  several  dis- 
coveries made  on  that  occasion;  I  shall  here, 
according  to  my  promise,  enter  upon  the  dis- 
section of  a  coquette's  heart,  and  communicate 
to  the  public  such  particularities  as  we  observe»l 
in  that  curious  piece  of  anatomy. 

I  should  perhaps^  have  waived  this  undertak- 
ing, had  not  I  been  put  in  mind  of  my  promise 
by  several  of  my  unknown  correspondents,  who 
are  very  importunate  with  me  to  make  an  ex- 
ample of  the  coquette,  as  I  have  already  done 
of  the  beau.  It  is  therefore,  in  compliance 
with  the  request  of  friends,  that  I  have  looked 
over  the  minutes  of  my  former  dream,  in  order 
to  give  the  public  an  exact  relation  of  it,  which 
1  nhall  enter  upon  without  farther  preface. 

Our  ojierator,  before  he  engaged  in  this 
visionary  dissection,  told  us  that  there  was 
nothing  in  his  art  more  difficult  than  to  lay 
open  the  heart  of  a  coquette,  by  reason  of  the 
many  labyrintlis  and  recesses  which  are  to  be 
found  in  it,  and  which  do  not  appear  in  the 
heart  of  any  other  animal. 

Ho  desired  us  first  of  all  to  observe  the 
pericnnlium,    or    outward    case    of    the    heart, 

Hklll  time 


I  which  we  did  very  attentively;  and  by  the  help 
j  of  our  glasses  discerned  in  it  millions  of  little 
scars,  whiih  seemed  to  have  been  occasioned 
by  the  points  of  innunieral)le  darts  and  arrows, 
that  from  time  to  time  had  glanced  upon  the 
outward  coat ;  though  we  could  not  discover 
tiie  smallest  orifice  by  which  any  of  them 
had  entered  and  pierced  the  inward  substance. 
Every  smatterer  in  anatomy  knows  that  this 
pericardium,  or  case  of  the  heart,  contains  in 
it  a  thin  reddish  liquor,  supposed  to  be  bred 
from  the  vapours  which  exhale  out  of  the  heart, 
and  being  stopped  here,  are  condense<l  into 
this  watery  substance.  Upon  examining  this 
liquor,  we  found  that  it  had  in  it  all  the  quali- 
ties of  that  spirit  which  is  made  use  of  in  the 
thermometer  to  show  the  change  of  weather. 

Nor  must  I  here  omit  an  experiment  one  of 
the  company  assured  us  he  himself  had  made 
with  this  liquor,  which  he  found  in  great  quan- 
tity about  the  heart  of  a  coquette  whom  he 
had  formerly  dissected.  He  affirmed  to  us, 
that  he  had  actually  inclosed  it  in  a  small  tube 
made  after  the  manner  of  a  weather-glass;  but 
that,  instead  of  acquainting  him  with  the  varia- 
tions of  the  atmosphere,  it  showed  him  the 
qualities  of  those  persons  who  entered  the  room 
where  it  stood.  He  affirmed  also,  that  it  rose 
at  the  approach  of  a  plume  of  feathers,  an 
embroidered  coat,  or  a  pair  of  fringed  gloves; 
!  antl  that  it  fell  as  soon  as  an  ill-shaped  peri- 
wig, a  clumsy  pair  of  shoes,  or  an  unfashiona- 
ble coat  came  into  his  house.  Nay,  he  pro- 
ceeded so  far  as  to  assure  us,  that  upon  his 
laughing  aloud  when  he  stood  by  it,  the  liquor 
mounted  very  sensibly,  and  immediately  sunk 
again  upon  his  looking  serious.  In  short,  he 
told  us  that  he  knew  very  well  by  this  inven- 
tion, whenever  he  had  a  man  of  sense  or  a 
coxcomb  in  his  room. 

Having  cleared  away  the  pericardium,  or  the 
case,  and  liquor  above-mentioned,  we  came  to 
the  heart  itself.  The  outward  surface  of  it 
was  extremely  slippery,  and  the  mucro,  or 
point,  so  very  cold  withal,  that  upon  endeavour- 
ing to  take  hold  of  it,  it  glided  through  the 
fingers  like  a  smooth  piece  of  ice. 

The  fibres  were  turned  and  twisted  in  a  more 
intricate  and  perplexed  manner  than  they  are 
usually  found  in  other  hearts;  insomuch  that 
the  whole  heart  was  wound  up  together  like  a 
Cordian  knot,  and  must  have  had  very  irregular 
and  unequal  motions,  while  it  was  employed 
in  its  vital  function. 

One  thing  we  thought  very  observable,  name- 
ly, that  upon  examining  all  the  vessels  which 


JOSEPH  ADDISOX 


301 


1  :une  into  it,  or  issued  out  of  it,  we  eould  not  j 
.lisi'over   any   i-ommunieatioii  that   it   had   with 
I  lie  tongue.  | 

We  could  not  but  take  uotii-e  likewise  that  j 
several  of  those  little  nerves  in  the  heart  which 
are  afifected  by  the  sentiments  of  love,  hatred, 
and  other  passions,  did  not  descend  to  this 
before  us  from  the  brain,  but  from  the  muscles 
which  lie  about  the  eye. 

Upon  weighing  the  heart  in  my  hand,  I 
found  it  to  be  extremely  light,  and  consequently 
very  hollow,  which  I  did  not  wonder  at,  when, 
u{>on  looking  into  the  inside  of  it,  I  saw  multi- 
tudes of  cells  and  ca\-ities  running  one  within 
another,  as  our  historians  describe  the  apart- 
ments of  Bosamond's  bower.*  Several  of  these 
little  hollows  were  stuffed  with  innumerable 
sorts  of  trifles,  which  I  shall  forbear  giving 
any  particular  account  of,  and  shall,  therefore, 
only  take  notice  of  what  lay  first  and  upper- 
most, which,  upon  our  unfolding  it,  and  apply- 
ing our  microscopes  to  it,  appearetl  to  be  a 
flame-coloured  hood. 

We  are  informed  that  the  lady  of  this  heart, 
when  living,  received  the  addresses  of  several 
who  made  love  to  her,  and  did  not  only  give 
each  of  them  encouragement,  but  made  every- 
one she  conversed  with  believe  that  she  re- 
garded him  with  an  eye  of  kindness;  for  which 
reason  we  expected  to  have  seen  the  impression 
>.t'  multitudes  of  faces  among  the  several  plaits 
and  fohlings  of  the  heart;  but  to  our  great  sur- 
prise not  a  single  print  of  this  nature  discov- 
ere«l  itself  till  we  came  into  the  very  core  and 
centre  of  it.  We  there  observed  a  little  figure, 
which,  upon  applying  our  glasses  to  it,  ap- 
peared dressed  in  a  very  fantastic  manner.  The 
more  I  looked  upon  it,  the  more  I  thought  I 
had  seen  the  face  before,  but  could  not  possi- 
bly recollect  either  the  place  or  time;  when 
at  length  one  of  the  company,  who  had  ex- 
amined this  figure  more  nicely  than  the  rest, 
showed  us  plainly  by  the  make  of  its  face,  and 
the  several  turns  of  its  features,  that  the  little 
i.lol  which  was  thus  lodged  in  the  very  middle 
of  the  heart  was  the  deceased  beau,  whose  head 
I  gave  some  account  of  in  my  last  Tuesday's 
paper. 

As  soon  as  we  had  finished  our  dissection,  we 
resolveil  to  make  an  experiment  of  the  heart, 
not  being  able  to  determine  among  ourselves 
the  nature  of  its  substance,  which  differed  in 
so  many  particulars  from  that  in  the  heart  of 
other  females.     Accordingly,  we  laid  it  into  a 


*  Henry  II..  it  was  ssaid.  built  a  labyrinth  to  con- 
ceal the  abode  of  "Fair  Rosamond." 


pan  of  burning  coals,  when  we  observed  in  it 
a  certain  salamandrine  quality,  that  made  it 
capable  of  living  in  the  midst  of  fire  and  flame, 
without  being  consumed  or  so  much  as  singe<J. 
As  we  were  admiring  this  strange  phenome- 
non, and  standing  round  the  heart  in  a  circle, 
it  gave  a  most  protligious  sigh,  or  rather  crack, 
and  dispersed  all  at  once  in  smoke  and  vapour. 
This  imaginary  noise,  which  methought  was 
louder  than  the  burst  of  a  cannon,  produced 
such  a  violent  shake  in  my  brain,  that  it  dis- 
sipated the  fumes  of  sleep,  and  left  me  in  an 
instant  broad  awake. 

THE  VISION    OF  MIRZA. 

The  Spectator,  Xo.  159.     Saturday,  September 
1,  1711. 

— Omnem.  qua*  nunc  obducta  tuenti 
Mortales  heljetat  visus  tihi.  et  humida  circum 
Caligat,  nubem  eripiam — 

Virg.   Mn.   ii.   604. 

The  cloud,  which,  intercepting  the  clear  light. 
Hangs   o  *er  thy  eyes,   and   blunts  thy   mortal 

sight, 
I  will  remove — 

When  I  was  at  Grand  Cairo,  I  picked  up  sev- 
eral Oriental  manuscripts,  which  I  have  still 
by  me.  Among  others  I  met  with  one  entitled 
The  A'isions  of  Mirza,  which  I  have  read  over 
with  great  pleasure.  I  intend  to  give  it  to  the 
public  when  I  have  no  other  entertainment  for 
them;  and  shall  begin  with  the  first  vision, 
which  I  have  translated  word  for  word  as  fol- 
lows:— 

"On  the  fifth  day  of  the  moon,  which  ac- 
cording to  the  custom  of  my  forefathers  I 
always  keep  holy,  after  having  washed  my- 
self, and  offered  up  my  morning  devotions,  1 
ascended  the  high  hills  of  Bagdad,  in  order  txi 
pass  the  rest  of  the  day  in  meditation  and 
prayer.  As  I  was  here  airing  myself  on  the 
tops  of  the  mountains,  I  fell  into  a  profound 
contemplation  on  the  vanity  of  human  life; 
and  pas-sing  from  one  thought  to  another, 
'Surely,'  said  I,  'man  is  but  a  shadow,  and 
life  a  dream.'  Whilst  I  was  thus  musing.  I 
cast  my  eyes  towards  the  summit  of  a  rock 
that  was  not  far  from  me,  where  I  lUscovered 
one  in  the  habit  of  a  shepherd,  with  a  musical 
instrument  in  his  hand.  As  I  looked  upon  him 
he  applied  it  to  his  lips,  and  began  to  play 
upon  it.  The  sound  of  it  was  exceedingly 
sweet,  and  wrought  into  a  variety  of  tunes  that 


302 


EARLY  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


were  inexpressibly  melodious,  and  altogether 
different  from  anything  I  had  ever  heard. 
They  put  me  in  mind  of  those  heavenly  airs 
that  are  played  to  the  departed  souls  of  good 
men  upon  their  first  arrival  in  Paradise,  to 
wear  out  the  impressions  of  their  last  agonies, 
and  qualify  them  for  the  pleasures  of  that 
happy  place.  My  heart  melted  away  in  secret 
raptures. 

' '  I  had  been  often  told  that  the  rock  before 
me  was  the  haunt  of  a  Genius;!  and  that  sev- 
eral had  been  entertained  with  music  who  had 
passed  by  it,  but  never  heard  that  the  musician 
had  before  made  himself  visible.  When  he  had 
raised  my  thoughts  by  those  transporting  airs 
which  he  played  to  taste  the  pleasures  of  his 
conversation,  as  I  looked  upon  him  like  one 
astonished,  he  beckoned  to  me,  and  by  the 
waving  of  his  hand  directed  me  to  approach 
the  place  where  he  sat.  I  drew  near  with  that 
reverence  which  is  due  to  a  superior  nature; 
and  as  my  heart  was  entirely  subdued  by  the 
captivating  strains  I  had  heard,  I  fell  down 
at  his  feet  and  wept.  The  Genius  smiled  upon 
me  with  a  look  of  compassion  and  affability 
that  familiarized  him  to  my  imagination,  and 
at  once  dispelled  all  the  fears  and  apprehen- 
sions with  which  I  approached  him.  He  lifted 
me  from  the  ground,  and  taking  me  by  the 
hand,  'Mirza,'  said  he,  'I  have  heard  thee  in 
thy  soliloquies;  follow  me.* 

"He  then  led  me  to  the  highest  pinnacle  of 
ithe  rock,  and  placing  me  on  the  top  of  it,  *  Cast 
,thy  eyes  eastward,'  said  he,  'and  tell  me  what 
thou  seest.'  'I  see,'  said  I,  'a  huge  valley, 
;and  a  prodigious  tide  of  water  rolling  through 
it.'  'The  valley  that  thou  seest,'  said  he,  'is 
.the  Vale  of  Misery,  and  the  tide  of  water  that 
thou  seest  is  part  of  the  great  Tide  of 
Eternity.'  'What  is  the  reason,'  said  I,  'that 
the  tide  I  see  rises  out  of  a  thick  mist  at  one 
end,  and  again  loses  itself  in  a  thick  mist  at 
the  other? '  '  What  thou  seest, '  said  he, ' is  that 
portion  of  eternity  which  is  called  time,  meas- 
ured out  by  the  sun,  and  reaching  from  the  be- 
ginning of  the  world  to  its  consummation. 
Examine  now, '  said  he,  '  this  sea  that  is  bounded 
with  darkness  at  both  ends,  and  tell  me  what 
thou  discoverest  in  it.'  'I  see  a  bridge,'  said 
I,  'standing  in  the  midst  of  the  tide.'  'The 
bridge  thou  seest,'  said  he,  'is  Human  Life: 
consider  it  attentively.'  Upon  a  more  leisurely 
survey  of  it,  I  found  that  it  consisted  of  three- 
score and  ten  entire  arches,  with  several  broken 
arches,  which  added  to  those  that  were  entire, 

1  spirit 


made  up  the  number  about  a  hundred.  As 
was  counting  the  arches,  the  Genius  told  me 
that  this  bridge  consisted  at  first  of  a  thousand 
arches;  but  that  a  great  flood  swept  away  the 
rest,  and  left  the  bridge  in  the  ruinous  condi- 
tion I  now  beheld  it.  'But  tell  me  farther,' 
said  he,  '  what  thou  discoverest  on  it. '  '  I  see 
multitudes  of  people  passing  over  it,'  saiti  I, 
'and  a  black  cloud  hanging  on  each  end  of  it.' 
As  I  looked  more  attentively,  I  saw  several  of 
the  passengers  dropping  through  the  bridge 
into  the  great  tide  that  flowed  underneath  it; 
and  upon  farther  examination,  perceived  there 
were  innumerable  trap-doors  that  lay  concealed 
in  the  bridge,  which  the  passengers  no  sooner 
trod  upon,  but  they  fell  through  them  into  the 
tide,  and  immediately  disappeared.  Tliese  hid- 
den pit-falls  were  set  very  thick  at  the  entrance 
of  the  bridge,  so  that  throngs  of  people  no 
sooner  broke  through  the  cloud,  but  many  of 
them  fell  into  them.  They  grew  thinner 
towards  the  middle,  but  multiplied  and  lay 
closer  together  towards  the  end  of  the  arches 
that  were  entire. 

"There  were  indeed  some  persons,  but  their 
number  was  very  small,  that  continued  a  kind 
of  hobbling  march  on  the  broken  arches,  but 
fell  through  one  after  another,  being  quite 
tired  and  spent  with  so  long  a  walk. 

"I  passed  some  time  in  the  contemplation  of 
this  wonderful  structure,  and  the  great  variety 
of  objects  which  it  presented.  My  heart  was 
filled  with  a  deep  melancholy  to  see  several 
dropping  unexpectedly  in  the  midst  of  mirth 
and  jollity,  and  catching  at  everything  that 
stood  by  them  to  save  themselves.  Some  were 
looking  up  towards  the  heavens  in  a  thoughtful 
posture,  and  in  the  midst  of  a  speculation  stum- 
bled and  fell  out  of  sight.  Multitudes  were 
very  busy  in  the  pursuit  of  bubbles  that  glit- 
tered in  their  eyes  and  danced  before  them; 
but  often  when  they  thought  themselves  within 
the  reach  of  them,  their  footing  failed  and 
down  they  sunk.  In  this  confusion  of  objects, 
I  observed  some  who  ran  to  and  fro  upon  the 
bridge,  thrusting  several  persons  on  trap-doors 
which  did  not  seem  to  lie  in  their  way,  and 
which  they  might  have  escaped  had  they  not 
been  thus  forced  upon  them. 

"The  Genius  seeing  me  indulge  myself  on 
this  melancholy  prosjiect,  told  me  I  had  dwelt 
long  enough  upon  it.  '  Take  thine  eyes  off  the 
bridge,'  said  he,  'and  tell  me  if  thou  yet  seest 
anything  thou  dost  not  comprehend.'  Upon 
looking  up,  'What  mean,'  said  I,  'those  great 
flights  of  birds  that  are  perpetually  hovering 


MATTHEW  PRIOR 


303 


about  the  bridge,  and  settling  upon  it  from 
time  to  time  I  I  see  Tultures,  harpies,  ravens, 
cormorants,  and  among  many  other  feathered 
creatures  several  little  winged  boys,  that  perch 
in  great  numbers  upon  the  middle  arches. 
*  These, '  said  the  Genius,  '  are  Envy,  Avarice, 
Superstition,  Despair,  Love,  with  the  like  cares 
and  passions  that  infest  human  life. ' 

"1  here  fetched  a  deep  sigh,  'Alas,'  said 
I,  'Man  was  made  in  vain!  how  is  he  given 
away  to  misery  and  mortality!  tortured  in  life, 
and  swallowed  up  in  death!  '  The  Genius  being 
moved  with  compassion  towards  me,  bid  me 
quit  so  uncomfortable  a  prospect.  'Look  no 
more, '  said  he,  '  on  man  in  the  first  stage  of 
his  existence,  in  his  setting  out  for  eternity; 
but  cast  thine  eye  on  that  thick  mist  into  which 
the  tide  bears  the  several  generations  of  mor- 
tals that  fall  into  it.  I  directed  my  sight  as 
I  was  ordered,  and  (whether  or  no  the  good 
Genius  strengthened  it  with  any  supernatural 
force,  or  dissipated  part  of  the  mist  that  was 
before  too  thick  for  the  eye  to  j)enetrate)  I 
saw  the  valley  opening  at  the  farther  end,  and 
spreading  forth  into  an  immense  ocean,  that 
had  a  huge  rock  of  adamant  running  through 
the  midst  of  it,  and  dividing  it  into  two  equal 
parts.  The  clouds  still  rested  on  one  half  of 
it,  insomuch  that  I  could  discover  nothing  in 
it;  but  the  other  appeared  to  me  a  vast  ocean 
planted  with  innumerable  islands,  that  were 
covere<l  with  fruits  and  flowers,  and  interwoven 
with  a  thousand  little  shining  seas  that  ran 
among  them.  I  could  see  persons  dressed  in 
glorious  habits  with  garlands  upon  their  heads, 
passing  among  the  trees,  lying  down  by  the 
sides  of  fountains,  or  resting  on  beds  of  flow- 
ers; and  could  hear  a  confused  harmony  of 
singing  birds,  falling  waters,  human  voices, 
and  musical  instruments.  Gladness  grew  in  me 
upon  the  discovery  of  so  delightful  a  scene.  J 
wished  for  the  wings  of  an  eagle,  that  I  might 
fly  away  to  those  happy  seats;  but  the  Genius 
told  me  there  was  no  passage  to  them,  except 
through  the  gates  of  death  that  I  saw  opening 
every  moment  upon  the  bridge.  'The  islands,' 
said  he,  'that  lie  so  fresh  and  green  before 
thee,  and  with  which  the  whole  face  of  the 
ocean  appears  spotted  as  far  as  thou  canst 
see,  are  more  in  number  than  the  sands  on  the 
sea-shore:  there  are  myriads  of  islands  behind 
those  which  thou  here  discoverest,  reaching 
farther  than  thine  eye,  or  even  thine  imagina- 
tion can  extend  itself.  These  are  the  mansions 
of  good  men  after  death,  who,  according  to 
the  degree  and  kinds  of  virtue  in  which  they 


excelled,  are  distributed  among  these  several 
islands,  which  abound  with  pleasures  of  differ- 
ent kinds  and  degrees,  suitable  to  the  relishes 
and  perfections  of  those  who  are  settled  in 
them:  every  island  is  a  paradise  accommodated 
to  its  respective  inhabitants.  Are  not  these,  O 
Mirza,  habitations  worth  contending  for!  Does 
life  appear  miserable  that  gives  thee  oppor- 
tunities of  earning  such  a  reward!  Is  death 
to  be  feared  that  will  convey  thee  to  so  happy 
an  existence?  Think  not  man  was  made  in 
vain,  who  has  such  an  eternity  reserved  for 
him. '  I  gazed  with  inexpressible  pleasure  on 
these  happy  islands.  At  length,  said  I,  'Show 
me  now,  I  beseech  thee,  the  secrets  that  lie  hid 
under  those  dark  clouds  which  cover  the  ocean 
on  the  other  side  of  the  rock  of  adamant. '  The 
Genius  making  me  no  answer,  I  turned  me 
about  to  address  myself  to  him  a  second  time, 
but  I  found  that  he  had  left  me;  I  then  turned 
again  to  the  vision  which  I  had  been  so  long 
contemplating;  but  instead  of  the  rolling  tide, 
the  arched  bridge,  and  the  happy  islands,  I  saw 
nothing  but  the  long  hollow  valley  of  Bagdad, 
with  oxen,  sheep,  and  camels  grazing  upon  the 
sides  of  it." 

MATTHEW  PRIOR  ( 1 664- 1 72 1 ) 

TO  A  CHILD  OF  QUALITY  FIVE  YEARS 
OLD 

Lords,    knights,    and     'squires,    the    numerous 
band, 

That  wear  the  fair  Miss  Mary's  fetters. 
Were  summoned  by  her  high   command. 

To  show  their  passions  by  their  letters. 

My  pen  among  the  rest  I  took, 

Lest  those  bright  eyes  that  cannot  read 

Should  dart  their  kindling  fires,  and  look 
The  power  they  have  to  be  obeyed.  * 

Nor  quality,  nor  reputation. 

Forbid  me  yet  my  flame  to  tell, 
I  Dear  Five-years-old  befriends  my  passion, 
And  I  may  write  till  she  can  spell. 

For,  while  she  makes  her  silk-worms  beds 
With  all  the  tender  things  I  swear; 

Whilst  all  the  house  my  passion  reads 

In  papers  round  her  baby's  hair;  H 

She  may  receive  and  own  my  flame. 

For,  though  the  strictest  prudes  should  know 
it, 

She'll  pass  for  a  most  virtuous  dame 
And  I  for  an  unhappy  poet. 


304 


EARLY  EIGHTEENTH  CK.NTURY 


Then  too,  alas!    when  she  shall  tear 
The  lines  some  younger  rival  sends, 

She'll  give  me  leave  to  write,  I  fear, 
And  we  shall  still  continue  friends. 


24 


For,  as  our  different  ages  move, 

'Tis  so  ordained,  (would  Fate  but  mend  it!) 
That  T  sliall  be  past  making  love, 

When  she  begins  to  comprehend  it. 

A  SIMILE 

Dear  Thomas,  didst  thou  never  pop 
Thy  head  into  a  tinman's  shop? 
There,  Thomas,  didst  thou  never  see 
(  'Tis  but  by  way  of  simile) 
A  squirrel  spend  his  little  rage 
In  jumping  round  a  rolling  cage? 
The  cage,  as  either  side  turned  up. 
Striking  a  ring  of  bells  a-top? 

Moved  in  the  orb,  pleased  with  the  chimes 
The  foolish  creature  thinks  he  climbs:  10 

But  here  or  there,  turn  wood  or  wire. 
He  never  gets  two  inches  higher. 

So  fares  it  with  those  merry  blades, 
That  frisk  it  under  Pindus'i  shades. 
In  noble  songs,  and  lofty  odes, 
They  tread  on  stars,  and  talk  with  gods; 
Still  dancing  in  an  airy  round. 
Still  pleased  with  their  own  verses'  sound; 
Brought  back,  how  fast  soe'er  they  go. 
Always  aspiring,  always  low. 

AN  ODE 

The  merchant,  to  secure  his  treasure, 

Conveys  it  in  a  borrowed  name: 
Euphelia  serves  to  grace  my  measure; 

But  €loe  is  my  real  flame. 

My  softest  verse,  my  darling  lyre, 

Upon  Euphelia 's  toilet  lay; 
When  Cloe  noteds  her  desire 

That  I  should  sing,  that  I  should  play.        8 

My  lyre  I  tune,  my  voice  T  raise; 

But  with  my  numbers^   mix  my  sighs: 
And  whilst  I  sing  Euphelia 's  praise, 

I  fix  my  soul  on  Cloe's  eyes. 

Fair  Cloe  blushed:    Euphelia  frowned: 

I  sung  and  gazed:    I  played  and  trembled: 

And  Venus  to  the  Loves  around 

Remarke<1,  how  ill  we  all  dissembled.         1« 


1  A  mountain  In  Orepce 
sacrod  to  tho  Muhoh. 


2  denoted,  expressed 
a  versen 


A  BETTER  ANSWER* 

Dear  Cloe,  how  blubbered  is  that  pretty  face! 
Thy  cheek  all  on   fire,   and  thy  hair  ail  un- 
curled : 
Prythee  quit  this  caprice;    and  (as  old  Falstaff 
8ays<) 
Let   us  e'en   talk   a   little  like   folks  of   this 
world. 

How   canst   thou   presume   thou   hast   leave   to 
destroy 
The   beauties   which   Venus   but   lent   to   thy 
keeping  ? 
Those  looks  were  designed  to  inspire  love  and 
joy: 
More    ord'nary    eyes    may    serve    people    for 
weeping.  8 

To  be  vext  at  a  trifle  or  two  that  I  Mrit, 
Your  judgment  at  once  and  my  passion  you 
wrong : 
You   take   that   for   fact   which  will   scarce   be 
found  wit: 
Odds  life!    must  one  swear  to  the  truth  of  a 
song? 

What  I  speak,  my  fair  Cloe,  and  what  I  write, 
shows 
The  difference  there  is  betwixt   Nature  and 
Art: 
T   court   others  in  verse;     but  I  love   thee   in 
prose : 
And  they  have  my  whimsies;    but  thou  hast 
my  heart.  16 

The  god  of  us  verse-men  (you  know.  Child), 
the  sun, 

How  after  his  journeys  he  sets  up  his  rest: 
If  at  morning  o'er  earth   'tis  his  fancy  to  run. 

At  night  he  declines  on  his  Thetis 's  breast. 

So  when  I  am  wearied  with  wandering  all  day. 
To  thee,  my  delight,  in  the  evening  I  come: 

No  matter  what  beauties  I  saw  in  my  way; 
They  were  but  my  visits,  but  thou  art  my 
home.  24 

Then  finish,  dear  Cloe,  this  pastoral  war; 

And  let  us,  like  Horace  and  Lydia,-'"'  agree: 
For  thou  art  a  girl  so  much  brighter  than  her, 

As  he  was  a  poet  sublimer  than  me. 

4  See  2  Henry  IT.,  V,  6  Florace  addressed  man  v 
Hi,  101.  of    his    odes    to 

"Lydia." 

•  This  poem  was  preceded  hy  one  called  An  Anxwrr 
In  Cine  JenlouK.      (Prior's  "Cloe,"  perhaps  for 


distinction,  has  no  h  in  her  name, 


me.) 


JOHN  GAY 


305 


JOHN  GAY  (1685-1732) 

Feom  fables 

XLIV.    The  Hound  and  the  Huntsman 

Impertineuce  at  first  is  borne 
With  heedless  slight,  or  smiles  of  scorn; 
Teased  into  wrath,  what  patience  bears 
The  noisy  fool  who  perseveres? 

The   morning  wakes,   the   Huntsman   sounds, 
At  once  rush  forth  the  joyful  hounds. 
They  seek  the  wood  with  eager  pace. 
Through  bush,  through  brier,  explore  the  chase. 
Now  scattered  wide,  they  try  the  plain, 
And  snuff  the  dewy  turf  in  vain.  10 

What  care,  what  industry,  what  pains  I 
Wliat  universal  silence  reigns  I 

Ringwood,  a  Dog  of  little  fame. 
Young,  pert,  and  ignorant  of  game, 
At  once  displays  his  babbling  throat; 
The  pack,  regardless  of  the  note. 
Pursue  the  scent ;    with  louder  strain 
He  still  persists  to  vex  the  train. 

The  Huntsman  to  the  clamour  flies; 
The  smacking  la.sh  he  smartly  plies.  20 

His  ribs  all  welked,^  with  howling  tone 
The  puppy  thus  expressed  his  moan: 

' '  I  know  the  music  of  my  tongue 
Long  since  the  pack  with  envy  stung. 
What  will  not  spite ?•■     These  bitter  smarts 
I  owe  to  my  superior  parts. ' ' 

* '  When  puppies  prate, ' '  the  Huntsman  cried, 
"They  show  both  ignorance  and   pride: 
Fools  may  our  scorn,  not  envy,  raise. 
For  envy  is  a  kind  of  praise.  30 

Had  not  thy  forward  noisy  tongue 
Proclaimed  thee  always  in  the  wrong. 
Thou  mijjht  'st  have  mingled  with  the  rest, 
And  ne  'er  thy  foolish  nose  confest. 
But  fools,  to  talking  ever  prone. 
Are  sure  to  make  their  follies  known. ' ' 

XLV.     The  Poet  and  the  Rose 
I  hate  the  man  who  builds  his  name 
On  ruins  of  another's  fame. 
Thus  prudes,  by  characters  o'erthrown, 
Imagine  that  they  raise  their  own. 
Thus  f:cril)blers,  covetous  of  praise, 
Tliink  slander  can  transplant   the  bays. 
Beauties  and  bards  have  equal  pride, 
With  both  all  rivals  are  decried. 
Who  praises  Lesbia's  eyes  and  feature, 
Must  call  her  sister  awkward  creature;  10 

For  the  kind  flattery's  sure  to  charm,  _^ 
When  we  some  other  nymph  disarm, 

6  covored  with  ridges 

7  Understand  "do." 


As  in  the  cool  of  early  day 
A  Poet  sought  the  sweets  of  May, 
The  garden's  fragrant  breath  ascends. 
And  every  stalk  with  odour  bends. 
A  rose  he  plucked,  he  gazed,  admired, 
Thus  singing  as  the  Muse  inspired: 

"Go  Rose,  my  Chloe's  bosom  grace; 

How  happy  should  I  prove,  20 

Might  I  supply  that  envied  place 

With  never-fading  love! 
There,  Phcenix-like,  beneath  her  eye, 
Involved  in  fragrance,  burn  and   die! 

"Know,  hapless  flower,  that  thou  shall  find 

More  fragrant  roses  there; 
I  see  thy  withering  head  reclined 

With  envy  and  despair! 
One  common  fate  we  both  must  prove; 
You  die  with  en\j,  I  with  love."  30 

"Spare  your  comparisons,"  replied 

An  angry  Rose  who  grew  beside. 

"Of  all  mankind  you  should  not  flout  us; 

What  can  a  Poet  do  without  usf 

In  every  iove-song  roses  bloom; 

We  lend  you  colour  and  perfume. 

Does  it  to  Chloe's  charms  conduce, 

To  found  her  praise  on  our  abuse? 

Must  we,  to  flatter  her,  be  made 

To  wither,  emy,  pine,  and  fade?"  40 


ALEXANDER  POPE  (1688-1744) 

ODE  ON  ST.  CECILIA'S  DAY.* 


Descend,  ye  Nine!  descend  and  sing: 
The  breathing  instnmients  inspire; 
Wake  into  voice  each  silent  string. 

And  sweep  the  sounding  lyre! 

In  a  sadly-pleasing  strain 

Let  the  warbling  lute  complain: 
Let  the  loud  trumpet  sound, 

•  This  ode.  composed  in  1708,  when  Pope  was  but 
twenty  years  of  age.  is  interesting  chiefly 
for  comparison  with  the  odes  written  by  Dry- 
den  for  similar  occasions.  l'o|ie  has  "drawn 
fr«>ely  upon  classical  mythology — the  nine 
Mnsps.  Morpheus,  god  of  dreams,  the  voyage 
of  thp  Argonauts  with  Orphens  drawing"  the 
trees  of  Mt.  Pelion  down  to  the  sea  by  the 
sweetness  of  his  strain,  and  especially  the 
sad  story  of  Orpheus'  descent  into  Hades  to 
win  ba<k  his  lost  Eurydice  only  lo  lose  her 
a;:alD  and  wandej  forlorn  until  (be  jealous 
and  enrased  Bacchantes  stoned  hira  to  death 
and  threw  his  limbs  into  the  Hebrus.  It  is 
pointed  out  by  Mr.  W.  ,1.  Courthope  that  Dry- 
den,  by  weaving  in  history  instead  of  legend, 
secured  greater  human  interest. 


306 


EARLY  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


Till  the  roofs  all  around 
The  shrill  echoes  rebound: 
While  in  more  lengthened  notes  and  slow,       10 
The  deep,  majestic,  solemn  organs  blow. 
Hark!   the  numbers  soft  and  clear, 
Gently  steal  upon  the  ear; 
Now  louder,  and  yet  louder  rise 
And  fill  with  spreading  sounds  the  skies; 
Exulting  in  triumph  now  swell  the  bold  notes, 
In  broken  air,  trembling,  the  wild  music  floats; 
Till,  by  degrees,  remote  and  small, 
The  strains  decay, 

And  melt  away,  20 

In  a  dying,  dying  fall. 


By  music,  minds  an  equal  temper  know, 

Nor  swell  too  high,  nor  sink  too  low. 
If  in  the  breast  tumultuous  joys  arise. 
Music  her  soft,  assuasive  voice  applies; 

Or,  when  the  soul  is  pressed  with  cares. 

Exalts  her  in  enlivening  airs. 
Warriors  she  fires  with  animated  sounds; 
Pours  balm  into  the  bleeding  lover's  wounds; 

Melancholy  lifts  her  head,  30 

Morpheus  rouses  from  hjs  bed, 
Sloth  unfolds  her  arms  and  wakes, 

Listening  Envy  drops  her  snakes ; 
Intestine  war  no  more  our  passions  wage. 
And  giddy  factions  hear  away  their  rage. 


But  when  our  country's  cause  provokes  to  arms. 
How  martial  music  every  bosom  warms! 
So  when  the  first  bold  vessel  dared  the  seas, 
High   on   the   stern   the   Thracian    raised     his 
strain, 
While  Argo  saw  her  kindred  trees  ■lo 

Descend  from  Pelion  to  the  main. 
Transported  demi-gods  stood  round, 
And  men  grew  heroes  at  the  sound, 
Inflamed  with  glory's  charms: 
Each  chief  his  sevenfold  shield  displayed, 
And  half  unsheathed  the  shining  blade 
And  seas,  and  rocks,  and  skies  rebound, 
To  arms,  to  arms,  to  arms! 


But  when   through   all   th '   infernal   bounds. 
Which  flaming  Phlegethon  surrounds,  50 

Love,  strong  as  Death,  the  poet  led 

To  the  pale  nations  of  the  dead, 
What  sounds  were  heard, 
What  scenes  appeared, 

O'er  all  the  dreary  coasts! 


Dreadful  gleams 
Dismal  screams. 
Fires  that  glow, 
Shrieks  of  woe, 

Sullen  moans,  60 

Hollow  groans, 
And  cries  of  tortured  ghosts! 
But  hark!  he  strikes  the  golden  lyre; 
And  see!  the  tortured  ghosts  respire, 

See,  shady  forms  advance! 
Thy  stone,  O  Sisyphus,  stands  still, 
Ixion  rests  upon  his  wheel, 

And  the  pale  spectres  dance! 
The  Furies  sink  upon  their  iron  beds, 
And  snakes  uncurled  hang  listening  round  their 
heads. 


71 


SO 


By  the  streams  that  ever  flow, 
By  the   fragrant  winds  that  blow 

O'er  th'  Elysian  flowers; 
By  those  happy  souls  who  dwell 
In  yellow  meads  of  asphodel, 

Or  amaranthine  bowers; 
By  the  hero's  armed  shades, 
Glittering  through  the  gloomy  glades, 
By  the  youths  that  died  for  love, 

Wandering  in  the  myrtle  grove. 
Restore,  restore  Eurydice  to  life: 
Oh  take  the  husband,  or  return  the  wife! 

He  sung,  and  hell  consented 
To  hear  the  poet 's  prayer : 

Stern  Proserpine  relented. 

And  gave  him  back  the  fair. 
Thus  song  could  prevail 
O'er  death,  and  o'er  hell, 
A  conquest  how  hard  and  how  glorious! 

Tliough  fate  had  fast  bound  her 

With  Styx  nine  times  round  her. 
Yet  music  and  love  were  victorious. 


6 

But  soon,  too  soon,  the  lover  turns  his  eyes; 
Again  she  falls,  again  she  dies,  she  dies! 
How  Avilt  thou  now  the  fatal  sistersi  move! 
No  crime  was  thine,  if  'tis  no  crime  to  love. 
Now  under  hanging  mountains, 
Beside  the  fall  of  fountains, 
Or  where  Hebrus  wanders. 
Rolling  in  meanders,  100 

All   alone, 
Unlnmrd,  unknown. 
He  makes  his  moan; 

1  The  three  fates. 


90 


ALEXANDER  POPE 


307 


And  calls  her  ghost. 
For  ever,  ever,  ever  lost! 
Now  with  Furies  surrounded, 
Despairing,  confounded, 
He  trembles,  he  glows, 
Amidst  Khodope's2  snows; 
See,  wild  as  the  winds,  o'er  the  desert  he  flies; 
Hark!   Ha?mus2  resounds  with  the  Bacchanals' 
cries — 

Ah  see,  he  dies  I  112 

Yet  even  in  death  Eurydice  he  sung. 
Eurydice  still  trembled  on  his  tongue, 
Eurydice  the  woods, 
Eurydice  the  floods, 
Eurydice  the  rocks,  and  hollow  mountains  rung. 


Music  the  fiercest  grief  can  charm. 

And  fate's  severest  rage  disarm: 

Music  can  soften  pain  to  ease,  120 

And  make  despair  and  madness  please: 
Our  joys  below  it  can  improve, 
And  antedate  the  bliss  above. 
This  the  divine  Cecilia  found. 
And  to  her  Maker 's  praise  confined  the  sound. 
When  the  full  organ  joins  the  tuneful  choir, 

Th'  immortal  powers  incline  their  ear, 
Borne  on  the  swelling  notes  our  souls  aspire. 
While  solemn  airs  improve  the  sacred  fire; 

And  angels  lean  from  heaven  to  hear.        130 
Of  Orpheus  now  no  more  let  poets  tell, 
To  bright  CecUia  greater  power  is  givem; 

His  numbers  raised  a  shade  from  hell. 
Hers  lift  the  soul  to  heaven. 

From  AX  ESSAY  ON  CRITICISM. 

'Tis  hard  to  sa\,  if  greater  want  of  skill 
Appear  in  writing  or  in  judging  ill; 
But,  of  the  two,  less  dangerous  is  th '  offence 
To  tire  our  patience,  than  mislead  our  sense. 
Some  few  in  that,  but  numbers  err  in  this. 
Ten  censure  wrong  for  one  who  writes  amiss; 
A  fool  might  once  himself  alone  expose, 
Now  one  in  verse  makes  many  more  in  prose. 
Tis  with  our  judgments  as  our  watches,  none 
Go  just  alike,  yet  each  believes  his  own.        10 
In  poets  as  true  genius  is  but  rare, 
True  taste  as  seldom  is  the  critic  'a  share ; 
Both  must  alike  from  Heaven  derive  their  light. 
These  born  to  judge,  as  well  as  those  to  write. 
Let  such  teach  others,  who  themselves  excel. 
And  censure  freely  who  have  written  well. 
Authors  are  partial  to  their  wit,   'tis  true, 
But  are  not   critics  to  their  judgment  toot 

2  A  monntain  of  Thrace. 


Yet  if  we  look  more  closely  we  shall  find 
Most    have    the    seeds    of    judgment    in    their 

mind :  20 

Nature  affords  at  least  a  glimmering  light ; 
The   Hues,   though    touched     but    faintly,    are 

drawn  right. 
But  as  the  slightest  sketch,  if  justly  traced, 
Is  by  ill-colouring  but  the  more  disgraced. 
So  by  false  learning  is  good  sense  defaced. 

First     follow     Nature    and    your    judgment 
frame 
By  her  just  standard,  which  is  still  the  same: 
Unerring  Nature,  still  divinely  bright,  'O 

One  clear,  unchanged,  and  universal  light. 
Life,  force,  and  beauty,  must  to  aU  impart. 
At  once  the  source,  and  end,  and  test  of  Art. 
Art  from  that  fund  each  just  supply  pro\ides, 
Works  without  show,  and  without  pomp  pre- 
sides; 
In  some  fair  body  thus  th'  informing^  soul 
With  spirits  feeds,  with  vigour  fills  the  whole, 
Each  motion  guides,  and  every  nerve  sustains; 
Itself  unseen,  but  in  th'  effects,  remains. 
Some,  to  whom  Heaven  in  wit*  has  been  pro- 
fuse, 
Want  as  much  more  to  turn  it  to  its  use ;         81 
For  wit  and  judgment  often  are  at  strife; 
Though  meant  each  other's  aid,  like  man  and 

wife. 
'Tis    more    to    guide,    than    spur    the    Muse's 

steed ; 
Restrain  his  fury,  than  provoke  his  speed; 
The  winged  courser,  like  a  generous  horse, 
Shows   most   true   mettle   when   you    check   his 
course. 
Those  rules  of  old  discovered,  not  devised, 
Are  nature  still,  but  nature  methodized; 
Nature,  like  liberty,  is  but  restrained  90 

By  the  same  laws  which  first  herself  ordained. 
Hear  how  learn 'd  Greece  her  useful  rules 
indites, 
When  to  repress  and  when  indulge  our  flights; 
High  on  Parnassus'  top2  her  sons  she  showed. 
And    pointed    out    those    arduous     paths     they 

trod; 
Held  from  afar,  aloft,  th'  immortal  prize. 
And  urged  the  rest  by  equal  steps  to  rise. 
Just  precepts  thus  from  great  examples  given. 
She  drew  from  them  what  they  derived   from 

Heaven. 
The  generous  critic  fanned  the  poet's  fire,    100 

1  animating 

2  Tbe  abode  of  Apollo  and  the  Muses :  figurative 

for  the  bpights  of  poetic  fame. 
♦  This  word  has  here  the  rather  special  18th  cen- 
tury meaning  of  brilliancy  of  intellect,  talent. 


308 


EARLY  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


And  taught  the  world  with  reason  to  admire. 
Then  Criticism  the  Muse's  handmaid  proved, 
To  dress  her  charms  and  make  her  more  be- 
loved : 
But  following  wits  from  that  intention  strayed, 
Who   could    not   win    the    mistress,   wooed   the 

maid ; 
Against  the  poets  their  own  arms  they  turned. 
Sure  to  liate  most  the  men  from  whom  they 

learneil. 
So  modern   'pothecaries,  taught  the  art 
By  doctor's  billss  to  play  the  doctor's  part, 
Bold  in  the  practice  of  mistaken  rules,  HO 

Prescribe,  apply,  and  call  their   masters  fools. 
Some  on  the  leaves  of  ancient  authors  prey, 
Nor  time   nor  motlis   e'er  spoiled   so   much   as 

they. 
Some  drily  plain  without  invention  's  aid, 
Write  dull  receipts  how  poems  may  be  made; 
These  leave  the  sense,  their  learning  to  display. 
And  those  explain  the  meaning  quite  away. 
You  then  whose  judgment  the  right   course 
would  steer. 
Know  Avell  each  ancient's  proper  character; 
His  fable,*  subject,  scope  in  every  page ;        120 
Religion,  country,  genius  of  his  age; 
Without  all  these  at  once  before  your  eyes, 
Cavil  you  may,  but   never  criticise. 
Be  Homer's  works  your  study  and  delight. 
Read  them  by  day,  and  meditate  by  night; 
Thence  form  your  judgment,  thence  your  max- 
ims bring. 
And  trace  the  Muses  upward  to  their  spring. 
Still  with  itself  compared,  his  text  peruse; 
And  let  your  comment  be  the  Mantuan  Muse.5 
When    first   young    Maro^    in    his    boundless 
mind 
A  work  t'  outlast  immortal  Rome  designed,  131 
Perhaps  lie  seemed  above  the  critic 's  law. 
And   but   from   nature's   fountains   scorned   to 

draw ; 
But  when  t'  examine  every  part  he  came, 
Nature  and  Homer  were,  he  found,  tlie  same. 
Convinced,  amazed,  he  checks  the  bold  design; 
Antl  rules  as  strict  his  labouretl  Avork  confine, 
As  if  the  Stagiriteo  o 'erlooked  each  line. 
Learn  hence  for  ancient  rules  a  just  esteem; 
To  copy  nature  is  to  copy  them.  140 

Some  beauties  yet  no  precepts  can  declare, 
For  there's  a  happiness  as  well  as  care. 
Music   resembles  poetry,  in  each 
Are  nameless  graces   which   no  methods   teach, 
,\nd   which  a  masterhan<l  alone  can   reach. 
ff,  where  the  rules  not  far  enough  extend, 


8  proKcriptlonR 
4  Htory.  plot 
6  Virgil. 


6  Aristotle,  the  foremost 
critic  of  ancient 
timeH. 


(Since   rules  were   made  but   to  promote   their 

end) 
Some  lucky  licence  answer  to  the  full 
Th'  intent  proposed,  that  licence  is  a  rule. 
Thus  Pegasus,''  a  nearer  way  to  take,  IjO 

May  boldly  deviate  from  the  common  track. 
Great  wits  sometimes  may  gloriously  offend. 
And  rise  to  faults  true  critics  dare  not  mend ; 
From  vulgar  bounds  with  brave  disorder  ))art, 
And  snatch  a  grace  beyond  the  reach  of  art. 
Which,  without  passing  through  the  ju<lgmeut, 

gains 
The  heart,  and  all  its  end  at  once  attains. 
In  prospects  thus,  some  objects  please  our  eyes, 
Which   out   of  nature's  common  order  rise, 
The  shapeless  rock,  or  hanging  precipice.      160 
But  though  the  ancients  thus  their  ndes  inva<le; 
(As  kings  ilispense  with  laws  themselves  have 

made) 
Moderns  beware!    or  if  you  must  oliend 
Against  the  precept,  ne'er  transgress  its  end; 
Let  it  be  seldom,  and  compelled  by  nee<l ; 
And  have,  at  least,  their  precedent  to  plead. 
The  critic  else  proceeds  without  remorse. 
Seizes  your  fame  and  puts  his  laws  in  force. 
I    know    there    are    to    whose    presumptuous 

thoughts 
Those    freer    beauties,     e\eu    in    them,    seem 

faults.  170 

Some  figures  monstrous  and  mis-shaped  appear, 
Consi(iere<l  singly,  or  beheld  too  near. 
Which,  but  proportioned  to  their  light  or  ])lace, 
Due  distance  reconciles  to  form  and  grace. 
A  prudent  chief  not  always  nuist  display 
His  powers  in  equal  ranks,  and  fair  array. 
But  with  th'  occasion  and  the  place  comply. 
Conceal  his  force,  nay,  seem  sometimes  to  fly. 
Those  oft  are  stratagems  which  errors  seem. 
Nor  is  it  Homer  nods,  but  we  that  dream.     ISO 

Of  all  the  causes  which  conspire  to  blind     -01 
Man's  erring  judgment,  and  misgiiide  tlie  mind, 
Wliat  the  weak  head  with  strongest  bias  rules, 
Is  pride,  the  never- failing  vice  of  fools. 
Wliatever  nature  has  in  worth  denied, 
yiie  gives  in  large  recruits  of  neetiful  pride; 
For  as  in  bodies,  thus  in  souls,  we  find 
What  wants  in  blood  and  spirits,  swelle<l  with 

wind : 
Pride,  where  wit  fails,  steps  in  to  our  defence. 
And  fills  up  all  the  mighty  void  of  sense.       210 
If  once  right  reason  drives  that  cloud  away, 
Truth  breaks  upon  us  with  resistless  day. 
Trust  not  yourself;  but  your  defects  to  know, 
Make  use  of  every  friend — and  every  foe. 

■  The    winged   horse   of  the  Muses. 


ALEXANDER  POPE 


309 


A  little  learning  is  a  dangerous  thing; 
Drink  deep,  or  taste  not  the  Pierian  spring:*    ■ 
There  shallow  draughts  intoxicate  the  brain, 
And  drinking  largely  sobers  us  again.  ; 

Fired  at  first  sight  with  what  the  Muse  imparts,  ', 
In    fearless   youth   we   tempt»    the    heights   of  i 

arts,    '  220; 

While  from  the  bounded  level  of  our  mind 
Short   views  we  take,  nor  see  the  lengths  be-  ' 

hind;  I 

But  more  advanced,  behold  with  strange  sur-  i 

prise  j 

New  distant  scenes  of  endless  science  rise!  \ 

So  pleased  at  first  the  towering  Alps  we  try        , 
Mount   o  'er  the  vales,  and  seem   to  tread   the  j 

sky. 


Applause,  in  spite  of  trivial  faults,  is  due. 
As  men  ot  breeding,  sometimes  men  of  wit, 
T '  avoid  great  errors,  must  the  less  commit : 
Neglect  the  rules  each  verbal  critic  lays,       261 
For  not  tc  know  some  trifles,  is  a  praise. 
Most  critics,  fond  of  some  subser\-ient  art. 
Still  make  the  whole  depend  upon  a  part : 
They  talk  of  principles,  but  notions  prize. 
And  all  to  one  loved  folly  sacrifice. 

Once  on  a  time,  La  Mancha  's  knight,io  they 

say, 
A  certain  bard  encountering  on  the  way, 
Discoursed  in  terms  as  just,  with  looks  as  sage, 
As     e'er     could     Dennis,"     of     the     Grecian 

stage;  271 

Concluding   all  were  desperate  sots  and   fools. 
Who  durs^t  depart  from  Aristotle's  rules. 


Th '  eternal  snows  appear  already  past. 

And  the  first   clouds  and  mountains  seem  the  [  Our  author,  happy  in  a  judge  so  nice, 

last;  j  Produced    his   play,   and    Ijegged    the   knight's 

Hut,  those  attaineil.  we  tremble  to  survey  advice; 

The  growing  labours  of  the  lengthened  way,  -<>o    Made  him  observe  the  subject,  and  the  plot, 
Th'    increasing   prospect   tires    our    wandering    The  manners,  passions,  unities;  12  what  not? 

eyes,  1  All  which,  exact  to  rule,  were  brought  about. 

Hills  peep  o 'er  hills,  and  Alps  on  Alps  arise ! 

A  ]>erfect  judge  will  read  each  work  of  wit 
With  the  same  spirit  that  its  author  writ : 


Were  but  a  combat  in  the  lists  left  out. 
What  I   leave  the  combat  out  i ' '  exclaims  the 
knight ; 


E   Survey  the  whole,  nor  seek  slight  faults  to  find    Yes,  or  we  must  renounce  the  Stagirite.s 


moves,   and   rapture  warms   the 


Where   nature 

mind; 

tor  lose,  for  that  malignant  dull  delight. 
The  generous  pleasure  to  be  charmed  with  wit. 
But  in  such  lays  as  neither  ebb  nor  flow. 
Correctly  cold,  and  regularly  low,  240 

That  shunning  faults,  one  quiet  tenor  keep, 
We  cannot  blame  indeed — but  we  may  sleep. 
In  wit,  as  nature,  what  affects  our  hearts 
Is  not  th'  exactness  of  peculiar  parts; 
"Tis  not  a  lip,  or  eye,  we  beauty  call. 
But  the  joint  force  and  full  result  of  all. 
Thus    when    we    view    some    well-proportioned 

dome, 
(Tlie  world's  just   wonder,  and  even  thine,  O 

Rome ! ) 
No  single  parts  unequally  surprise, 
All  comes  united  to  th'  admiring  eyes;  250 

No    monstrous   height,    or    breadth,    or    length 

appear; 
The  whole  at  once  is  bold,  and  regular. 

Whoever  thinks  a  faultless  piece  to  see, 
[Thinks  what  ne'er  was,  nor  is,  nor  e'er  shall 

be. 

[n  every  work  regard  the  writer's  end, 
ISince  none  can  compass  more  than  they  intend ; 
LAnd  if  the  means  be  just,  the  conduct  true, 

!•  At  the  foot  of  Mt.  Oljmpus.   reputed  birthplace 
of  the  Muses. 
•  attempt 


280 
"Not  so,  by  Heaven"  (he  answers  in  a  rage), 
"Knights,  squires,  and  steeds,  must  enter  on 

I  the  stage." 

I  So  vast  a  throng  the  stage  can  ne'er  contain. 

j  ' '  Then  build  a  new,  or  act  it  in  a  plain. ' ' 
Thus  critics,  of  less  judgment  than  caprice, 

j  Curious  not  knowing,  not  exact  but  nice, 

1  Form  short  ideas;   and  offend  in  arts, 

!  (As  most  in  manners)   by  a  love  to  parts. 
Some  to  conceit  13   alone  their  taste  confine, 

i  And    glittering    thoughts   struck    out    at    every 

!  Une;  290 

I  Pleaseil  with  a  work  where  nothing's  just  or 

'■  fit; 

I  One  glaring  chaos  and  wild  heap  of  wit. 

{  Poets  like  painters,  thus  unskilled  to  trace 
The  naked  nature  and  the  living  grace, 

;  With  gold  and  jewels  cover  every  part. 
And  hide  with  ornaments  their  want  of  art. 

!  True  wit  is  nature  to  advantage  dressetl, 
WTiat  oft   was  thought,  but   ne'er  so  well  ex- 
pressed; 
Something,  whose  trulli  convinced  at  sight  wo 
find. 


10  Don    Quixote     (in     a 

spurious  addition  to 
Cervantes'    work). 

1 1  John  Dennis,  a  critic 

of  thi-  lime,  tho  au- 
thor of  unsuccess- 
ful  tragedies. 


Aristotle's  three  "unl 
ties"  of  time,  place, 
and  action.  (See 
Enfi.   Lit.,  p.  99.) 

•■xtrava  rant  fancy 


310 


EAKLY  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


That  gives  us  back  the  image  of  our  mind.   300 
As  shades  more  sweetly  recommend  the  light, 
So  modest  plainness  sets  off  sprightly  wit. 
For  works  may  have  more  wit  than  does  them 

good, 
As  bodies  perish  through  excess  of  blood. 

Others  for  language  all  their  care  express, 
And  value  books,  as  women  men,  for  dress: 
Their  praise  is  still, — the  style  is  excellent: 
The  sense  they  humbly  take  upon  content.^* 
Words  are  like  leaves;   and  where  they  most 

abound, 
Much  fruit  of  sense  beneath  is  rarely  found: 
False  eloquence,  like  the  prismatic  glass,      311 
Its  gaudy  colours  spreads  on  every  place; 
The  face  of  nature  we  no  more  survey. 
All  glares  alike,  without  distinction  gay: 
But  true  expression,  like  th'  unchanging  sun. 
Clears  and  improves  whate'er  it  shines  upon. 
It  gilds  all  objects,  but  it  alters  none. 
Expression  is  the  dress  of  thought,  and  still 
Appears  more  decent,  as  more  suitable; 
A  vile  conceit  in  pompous  words  expressed,  320 
Is  like  a  clown  in  regal  purple  dressed: 
For    different    styles    with    different    subjects 

sort, 
As  several  garbs  with  country,  town,  and  court. 
Some  by  old   words  to   fame  have  made  pre- 
tence. 
Ancients    in    phrase,    mere    moderns    in    their 

Such  laboured  nothings,  in  so  strange  a  style. 
Amaze   th'   unlearn 'd,   and   make   the   learned 

smile. 
Unlucky,  as  Fungosois  in  the  play, 
These  sparks  with  awkward  vanity  display 
What  the  fine  gentleman  wore  yesterday;      330 
And  but  so  mimic  ancient  wits  at  best, 
As  apes  our  grandsires  in  their  doublets  drest. 
In  words,  as  fashions,  the  same  rule  will  hold; 
Alike  fantastic,  if  too  new,  or  old: 
Be  not  the  first  by  whom  the  new  are  tried. 
Nor  yet  the  last  to  lay  the  old  aside. 

THE  BAPE  OF  THE  LOCK.* 

Canto  I 

What  dire  offence  from  amorous  causes  springs, 
What  mighty  contests  rise  from  trivial  things, 
I  sing. — This  verse  to  Caryll,  Muse!  is  due; 


14  on  trust 

16  A  character  in  Jonson's  Et.ery  Man  Out  of  His 

Humour    who    vainly    tries    to   keep    up   with 

court  fashions. 
•  This  mock-heroic,  or.  as  Pope  styled   it,  "berol- 

comlcal   poem,"    was   publiBbed   first   in   1712 


This,  e'en  Belinda  may  vouchsafe  to  view. 
Slight  is  the  subject,  but  not  so  the  praise. 
If  she  inspire,  and  he  approve  my  lays. 

Say    what    strange   motive,    Goddess!    could 
compel 
A  well-bred  lord  t'  assault  a  gentle  belle? 
Oh,  say  what  stranger  cause,  yet  unexplored, 
Could  make  a  gentle  belle  reject  a  lord?         10 
In  tasks  so  bold,  can  little  men  engage. 
And  in  soft  bosoms  dwells  such  mighty  rage? 

Sol  through  white  curtains  shot  a  timorous 

ray, 
And  oped  those  eyes  that  must  eclipse  the  day. 
Now    lap-dogs    give    themselves    the    rousing 

shake. 
And  sleepless  lovers,  just  at  twelve,  awake. 
Thrice  rung  the  bell,  the  slipper  knocked  the 

ground,! 
And  the  pressed  watch2  returned  a  silver  sound. 
Belinda  still  her  downy  pillow  pressed, 
Her  guardian  sylph  prolonged  the  balmy  rest; 
'Twas  he  had  summoned  to  her  silent  bed  21 
The  morning  dream  that  hovered  o  'cr  her  head ; 
A    youth    more    glittering    than    a    birth-night 

beau,3 
(That   e'en    in    slumber   caused   her   cheek    to 

glow) 
Seemed  to  her  ear  his  winning  lips  to  lay, 
And  thus  in  whispers  said,  or  seemed  to  say: 

"Fairest  of  mortals,  thou  distinguished  care 
Of  thousand  bright  inhabitants  of  air! 
If  e'er  one  vision  touched  thy  infant  thought. 
Of  all  the  nurse  and  all  the  priest  have  taught, 
Of  airy  elves  by  moonlight  shadows  seen,       31 
The  silver  token,*  and  the  circled  green, 
Or  virgins  visited  by  angel  powers. 
With  golden  crowns  and  wreaths  of  heavenly 

flowers ; 
Hear  and  believe!  thy  own  importance  know, 
Nor  bound  thy  narrow  views  to  things  below. 


and  in  the  present  enlarged  form  in  1714.  Tlie 
subject,  proposed  to  I'ope  by  one  Mr.  Caryll, 
was  suggested  by  a  trifling  feud  tliat  had 
arisen  between  two  families  because  I>ord 
Petre,  a  dapper  little  baron,  bad  cut  a  lock 
from  the  head  of  Miss  Arabella  Kermor 
("Belinda").  The  opening  is  in  Imitation  of 
classic  epics,  more  especially  of  V'lrgils  Aincid. 
The  chief  addition  in  the  later  form  is  the 
machinery  of  sylphs,  gnomes,  nymphs,  and 
salamanders,  spirits  inhabiting  air,  earth, 
water,  and  flre,  respectively.  Dr.  Johnson  pro- 
nounced the  poem  "the  most  airy,  the  most 
ingenious,  and  the  most  delightful"  of  all  the 
author's  compositions,  and  De  Quincey  went  so 
far  as  to  declare  it  "the  most  exquisite  monu- 
ment of  playful  fancy  that  universal  literature 
offers." 

1  Summoning  the  lady's-      <  Silver    pieces    dropped 

maid.  by  fairies   Into   the 

2  A   striking-watch.  shoes  of  tidy  maids. 

3  One  befitting  the  royal 

birthday  ball. 


ALEXANDER  POPE 


311 


Some   secret   truths,   from   learned   pride   con-  j 
cealed,  j 

To  maids  alone  and  children  are  revealed 
What  though  no  credit  doubting  wits  may  give  ? 
The  fair  and  innocent  shall  still  believe.         -10 
Know,  then,  unnumbered  spirits  round  thee  fly, 
The  light  militia  of  the  lower  sky. 
These,  though  unseen,  are  ever  on  the  wing. 
Hang  o  'er  the  box,5  and  hover  round  the  Ring.s 
Think  what  an  equipage  thou  hast  in  air, 
And  view  with  scorn  two  pages  and  a  chair.^ 
As  now  your  own,  our  beings  were  of  old. 
And     once     enclosed    in     woman's     beauteous 

mould; 
Thence,  by  a  soft  transition,  we  repair 
From  earthly  vehicles  to  these   of  air,  50 

Think  not,  when  Avoman's  transient   breath  is 

fled, 
That  all  her  vanities  at  once  are  dead; 
Succeeding  vanities  she  still  regards, 
And  though  she  plays  no  more,  o  'erlooks  the 

cards. 
Her  joy  in  gilded  chariots,  when  alive. 
And  love  of  ombre,*  after  death  survive. 
For  when  the  fair  in  all  their  pride  expire, 
To  their  first  elements  their  souls  retire: 
The  sprites  of  fiery  termagants  in  flame 
Mount  up,  and  take  a  salamander's  name.       60 
Soft  yielding  minds  to  water  glide  away, 
And  sip,  with  nymphs,  their  elemental  tea. 
The  graver  prude  sinks  downward  to  a  gnome, 
In  search  of  mischief  still  on  earth  to  roam. 
The  light  coquettes  in  sylphs  aloft  repair. 
And  sport  and  flutter  in  the  fields  of  air. 
"Know     further    yet:     whoever     fair     and 
chaste 
Rejects  mankind,  is  by  some  sylph  embraced; 
For  spirits,  freed  from  mortal  laws,  with  ease 
Assume    what    sexes    and    what    shapes    they 

please. 
What  guards  the  purity  of  melting  maids,      "1 
In  courtly  balls,  and  midnight  masquerades, 
Safe  from  the  treacherous  friend,  the  daring 

spark,» 
The  glance  by  day,  the  whisper  in  the  dark. 
When  kind   occasion  prompts  their  warm   de- 
sires, 
When  music  softens,  and  when  dancing  fires? 
'Tis  but  their  sylph,  the  wise  celestials  kno«, 
Though  honour  is  the  word  with  men  below. 
Some  nymphs  there  are,  too  conscious  of  their 

face. 
For  life  predestined  to  the  gnomes'  embrace.  80 


5  At  the  theater. 

6  A    fashionable    prome- 

nade In  Hyde  Park. 


'  sedan-chair 

X  A  game  at  cards. 

<•  gallant 


These    swell    their    prospects    and    exalt    their 

pride. 
When  offers  are  disdained,  and  love  denied: 
Then  gay  ideas  crowd  the  vacant  brain, 
While  peers,  and  dukes,  and  all  their  sweeping 

train. 
And  garters,  stars,  and  coronets  appear, 
And  in  soft  sounds  'Your  Grace'  salutes  their 

ear. 
'Tis  these  that  early  taint  the  female  soul. 
Instruct  the  eyes  of  young  coquettes  to  roll. 
Teach  infant  cheeks  a  bidden  blush  to  know. 
And  little  hearts  to  flutter  at  a  beau.  90 

"Oft  when  the  world  imagine  women  stray. 
The  sylphs  through  mystic  mazes  guide  their 

way. 
Through  all  the  giddy  circle  they  pursue. 
And  old  impertinence  expel  by  new. 
What  tender  maid  but  must  a  victim  fall 
To  one  man's  treat,  but  for  another's  ball? 
When   Florio   speaks,  what   virgin   could   with- 
stand. 
If  gentle  Damon  did  not  squeeze  her  hand  F 
With  varying  vanities,  from  every  part. 
They  shift  the  moving  toyshop  of  their  heart; 
Where  wigs  with  wigs,  with  sword-knots  sword- 
knots  strive,  101 
Beaux  banish  beaux,  and  coaches  coaches  drive. 
This  erring  mortals  levity  may  call; 
Oh,  blind  to  truth!  the  sylphs  contrive  it  all. 
"Of  these  am  I,  who  thy  protection  claim, 
A  watchful  sprite,  and  Ariel  is  my  name. 
Late,  as  I  ranged  the  crystal  wilds  of  air, 
In  the  clear  mirror  of  thy  ruling  star 
I  saw,  alas!  some  dread  event  impend. 
Ere  to  the  mainio  this  morning  sun  descend,  HO 
But  Heaven  reveals  not  what,  or  how,  or  where. 
Warned  by  the  sylph,  O  pious- maid,  beware  I 
This  to  disclose  is  all  thy  guardian  can: 
Beware  of  all,  but  most  beware  of  man ! ' ' 
He  said;  when  Shock,  who  thought  she  slept 
too  long. 
Leaped   up,   and   waked  his   mistress   with   his 

tongue. 
'Twas  then,  Belinda,  if  report  say  true. 
Thy  eyes  first  opened  on  a  billet-doux; 
Wounds,  charms,  and  ardours  were  no  sooner 

read. 
But  all  the  vision  vanished  from  thy  head.    120 
And    now,    unveiled,    the    toilet    stands    dis- 
played. 
Each  silver  vase  in  mystic  order  laid. 
First,  robed  in  white,  the  nymph  intent  adores. 
With  head  uncovered,  the  cosmetic  powers. 
A  heavenly  image  in  the  glass  appears. 


312 


EARLY  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


To  that  she  bends,  to  that  her  eyes  she  rears ; 
Th  ■  inferior  priestess,  at  her  altar 's  side. 
Trembling  begins  the  sacred  rites  of  pride. 
Unnumbered  treasures  ope  at  once,  and  here 
The  various  oiferings  of  the  world  appear;  loO 
From  eat'li  she  nicely  culls  with  curious  toil. 
And    decks    the    goddess    with    the    glittering; 

spoil. 
This  casket  India's  glowing  gems  unlocks, 
And  all  Arabia  breathes  from  yonder  box. 
The  tortoise  here  and  elephant  unite, 
Transformed   to   combs,  the  speckled,   and   the 

white. 
Here  files  of  pins  extend  their  shining  rows. 
Puffs,  powders,   patches,  bibles,  billets-doux. 
Now  awful  beauty  puts  on  all  its  arms;       139 
The  fair  each  moment  rises  in  her  charms. 
Repairs  her  smiles,  awakens  every  grace, 
And  calls  forth  all  the  wonders  of  her  face; 
Sees  by  degrees  a  purer  blush  arise, 
And  keener  lightnings  quicken  in  her  eyes. 
The  busy  sylphs  surround  their  darling  care, 
These  set  the  head,"  and  those  divide  the  hair, 
Some   fold  the   sleeve,   whilst   others   plait    the 

gown; 
And  Betty's  praised  for  labours  not  her  own. 

Can TO  II 

Not  with  more  glories,  in  th '  ethereal  |)Iain, 
The  sun  first  rises  o'er  the  purpled   main. 
Than,  issuing  forth,  the  rival  of  his  beams 
Launched  on  the  bosom  of  the  silver  Thames. 
Fair   nymphs,   and   well-dressed  youths  around 

her  shone. 
But  every  eye  was  fixed  on  her  alone. 
On  her  white  breast  a  sparkling  cross  she  wore, 
Which  Jews  might  kiss,  and  infidels  adore. 
Her  lively  looks  a  sprightly  mind  disclose, 
Quick  as  her  eyes,  and  as  unfixed  as  those;     10 
Favours  to  none,  to  all  she  smiles  extends; 
Oft   she  rejects,   but  never  once  offends. 
Bright  as  the  sun,  her  eyes  the  gazers  strike. 
And,  like  the  sun,  they  shine  on  all  alike. 
Yet  graceful  ease,  and  sweetness  void  of  prido, 
Might  hide  her  faults,  if  belles  had  fatilts  lo 

hide ; 
If  lo  her  share  some  female  errors  fall, 
I^ok  on  her  face,  and  you  '11  forget   'em  all. 

This  nymph,  to  the  destruction  of  mankind. 
Nourished  two  locks,  which  graceful  hung  be- 
hind 
In  equal  curls,  and  well  conspired  to  deck     21 
With  shining  ringlets  the  smooth  ivory  neck. 
Love  in  these  labyrinths  his  slaves  detains, 

n  hpad-dress 


And  mighty  hearts  are  held  in  slender  chains. 
With  hairy  springes,  we  the  birds  betray. 
Slight  lines  of  hair  surprise  the  finny  prey, 
Fair  tresses  man  's  imperial  race  ensnare, 
And  beauty  draws  us  with  a  single  hair. 
Th'  adventurous  baron  the  bright  locks  ad- 
mired ; 
He  saw,  he  wished,  and  to  the  jirize  aspired.  30 
Resolved  to  win,  he  meditates  the  way, 
By  force  to  ravish,  or  by  f rau<l  betray ; 
Kor  when  success  a  lover 's  toil  attends, 
I'ew  ask,  if  fraud  or  force  attained  liis  ends. 

For  this,  ere  Phoebus  rose,  he  had  implored 
Propitious  Heaven,  and  every  power  adored. 
But  chiefly  I^ove;   to  Love  an  altar  l)uilt, 
Of  twelve  vast  French  romances,!  neatly  gilt. 
There  lay  three  garters,  half  a  pair  of  gloves. 
And  all  the  trophies  of  his  former  loves;        40 
With  tender  billets-doux  he  lights  the  pyre. 
And  breathes  three  amorous  sighs  to  raise  the 

fire. 
Then  prostrate  falls,  and  begs  with  ardent  eyes 
Soon  to  obtain,  and  long  possess  the  prize. 
The    powers    gave    ear,    and    granted    lialf    liis 

prayer; 
The  rest  the  winds  dispersed  in  empty  air. 

But  now  secure  the  painted  vessel  glides, 
The  sunbeams  trembling  on  the  floating  tides; 
While  melting  music  steals  upon  the  sky, 
And  softened  sounds  along  the  waters  die;     •'>0 
Smooth  flow  the  waves,  the  zephyrs  gently  play, 
Belinda  smiled,  and  all  the  world  was  gay. 
.\11   but   the   sylph — with  careful   thoughts   op- 
pressed, 
Th'  impending  woe  sat  heavy  on  his  breast. 
He  summons  straight  his  denizens  of  air; 
The  lucid  squadrons  round  the  siils  repair; 
Soft  o'er  the  shrouds  aerial  whisi)ors  Ineathe, 
That  seemed  but  zephyrs  to  the  train  beneath. 
Some  to  the  sun  their  insect  wings  unfold. 
Waft  on  the  breeze,  or  sink  in  clouds  of  gold ; 
Transparent  forms,  too  fine  for  mortal  sight,  Ol 
Their  fluid  bodies  half  dissolved  in  light. 
Loose  to  the  wind  their  airy  garments  flew, 
Thin  glittering  textures  of  the  filmy  dew.-' 
Dipt  in  the  richest  tincture  of  the  skies. 
Where  light  disports  in  ever-mingling  dyes. 
While  every  beam  new  transient  colours  fling>, 
Colours  that  change  whene'er  they  wave  their 

wings. 
Amid  the  circle,  on  the  gilded  mast 
Superior  by  the  head,  was  Ariel  placed ;  T*' 


1  Ponderous  romnnoes. 
like  Mile,  de  Scn- 
dcry's  Lr  Grand 
f'l/ruH  and  CUlie, 
fhon  In  voguo. 


•-' ^lossamer  tonce  sup- 
posed to  be  a  prod- 
uct of  dew) 


ALEXANDER  POPE 


313 


\  His  purple  pinions  opening  to  the  sun, 
He  raised  his  azure  wand,  and  thus  begun: 
"Ye  sylphs  and  srlphids,  to  your  chief  give 

ear! 
Fays,  fairies,  genii,  elves,  and  demons,  hear! 
Ye   know    the   spheres,    and    various    tasks   as- 
signed 

:  By  laws  eternal  to  th'  aerial  kind. 
Some  in  the  fields  of  purest  sether  play, 
And  bask  and  whiten  in  the  blaze  of  day. 
Some  guide  the  course  of  wandering  orbs  on 

high, 
Or  roll  the  planets  through  the  boundless  sky. 
Some   less   refined,   beneath    the   moon's    pale 

light  81 

Pursue  the  stars  that  shoot  athwart  the  night. 
Or  suck  the  mists  in  grosser  air  below, 
Or  dip  their  pinions  in  the  painted  bow. 
Or  brew  fierce  tempests  on  the  wintry  maiu. 
Or  o'er  the  glebe  distil  the  kindly  rain; 
Others  on  earth  o'er  human  race  preside, 
Watch   all    their   ways,   and   all    their   actions 

guide: 
Of  these  the  chief  the  care  of  nations  own. 
And  guard  with  arms  divine  the  British  throne. 
'  *  Our  humbler  province  is  to  tend  the  fair.  91 
Not  a  less  pleasing,  though  less  glorious  care; 
To  save  the  powder  from  too  rude  a  gale. 
Nor  let  th'  imprisoned  essences  exhale; 
To  draw  fresh  colours  from  the  vernal  flowers; 
To    steal    from    rainbows,    ere    they    drop    in 

showers, 
A  brighter  wash;  to  curl  their  waving  hairs. 
Assist  their  blushes,  and  inspire  their  airs; 
\ay,  oft  in  dreams,  invention  we  bestow. 
To  change  a  flounce,  or  add  a  furbelow.       lOO 
•'This  day,  black  omens  threat  the  brightest 

fair 
That  e'er  deserved  a  watchful  spirit's  care; 
Some  dire  disaster,  or  by  force,  or  sleight; 
But  what,  or  where,  the  fates  have  wrapped  in 

night. 
Whether  the  nymph  shall  break  Diana's  law. 
Or  some  frail  china  jar  receive  a  flaw; 
Or  stain  her  honour,  or  her  new  brocade; 
Forget  her  prayers,  or  miss  a  masquerade; 
Or  lose  her  heart,  or  necklace,  at  a  ball; 
Or   whether    Heaven   has   doomed   that    Shock 

must  falL  HO 

Haste,  then,  ye  spirits  I  to  your  charge  repair; 
The  fluttering  fan  be  Zephyretta's  care; 
The  drops"  to  thee.  Brillante,  we  consign; 
And,  Momentilla,  let  the  watch  be  thine; 
Do  thou,  Crispissa,  tend  her  favourite  lock; 
Ariel  himself  shall  be  the  guard  of  Shock. 

3  ear-rings 


* '  Whatever  spirit,  careless  of  his  charge, 
His  post  neglects,  or  leaves  the  fair  at  large. 
Shall   feel   sharp  vengeance  soon  overtake   his 

sins. 
Be  stopped  in  vials,  or  transfixed  with  pins; 
Or  plunged  in  lakes  of  bitter  washes  lie, 
Or  wedged  whole  ages  in  a  bodkin's  eye; 
Gums  and  pomatums  shall  his  flight  restrain. 
While  clogged   he   beats   his   silken    wings   in 

vain; 
Or  alum  styptics  with  contracting  power       131 
Shrink  his  thin  essence  like  a  rivelled^  flower; 
Or,  as  Ixion  fixed,  the  wretch  shall  feel 
The  giddy  motion  of  the  whirling  mill,^ 
In  fumes  of  burning  chocolate  shall  glow. 
And  tremble  at  the  sea  that  froths  below ! ' ' 

He  spoke;  the  spirits  from  the  sails  descend ; 
Some,  orb  in  orb,  around  the  nymph  extend; 
Some  thrid  the  mazy  ringlets  of  her  hair; 
Some  hang  upon  the  pendants  of  her  ear;     HO 
With  beating  hearts  the  dire  event  they  wait, 
Anxiou     and  trembling  for  the  birth  of  fate. 

Canto  III 

Close   by   those    meads,    forever   crowned   with 

flowers. 
Where   Thames   with   pride  surveys   his    rising 

towers. 
There  stands  a  structure  of  majestic  frame,  > 
Which   from  the   neighbouring  Hampton  takes 

its  name. 
Here  Britain's  statesmen  oft  the  fall  foredoom 
Of  foreign  tyrants  and  of  nymphs  at  home; 
Here   thou,   great    Anna!    whom   three    realms 

obey. 
Dost   somerimes   counsel   take — and   sometimes 

tea. 
Hither  the  heroes  and  the  nymphs  resort, 
To  taste  awhile  the  pleasures  of  a  court;         10 
In    various    talk    th'    instructive    hours    they 

passed. 
Who  gave  the  ball,  or  paid  the  visit  last; 
One  speaks  the  glory  of  the  British  Queen, 
And  one  describes  a  charming  Indian  screen ; 
.\  third  interprets  motions,  looks,  and  eyes; 
At  every  word  a  reputation  dies. 
SnuflF,  or  the  fan,  supply  each  pause  of  chat. 
With  singing,  laughing,  ogling,  and  all  that. 

Meanwhile,  declining  from  the  noon  of  day. 
The  sun  obliquely  shoots  his  burning  ray;  20 
The  hungry  judges  soon  the  sentence  sign, 


4  shriveled 


5  chocolate-mill 


I  Hampton  Court,  at  times  a  royal  residence. 


314 


EARLY  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


And  wretches  hang  that  jurymen  may  dine; 
The   merchant   from   th'   Exchange  returns  in 

peace, 
And  the  long  labours  of  the  toilet  cease. 
Belinda  now,  whom  thirst  of  fame  invites, 
Burns  to   encounter  two   adventurous   knights, 
At   ombre   singly  to   decide   their   doom; 
And   swells  her   breast  with   conquests  yet   to 

come.  I 

Straight   the   three  bands   prepare   in   arms   to  | 

join. 
Each  band  the  number  of  the  sacred  nine.2     30 
Soon  as  she  spreads  her  hand,  th'  aerial  guard 
Descend,  and  sit  on  each  important  card: 
First,  Ariel  perched  upon  a  Matadore,^ 
Then  each,  according  to  the  rank  they  bore; 
For  sylphs,  yet  mindful  of  their  ancient  race, 
Are,  as  when  women,  wondrous  fond  of  place. 

Behold,  four  kings  in  majesty  revered. 
With  hoary  whiskers  and  a  forky  beard; 
And   four  fair  queens  whose  hands  sustain  a 

flower. 
The  expressive  emblem  of  their  softer  power; 
Four  knaves  in  garbs  succinct,  a  trusty  band,  41 
Caps  on  their  heads,  and  halberts  in  their  hand; 
And  parti-coloured  troops,  a  shining  train. 
Draw  forth  to  combat  on  the  velvet  plain. 
The   skilful   nymph   reviews   her    force   with 

care : 
Let  spades  be  trumps!    she  said,  and  trumps 

they  were. 
Now  move  to  war  her  sable  Matadores, 
In  show  like  leaders  of  the  swarthy  Moors. 
Spadillio  first,  unconquerable  lord! 
Led    off    two    captive    trumps    and    swept    the 

board.  ^^ 

As  many  more  Manillio  forced  to  yield 
And  marched  a  victor  from  the  verdant  field. 
Him  Basto  followed,  but  his  fate  more  hard 
Gained  but  one  trump  and  one  plebeian  card. 
With  his  broad  sabre  next,  a  chief  in  years. 
The  hoary  majesty  of  spades  appears. 
Puts  forth  one  manly  leg,  to  sight  revealed. 
The  rest  his  many-coloured  robe  concealed. 
The  rebel  knave,  who  dares  his  prince  engage. 
Proves  the  just  victim  of  his  royal  rage. 
E  'en  mighty  Pam,<  that  kings  and  queens  o  'er- 

threw, 
And  mowed  down  armies  in  the  fights  of  Loo, 
Sad  chance  of  war!  now  destitute  of  aid, 


2  Each  playor  holds  nino  cards. 

:t  Tlif  thrrt'  host  cardH — Spadillio.  aop  of  spados ; 
Manillio,  a  trump ;  and  Basto,  ace  of  clubs — 
were  ouch  called  a  Matadorc  (Spanish  for  the 
slaver  In  a  hull-flKht ). 

4  Knave  of  chihs,  the  lil{j;heHt  card  in  the  game  of 

I  AM. 


Falls  undistinguished  by  the  victor  spade! 

Thus  far  both  armies  to  Belinda  yield; 
Now  to  the  baron  fate  inclines  the  field. 
His  warlike  Amazon  her  host  invades. 
The  imperial  consort  of  the  crown  of  spades; 
The  club's  black  tyrant  first  her  victim  died, 
Spite  of  his  haughty  mien,  and  barbarous  pride. 
What  boots  the  regal  circle  on  his  head,         "1 
His  giant  limbs,  in  state  unwieldy  spread; 
That  long  behind  he  trails  his  pompous  robe, 
And,  of  all  monarchs,  only  grasps  the  globe? 
The  baron  now  his  diamonds  pours  apace; 
Th'  embroidered  king  who  shows  but  half  his 

face, 
And  his  refulgent  queen,  with  powers  combined. 
Of  broken  troops  an  easy  conquest  find. 
Clubs,  diamonds,  hearts,  in  wild  disorder  seen, 
With    throngs    promiscuous     strew     the     level 

gi'een. 
Thus  when  dispersed  a  routed  army  runs,       81 
Of  Asia's  troops,  and  Afric's  sable  sons, 
With  like  confusion  different  nations  fly, 
Of  various  habit,  and  of  various  dye. 
The  pierced  battalions  disunited   fall, 
In  heaps  on  heaps ;   one  fate  o  'erwhelms  them 

all. 
The  knave  of  diamonds  tries  his  wily  arts. 
And  wins  (oh  shameful  chance!)   the  queen  of 

hearts. 
At  this  the  blood  the  virgin 's  cheek  forsook, 
A  livid  paleness  spreads  o'er  all  her  look;       90 
She  sees,  and  trembles  at  th'  approaching  ill, 
Just  in  the  jaws  of  ruin,  and  codille.s 
And  now  (as  oft  in  some  distempered  state) 
On  one  nice  trick  depends  the  general  fate. 
An  ace  of  hearts  steps  forth;  the  king  unseen 
Lurked  in  her  hand,  and  mourned  his  captive 

queen : 
He  springs  to  vengeance  with  an  eager  pace. 
And  falls  like  thunder  on  the  prostrate  ace. 
The  nymph  exulting  fills  with  shouts  the  sky; 
The  walls,  the  woods,  and  long  canals  reply.  100 

Oh  thoughtless  mortals!  ever  blind  to  fate, 
Too  soon  dejected,  and  too  soon  elate. 
Sudden,  these  honours  shall  be  snatched  away, 
And   cursed   forever  this  victorious  day. 
For  lo!   the  board  with  cups  and  spoons  is 

crownetl. 
The  berries"  crackle,  and  the  mill  turns  round; 
On  shining  altars  of  Japan^  they  raise 
The  silver  lamp;  the  fiery  spirits  bla7.e; 
From  silver  spouts  the  grateful  liquors  glide, 
While  China's  earth  receives  the  smoking  tide; 


A  term  siRnlfylnB  de- 
feat of  the  lone 
hand,  who  loses  the 
pool. 


fl  coffee  berries 
T  Japanned  tables 


ALEXANDER  POPE 


315 


At  once  they  gratify  their  scent  and  taste,   m 
And  frequent  cups  prolong  the  rich  repast. 
Straight  hover  round  the  fair  her  airy   band; 
Some,  as  she  sipped,  the  fuming  liquor  fanned, 
Some   o  'er   her  lap   their   careful   plumes   dis- 
played, 
Trembling,  and  conscious  of  the  rich  brocade, 
t'oflfee  (which  makes  the  politician  wise. 
And  see  through  all  things  with  his  half -shut 

eyes) 
Sent  up  in  vapours  to  the  baron's  brain 
New  stratagems  the  radiant  lock  to  gain.      120 
Ah,  cease,  rash  youth!  desist  ere   'tis  too  late. 
Fear  the  just  gods,  and  think  of  Scylla's*  fate! 
Changed  to  a  bird,  and  sent  to  flit  in  air. 
She  dearly  pays  for  Nisus'  injured  hair! 

But  when  to  mischief  mortals  bend  their  will. 
How  soon  they  find  fit  instruments  of  ill! 
Just  then  Clarissa  drew  with  tempting  grace 
A  two-eilged  weapon  from  her  shining  case: 
So  ladies  in  romance  assist  their  knight,       129 
Present  the  spear,  and  arm  him  for  the  fight. 
He  takes  the  gift  with  reverence,  and  extends 
The  little  engine  on  his  fingers'  ends; 
This  just  behind  Belinda's  neck  he  spread. 
As   o'er   the    fragrant    steams    she    bends   her 

head. 
Swift  to  the  lock  a  thousand  sprites  repair, 
A    thousand   wings,   by   turns,   blow   back    the 

hair; 
And  thrice  they  twitched  the  diamond  in  her 

ear; 
Thrice  she  looked  back,  and  thrice  the  foe  drew 

near. 
Just  in  that  instant,  anxious  Ariel  sought 
The  close  recesses  of  the  virgin 's  thought ;     140 
As  on  the  nosegay  in  her  breast  reclined, 
He  watched  th'  ideas  rising  in  her  mind. 
Sudden  he  viewed,  in  spite  of  all  her  art, 
.\n  earthly  lover  lurking  at  her  heart. 
Amazed,  confused,  he  found  his  power  expired, 
Resigned  to  fate,  and  with  a  sigh  retired. 
The  peer  now  spreads  the  glittering  forfex» 

wide, 
T '  inclose  the  lock ;  now  joins  it,  to  divide. 
E'en  then,  before  the  fatal  engine  closed, 
A  wretched  sylph  too  fondly  interposed;       150 
Fate  urged   the  shears,  and  cut  the  sylph  in 

twain, 
(But  airy  substance  soon  unites  again).*® 
The  meeting  points  the  sacred  hair  dissever 
From  the  fair  head,  forever,  and  forever! 


8  King  Xisus'  daughter.      9  shears   (Latin) 

who    betrayed    her      i"A  parody  of  Paradise 
father    by    sending  Lo«t,  vi.,  330. 

the    enemy    one    of 
bis   hairs. 


Then  flashed  the  living  lightning  from  her 

eyes. 
And    screams    of    horror    rend    th'    affrighted 

skies. 
Not  louder  shrieks  to  pitying  Heaven  are  cast. 
When  husbands,  or  when  lap-dogs  breathe  their 

last; 
Or  when  rich  China  vessels,  fallen  from  high. 
In  glittering  dust  and  painted  fragments  lie! 
"Let  wreaths  of   triumph   now   my  temples 

twine,"  l«l 

The  victor  cried;  "the  glorious  prize  is  mine! 
While  fish  in  streams,  or  birds  delight  in  air, 
Or  in  a  coach  and  six  the  British  fair. 
As  long  as  Atalantis"  shall  be  read, 
Or  the  small  pillow  grace  a  lady's  betl. 
While  visits  shall  be  paid  on  solemn  days, 
When    numerous    wax-lights    in    bright    order 

blaze. 
While  nymphs  take  treats,  or  assignations  give, 
So  long  my  honour,  name,  and  praise  shall  live! 
What  Time  would  spare,  from  steel  receives  its 

date,i2  IJI 

And  monuments,  like  men,  submit  to  fate! 
Steel  could  the  labour  of  the  gods  destroy, 
And    strike    to    dust    th'    imperial    towers    of 

Troy; 
Steel  could  the  works  of  mortal  pride  confound. 
And  hew  triumphal  arches  to  the  ground. 
What    wonder    then,    fair    nymph!    thy    hairs 

should  feel. 
The  conquering  force  of  unresisted  steel  t" 


Canto  IV 

But  anxious  cares  the  pensive  nymph  oppressed, 
And  secret  passions  laboured  in  her  breast. 
Not  youthful  kings  in  battle  seized  alive, 
Not  scornful  virgins  who  their  charms  survive, 
Not  ardent  lovers  robbed  of  all  their  bliss. 
Not  ancient  ladies  when  refused  a  kiss. 
Not  tyrants  fierce  that  unrepenting  die. 
Not  Cynthiai  when  her  manteau  's  pinned  awry. 
E'er  felt  such  rage,  resentment,  and  despair. 
As  thou,  sad  virgin,  for  thy  ravished  hair.     10 
For,  that  sad  moment,  when  the  sylphs  with- 
drew 
And  Ariel  weeping  from  Belinda  flew, 
Umbriel,  a  dusky,  melancholy  sprite, 
As  ever  sullied  the  fair  face  of  light, 
Down  to  the  central  earth,  his  proper  scene, 


11  A  .scandalous  novel  of  the  time  by  Mrs.  Manley. 

12  fatal  day 


1  Any    frivoloQs    society   woman. 


31(5 


EARLY  EKJHTEEA'TH  CENTURY 


Repaired  to  seanh  tlie  j;looiuy  eave  of  Spleeu.2 

Swift  on  his  sooty  pinious  flits  the  guoine, 
And  in  a  vapour  reached  the  dismal  dome. 
No  cheerful  breeze  this  sullen  region  kuows, 
The  dreaded  east  is  all  the  wind  that  blows.  20 
Here  in  a  grotto,  sheltered  close  from  air, 
And   screened    in   shades   from    day's   detested 

glare, 
She  sighs  forever  on  her  pensive  bed. 
Pain  at  her  side,  and  Megrim^  at  her  head. 
Two    handmaids   wait-*    the   throne,    alike    in 

place, 
But  differing  far  in  figure  and  in  face. 
Here  stood  Ill-nature  like  an  ancient  maid. 
Her  wrinkled  form  in  black  and  white  arrayed ; 
With   store   of   prayers,   for   mornings,    nights, 

and  noons 
Her  hand  is  filled;  her  bosom  with  lampoons.  30 
There  Aflfectation,  with  a  sickly  mien. 
Shows  in  her  cheek  the  roses  of  eighteen, 
Practised  to  lisp,  and  hang  the  head  aside. 
Faints  into  airs,  and  languishes  with  pride. 
On  the  rich  quilt  sinks  with  becoming  woe, 
Wrapped  in  a  gown,  for  sickness,  and  for  show. 
The  fair  ones  feel  such  maladies  as  these. 
When  each  new  night-dress  gives  a  new  disease. 
'  A  constant  vapour  o  'er  the  palace  flies ; 
Strange  phantoms  rising  as  the  mists  arise;  40 
Dreadful,     as     hermit's     dreams     in     haunted 

shades, 
Or  bright,  as  visions  of  expiring  maids. 
Now    glaring    fiends,    and    snakes    on    rolling 

spires, 
Pale  spectres,  gaping  tombs,  and  purple  fires; 
Now  lakes  of  liquid  gold,  Elysian  scenes. 
And  crystal  domes,  and  angels  in  machines.'' 

Unnumbered  throngs  on  every  side  are  seen, 
Of  bodies  changed  to  various  forros  by  Spleen. 
Here  living  tea-pots  stand,  one  arm  held  out. 
One  bent;  the  handle  this,  and  that  the  spout. 
A  pipkin  there,  like  Homer's  tripod,  walks;"  ;'.! 
Here  sighs  a  jar,  and  there  a  goose-pie  talks. 

Safe  past  the  gnome  through  this  fantastic 
band, 
A  branch  of  healing  spleenwort  in  his  hand. 
Then  thus   addressed  the  power:   "Hail,  way- 
ward queen! 
Who  rule  the  sex.  to  fifty  from  fifteen: 
Parent  of  vapours  and  of  female  wit; 
Who  give  th '  hysteric,  or  poetic  fit ;  60 

On  various  tempers  act  by  various  ways, 
Make  some  take  physic,  others  scribble  plays; 
Who  cause  the  proud  their  visits  to  delay, 


2  III  humor 
s  low  «i>lrlt« 
»  Miipply    "at." 


r.  statio  rtc vices 
«  I  Unit,  xvlll.,  .*!7.'l. 


And  send  the  godly  in  a  pet  to  pray. 

A  nymph  there  is,  that  all  thy  power  disdains. 

And  thousands  more  in  equal  mirth  maintains. 

But  oh!  if  e'er  thy  gnome  could  s])oil  a  grace, 

Or  raise  a  pimple  on  a  beauteous  face. 

Like  citron-waters  matrons'  cheeks  inflame, 

Or  change  complexions  at  a  losing  game.       TO 

Hear,  me,  and  touch  Belinda  with  chagrin, 
That    single    act    gives    half    the    world    the 
spleen. ' ' 
The  goddess  with  a  discontented  air  "!' 

Seems    to    reject    him,    though    she   grants    his 

prayer. 
A  wondrous  bag  with  both  her  hands  she  binds. 
Like  that  where  once  Ulysses  held  the  winds;" 
There  she  collects  the  force  of  female  lungs. 
Sighs,    sobs,    and    passions,    and    the    war    of 

tongues. 
A  vial  next  she  fills  with  fainting  fears, 
Soft  sorrows,  melting  griefs,  and  flowing  tears. 
The  gnome  rejoicing  bears  her  gifts  away, 
Spreads   his   black   wings,    and    slowly   mounts 
to  day. 
Sunk    in    Thalestris's    arms    the    nymph    he 
found. 
Her  eyes  dejected  and  her  hair  unbound.       90 
Full  0  'er  their  heads  the  swelling  bag  he  rent, 
And  all  the  furies  issued  at  the  vent. 
Belinda  burns  with  more  than  mortal  ire, 
Antl  fierce  Thalestris  fans  the  rising  fire. 
"O    wretched    mai<l!"    she    spread    her    hands 

and  cried, 
(While  Hampton's  echoes,  "W' retched  maid!  " 

replied) 
"Was  it  for  this  you  took  such  constant  care 
The  bodkin,  comb,  and  essence  to  prepare? 
i'or  this  your  locks  in  paper  durance  bound,  !>!* 
I'or  this  with  torturing  irons  wreathed  around .' 
For  this  with  fillets  strained  your  tender  head, 
And  bravely  bore  the  double  loads  of  lead?" 
Gods!   shall  the  ravisher  display  your  hair, 
While  the  fops  envy,  and  the  ladies  stare! 
Honour  forbid!    at  whose  unrivalled  shrine 
Kase,  pleasure,  virtue,  all  our  sex  resign. 
Methinks  already  I  your  tears  survey, 
Already  hear  the  horrid  things  they  say, 
Already  see  you  a  degraded   toast, 
And  all  your  honour  in  a  whisper  lost!  I'f* 

How  shall  1,  then,  your  helpless  fame  defend  .' 
'Twill  then  be  infamy  to  seem  your  friend! 
And  shall  this  prize,  th'  inestimable  prize. 
Exposed   through  crystal  to  the  gazing  eyes, 

7  Odysttey  x.,  20. 

s  For  Mrs.   Morley,  a  sister  of  Sir  (icorjio  Brown. 

the  '"Sir  riiime"  of  line  llil. 
!'  leaded  curl-pupors 


ALEX  AN  DEB  POPE 


1 17 


And  heightened  by  the  diamond  's  circling  rays, 
Uu   that   rapacious  hand   forever  blaze? 
Sooner  shall  grass  in  Hyde  Park  Circus»«>  grow, 
And  wits  take  lodgings  in  the  sound  of  Bow ;  1 1 
Sooner  let  earth,  air,  sea,  to  chaos  fall,  119 

Men,  monkeys,  lap-dogs,  parrots,  i>eri8h  all!" 
She  said;  then  raging  to  Sir  Plume  repairs. 
And  bids  her  beau  demand  the  precious  hairs 
tSir  Plume,  of  amber  snuff-box  justly  vain, 
And  the  nice  conduct  of  a  clouded  12  cane). 
With  earnest  eyes,  and  round  unthinking  face. 
He  first  the  snuff-box  opene<l,  then  the  case. 
And  thus  broke  out — ' '  A[y  lord,  why,  what  the 

devil  f 
Zounds!    damn  the  lock!    'fore  Gad,  you  must 

be  civil  I 
Plague  on'tl    'tis  past  a  jest — nay  prithee,  pox! 
Give  her  the  hair,"  he  spoke,  and  rapped  his 

box.  130 

* '  It  grieves  me  much, ' '  replied  the  peer  again, 
' '  Who  speaks  so  well  should  ever  speak  in  vain. 
But  by  this  lock,  this  sacred  lock,  I  swear, 
(Which  never  more  shall  join  its  parted  hair; 
Which  never  more  its  honours  shall  renew, 
Clipped    from   the    lovely   head   where  late    it 

grew) 
That  while  my  nostrils  draw  the  vital  air. 
This  hand,  which  won  it,  shall  forever  wear. ' ' 
He    spoke,    and    speaking,    in    proud    triumph 

spread 
The  long-contended  honours  of  her  head.       HO 
But   I'mbriel,   hateful   gnome!    forbears   not 

so; 
He  breaks  the  vial  whence  the  sorrows  flow. 
Then   see!    the  nymph   in  beauteous  grief   ap- 
pears, 
Her    eyes    half    languishing,    half    drowned    in 

tears ; 
On  her  heaved  bosom  hung  her  drooping  head. 
Which,  with   a  sigh,  she  raised;    and  thus  she 

said: 
'  *  Forever  curs  'd  be  this  detested  day, 
Which    snatched    my    best,    my    favourite   curl 

away! 
Happy!   ah,  ten  times  happy  had  I  been, 
If  Hampton  Court  these  eyes  had  never  seen! 
Yet  am  not  I  the  first  mistaken  maid,  151 

By  love  of  courts  to  numerous  ills  betrayed. 
Oh.  had  I  rather  unadmired  remained 
In  some  lone  isle  or  distant  northern  land; 
Where  the  gilt  chariot  never  marks  the  way. 
Where    none    learn     ombre,     none     e'er    taste 

bohea!i3 


10  The  "Ring"  mentioned  in  I.. 

11  Bow   bolls,   tho   Ijolls   of  St. 

coi'knoy  confer  of  London. 

12  mottled 
.V  kind  of  black  tea. 


44 


There  kept  my  charms  concealed  from   mortal 

eye, 
Like  roses,  that  in  deserts  bloom  and  die. 
What  moved   my  mind  with  youthful  lords  to 
roam?  159 

Oh,  had  I  stayed,  and  said  my  prayers  at  home  I 
'Twas  this,  the  morning  omens  seeme<l  to  tell : 
Thrice    from    my    trembling    hand    the    patch- 
box  1*  fell; 
The  tottering  china  shook  witliout  a  wind; 
Xay,  Poll  sat  mute,  and  Shock  was  most   un- 
kind! 
A  sylph,  too,  warned  me  of  the  threats  of  fate. 
In  mystic  visions,  now  believed  too  late! 
See  the  poor  remnants  of  these  slighted  hairs! 
My    hamis    shall    rend    what    e'en    thy    rapine 

spares; 
These  in  two  sable  ringlets  taught  to  break. 
Once  gave  new  beauties  to  the  snowy  neck;    170 
The  sister  lock  now  sits  uncouth,  alone. 
And  in  its  fellow 's  fate  foresees  its  own ; 
Uncurled  it  hangs,  the  fatal  shears  demands. 
And  tempts  once  more,  thy  sacrilegious  hands. 
Oh,  hadst  thou,  cruel!  been  content  to  seize 
Hairs  less  in  sight,  or  any  hairs  but  these!" 

Canto  V 

She  said:  the  pitying  audience  melt  in  tears. 
But   Fate   and   Jove   had   stopped   the   baron's 

ears. 
In  vain  Tbalestris  with  reproach  assails. 
For  who  can  move  when  fair  Belin<la  fails? 
Xot  half  so  fixed  the  Trojan"   could  remain. 
While  Anna  begged  and  Dido  raged  in  vain. 
Then  gr:ive  Clarissa  graceful  waved  her  fan ; 
Silence  ensued,  and  thus  the  nymph  began: 
"Say,  why  are  beauties  praised  and  honoured 

most, 
The  wise   man 's  passion,  and   the   vain   man 's 

toast?  10 

Why  de<-ked  with  all  that  land  and  sea  afford. 
Why  angels  called,  and  angel-like  adored  ? 
Why  round  our  coaches  crowd  the  white-gloved 

beaux. 
Why  bows  the  side-box  from  its  inmost  rows? 
How  vain  are  all  these  glories,  all  our  pains, 
Unless  good  sense  preserve  what  beauty  gains; 
That    men    may    say,    when    we    the    front -box 

grace, 
'Behold  the  first  in  virtue  as  in  face!  ' 
Oh!  if  to  dance  all  night,  and  dress  all  day, 
Charmed  the  small-pox,  or  chased  old  age  away, 


Mary-lo-bow  in  the  |  1*  For  face-patches. 


.lilneas    wben    ropolling   Dido's    lovo    and    tlie   en- 
treaties of  her  sistor  Anna,     i.^nritl  iv..  440.) 


318 


EAKLY  ETGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


Who  would  not  scorn  what  housewife's  cares 
produce,  21 

Or  wlio  would  learn  oue  earthly  thing  of  use? 

To  patch,  nay  ogle,  might  become  a  saint, 

Nor  could  it  sure  be  such  a  sin  to  paint. 

But  since,  alas!  frail  beauty  must  decay; 

Curled    or   uncurled,    since   locks   will   turn    to 
grey; 

Since  painted,  or  not  painted,  all  shall  fade. 

And  she  who  scorns  a  man  must  die  a  maid; 

What  then  remains  but  well  our  power  to  use. 

And    keep    good    humour    still    whate  'er    we 
lose?  30 

And  trust  me,  dear!  good  humour  can  prevail, 

When  airs,  and  flights,  and  screams,  and  scold- 
ing fail. 

Beauties  in  vain  their  pretty  eyes  may  roll ; 

Charms   strike  the  sight,   but  merit   wins   the 
soul. ' ' 
So  spoke  the  dame,  but  no  applause  ensued; 

Belinda  frowned,   Thalestris  called  her  prude. 

' '  To  arms,  to  arms !  ' '  the  fierce  virago  cries, 

And  swift  as  lightning  to  the  combat  flies. 

All  side  in  parties,  and  begin  th'  attack; 

Fans  clap,  silks  rustle,  and  tough  whalebones 
crack ;  40 

Heroes'  and  heroines'  shouts  confus'dly  rise. 

And  bass  and  treble  voices  strike  the  skies. 

No  common  weapons  in  their  hands  are  found, 

Like  gods  they  fight,  nor  dread  a  mortal  wound. 
So  when  bold  Homer  makes  the  gods  engage, 

And    heavenly    breasts    with    human    passions 
rage; 

'Gainst  Pallas,2  Mars,3  Latona,3  Hermess  arms; 

And  all  Olympus  rings  with  loud  alarms: 

Jove's    thunder    roars,    Heaven    trembles    all 
around. 

Blue  Neptune  storms,  the  bellowing  deeps  re- 
sound :  50 

Earth   shakes  her  nodding  towers,  the  ground 
gives  way. 

And  the  pale  ghosts  start  at  the  flash  of  day! 
Triumphant   Umbriel   on   a  sconce's*   height 

Clapped   his  glad  wings,  and  sat  to  view  the 
fight; 

Proppe<l    on    their   bodkin   spears,   the    sprites 
survey 

The  growing  combat,  or  assist  the  fray. 

While  through  the  press  enraged  Thalestris 
flies. 

And  scatters  death  around  from  both  her  eyes, 

A  beau  and  witling  perished  in  the  throng. 

One  died  in  metaphor,  and  one  in  song.         «'• 

' '  O  cruel  nymph !  a  living  death  I  bear, ' ' 


2  Alder  of  the  OreokB. 
a  Aider  of  the  TrnJanH. 


4  chandelier's 


Cried  Dapperwit,  and  sunk  beside  his  chair. 
A  mournful  glance  Sir  Fopling  upwards  cast, 
"Those   eyes  are   made  so   killing" — was   his 

last. 
Thus  on  Mseander's  flowery  margin  lies 
Th'  expiring  swan,  and  as  he  sings  he  dies.'' 
When   bold   Sir   Plume   had   drawn   Clarissa 

down, 
Chloe  stepped  in  and  killed  him  with  a  frown; 
She  smiled  to  see  the  doughty  hero  slain, 
But,  at  her  smile,  the  beau  revived  again.  70 
Now  Jove  suspends  his  golden  scales  in  air. 
Weighs  the  men's  wits  against  the  lady's  hair; 
The   doubtful    beam   long   nods    from   side   to 

side; 
At  length  the  wits  mount  up,  the  hairs  subside. 

See,  fierce  Belinda  on  the  Baron  flies, 
With  more  than  usual  lightning  in  her  eyes; 
Nor  feared  the  chief  th'  unequal  fight  to  try, 
Who  sought  no  more  than  on  his  foe  to  die. 
But  this  bold  lord  with  manly  strength  endued, 
She  with  one  finger  and  a  thumb  subdue<l:     80 
Just  where  the  breath  of  life  his  nostrils  drew, 
A  charge  of  snuff  the  wily  virgin  threw; 
The  gnomes  direct,  to  every  atom  just, 
The  pungent  grains  of  titillating  dust. 
Sudden,  with  starting  tears  each  eye  o'erflows. 
And  the  high  dome  re-echoes  to  his  nose. 
"Now    meet    thy    fate,"    incensed    Belinda 

cried, 
And  drew  a  deadly  bodkin  from  her  side. 
(The  same,  his  ancient  personage  to  deck. 
Her  great  great  grandsire  wore  about  his  neck, 
In     three     seal-rings;     which     after,     melted 

down,  91 

Formed  a  vast  buckle  for  his  widow 's  gown ; 
Her  infant  grandame's  whistle  next  it  grew. 
The  bells  she  jingled,  and  the  whistle  l)lew ; 
Then  in  a  bodkin  graced  her  mother's  hairs, 
Which  long  she  wore,  and  now  Belinda  wears.) 
"Boast  not  my  fall,"  he  cried,  "insulting 

foe! 
Thou  by  some  other  shalt  be  laid  as  low ; 
Nor  think  to  die  dejects  my  lofty  mind: 
All  that  I  dread  is  leaving  you  behind!  100 

Rather  than  so,  ah,  let  me  still  survive, 
And  burn  in  Cupid's  flames — but  burn  alive," 
"Restore    the    lock!"    she    cries;     and    all 

around 
"Restore  the  lock!  "  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound. 
Not  fierce  Othello  in  so  loud  a  strain 
Roared   for  the  handkerchief   tliat   caused   Ida 

pain. 
But  see  how  oft  ambitious  aims  are  crossed, 
And  chiefs  contend  lill  nil  tlio  i)ri7.e  is  lost! 

r.  OvId'H  RpMlm.  vli..  1.  2. 


ALEXANDER  POPE 


319 


The  lock,  obtained  with  guilt,   and  kept  with 
paiu,  109 

lu  every  place  is  sought,  but  sought  in  vain : 
With  such  a  prize  no  mortal  must  be  blessed, 
So  Heaven  decrees!  with  Heaven  who  can  con- 
test! 
Some  thought  it  mounted  to  the  lunar  sphere, 
Since   all   things   lost    on   earth    are   treasured 

there. 
There  heroes'  wits  are  kept  in  ponderous  vases. 
And  beaux'  in  snuff-boxes  and  tweezer  cases; 
There    broken    vows   and    death-bed    alms    are 

found, 
And  lovers'  hearts  with  ends  of  riband  bound. 
The  courtier's  promises,  and  sick  man's  pray- 
ers, 119 
The  smiles  of  harlots,  and  the  teara  of  heirs. 
Cages  for  gnats,  and  chains  to  yoke  a  flea. 
Dried  butterflies,  and  tomes  of  casuistry. 

But  trust  the  Muse — she  saw  it  upward  rise. 
Though  marked  by  none  but  quick,  poetic  eyes : 
(So    Rome's    great    founder*    to    the    heavens 

withdrew, 
To  Proculus  alone  confessed  in  view) 
A  sadden  star,  it  shot  through  liquid  air, 
And  drew  behind  a  radiant  trail  of  hair. 
Not  Berenice's  locks"  first  rose  so  bright. 
The  heavens  bespangling  with  dishevelled  light. 
The  sylphs  behold  it  kindling  as  it  flies,       131 
Anil    pleased   pursue  its  progress  through    the 
skies 
This  the  beau  monde  shall  from  the   Malls 
sur\-ey, 
And  hail  with  music  its  propitious  ray. 
This  the  blest  lover  shall  for  Venus  take, 
And  send  up  vows  from  Rosamonda's  lake.o 
This  Partridgeio  soon  shall  view  in  cloudless 

skies. 
When  next  he  looks  through  Galileo's  eyes; 
And  hence  th'  egregious  wizard  shall  foredoom 
The  fate  of  Louis  and  the  fall  of  Rome.       HO 
Then    cease,    bright    nymph!    to    mourn    thy 
ravished  hair. 
Which  adds  new  glory  to  the  shining  sphere! 
Not  all  the  tresses  that  fair  head  can  boast, 
Shall  draw  such  envy  as  the  lock  you  lost. 
For,  after  all  the  murders  of  your  eye. 
When,  after  millions  slain,  yourself  shall  die; 
When   those   fair  suns   shall   set,   as   set   they 
must, 

B  Romulus,  carried  to  heaven  by  Mars,  afterw.ards 
appeared  to  Proculus  in  great  glory. 

~  '•ISerenlce's  Hair."  a  group  of  seven  stars  in  the 
constellation  Leo. 

s  A  fashionable  walk  in  St.  James*  Park. 

»  In  St.  .Tames'  Park. 

10  An  almanac-maker  of  the  time  who  yearly 
prophesied   disaster. 


And  all  those  tresses  shall  be  laid  in  dust : 
This  lock,  the  Muse  shall  consecrate  to  fame, 
And      'midst     the     stars     inscribe     Belinda's 
name.  150 

From  AX  ESSAY  OX  MAX. 

Epistle  I 

Awake,  my  St.  Johnii  leave  all  meaner  things 
To  low  ambition,  and  the  pride  of  kings. 
Let  us,  since  life  can  little  more  supply 
Than  just  to  look  about  us  and  to  die. 
Expatiate  free  o'er  all  this  scene  of  man; 
A  mighty  maze!   but  not  without  a  plan; 
A  wild,  where  weeds  and  flowers  promiscuous 

shoot ; 
Or  garden,  tempting  with  forbidden  fruit. 
Together  let  us  beat  this  ample  field. 
Try  what  the  open,  what  the  covert  yield;     10 
The  latent  tracts,  the  giddy  heights,  explore 
Of  all  who  blindly  creep,  or  sightless  soar; 
Eye  nature's  walks,  shoot  folly  as  it  flies. 
And  catch  the  manners  living  as  they  rise; 
Laugh  where  we  must,  be  candid  where  we  can ; 
But  vindicate  the  ways  of  God  to  man. 

I.  Say  first,  of  God  above,  or  man  below. 
What  can  we  reason,  but  from  what  we  know? 
Of  man,  what  see  we  but  his  station  here 
From  which  to  reason  or  to  which  refer?       20 
Through   worlds  unnumbered  though  the   God 

be  known, 
'Tis  ours  to  trace  him  only  in  our  own. 
He,  who  through  vast  immensity  can  pierce. 
See  worlds  on  worlds  compose  one  universe. 
Observe  how  system  into  system  runs. 
What  other  planets  circle  other  suns, 
What  varied  being  peoples  every  star. 
May  tell  why  Heaven  has  made  us  as  we  are. 
But  of  this  frame  the  bearings,  and  the  ties, 
The  strong  connections,  nice  dependencies,       30 
Gradations  just,  has  thy  pervading  soul 
Looked  through?     or  can  a  part  contain   the 
whole  ? 

Is  the  great  chain,  that  draws  all  to  agree. 
And  drawn  supports,  upheld  by  God,  or  thee? 

II.  Presumptuous  man!  the  reason  wouldst 
thou  find. 

Why  formed  so  weak,  so  little,  and  so  blind? 
First,  if  thou  canst,  the  harder  reason  guess, 
Why  formed  no  weaker,  blinder,  and  no  less? 
Ask  of  thy  mother  earth,  why  oaks  are  made 
Taller  or  stronger  than  the  weeds  they  shade? 

1  Henry  St.  .Tohn.  Lord  Bolinghroke,  a  politician 
and  philosopher  to  whom  Pope  was  indebted 
for  the  substance  of  this  poem.  The  name  is 
usually  pronounced  Hin  jun. 


320 


KARLY  P:IGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


Or  ask  of  yonder  argent  fiekls  above,  41 

Wliy  Jove's  satellites  are  less  than  Jove. 

Ot  systems  possible,  if  'tis  confessed 
That  wisdom  infinite  must  form  the  best. 
Where  all  must  full  or  not  coherent  be, 
And  all  that  rises,  rise  in  due  degree; 
Then,  in  the  scale  of  reasoning  life,  'tis  plain, 
There   must    be,   somewhere,    such    a   rank    as 

man: 
And  all  the  question  (wrangle  e'er  so  long) 
Is  only  this,  if  God  has  placed  him  wrong?    50 

Respecting  man,  whatever  wrong  we  call, 
May,  must  be  right,  as  relative  to  all. 
In  human  works,  though  laboured  on  with  pain, 
A    thousand    movements    scarce    one    purpose 

gain; 
In  God's,  one  single  can  its  end  produce; 
Yet  serves  to  second  too  some  other  use. 
So  man,  who  here  seems  principal  alone. 
Perhaps  acts  second  to  some  sphere  unknown. 
Touches  some  wheel,  or  verges  to  some  goal; 
'Tis  hut  a  part  we  see,  and  not  a  whole.  60 

When    the   proud   steed   shall   know    why   man 

restrains 
His  fiery  course,  or  drives  him  o'er  the  plains; 
When  the  dull  ox,  why  now  he  breaks  the  clod, 
Is  now  a  victim,  and  now  Egypt 's  god :  - 
Then  shall  man's  pride  and   dullness  compre- 
hend 
His  actions',  passions',  being's,  use  and  end; 
Why  doing,  suffering,  checked,   impelled;    and 

why 
This  hour  a  slave,  the  next  a  deity. 

Then  say   not   man's  imperfect.   Heaven   in 

fault ; 
Say  rather,  man's  as  perfect  as  he  ought:       70 
His  knowledge  measured  to  his  state  and  place. 
His  time  a  moment,  and  a  point  his  space. 
If  to  be  perfect  in  a  certain  sphere. 
What  matter,  soon  or  late,  or  here  or  there  I 
The  blest  to-day  is  as  completely  so. 
As  who  began  a  thousand  years  ago. 

III.     Heaven    from    all    creatures   hiiles   the 

book  of  fate. 
All  but  the  page  prescribed,  their  present  state: 
From    brutess     what    men,    from     men    what 

spirits  know : 
Or  who  could  suffer  being  here  below?  80 

The  lamb  thy  riot  dooms  to  bleed  to-day. 
Had  he  thy  reason,  would  lie  skip  and  play? 
Pleased  to  the  last,  he  crops  the  flowery  food, 
.\nd    licks    the    hand   just   raised    to   shed    his 

blood. 

Oh,  blindness  to  the  future!  kindly  given, 

2  Apl«.    the   Racrod   hull      8  Supply  "hoavon  hides." 

Prtp«''s  VPFse  Is  lull 


of  i:-ypt. 


of    surh    ellipHes. 


That    each    may    fill    the    circle    marked    by 

Heaven : 
Who  sees  with  equal  eye,  as  God  of  all, 
A  hero  perish,  or  a  sparrow  fall, 
Atoms  or  systems  into  ruin  hurled, 
Xnd  now  a  bubble  burst,  and  now  a  world.     90 
Hope  humbly   then;    with   trembling   pinions 
soar; 
Wait  the  great  teacher  Death ;  and  God  adore. 
W'hat  future  bliss,  he  gives  not  thee  to  know, 
But  gives  that  hope  to  be  thy  blessing  now. 
Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast: 
Man  never  is,  but  always  to  be  blest. 
The  soul,  uneasy  and  confined  from  home. 
Rests  and  expatiates  in  a  life  to  come. 

Lo,  the  poor  Indian!   whose  untutored  mind 
Sees  God  in  clouds,  or  hears  him  in  the  wind ; 
ITis     soul,     proud     science     never     taught     to 
stray  101 

Far  as  the  solar  walk,  or  milky  way; 
Yet  simple  nature  to  his  hope  has  given. 
Behind     the     cloud-topped     hill,     an     humbler 

Heaven ; 
Some  safer  world  in  depths  of  woods  embraced. 
Some  happier  island  in  the  watery  waste. 
Where  slaves  once  more  their  native  land  be- 
hold 
No    fiends    torment,    no    Christians    thirst    for 

gold. 
To  be,  contents  his  natural  desire. 
He  asks  no  angel's  wing,  no  seraph's  fire;    HO 
But  thinks,  admitted  to  that  equal  sky. 
His  faithful  dog  shall  bear  him  company. 

IV.  Go,   wiser   thou!    and,  in   thy  scale  of 
sense 

Weigh    thy   opinion   against   Providence; 
Call  imperfection  what  thou  fanciest  such. 
Say,    "Here    he    gives    too    little,    there    too 

much ; ' ' 
Destroy  all  creatures  for  thy  sport  or  gust,* 
Yet  cry,  "If  man's  unhappy,  God's  unjust;  " 
If  man  alone  engross  not  Heaven  's  high  care. 
Alone  made  perfect  here,  immortal  there,     120 
Snatch  from  his  hand  the  balance  and  the  rod, 
Re-judge  his  justice,  be  the  god  of  God. 
In  ])ride,  in  reasoning  pride,  our  error  lies; 
All  quit  their  sphere,  and  rush  into  the  skies. 
Pride  still  is  aiming  at  the  blest  abodes, 
Men  would  be  angels,  angels  would  be  gods. 
Aspiring  to  be  gods,  if  angels  fell, 
Aspiring  to  be  angels,  men  rebel : 
And  who  but  wishes  to  invert  the  laws 
Of  order,  sins  against  the  Eternal  Cause.     I'lO 

V.  Ask    for   what  end  the  heavenly   bodies 
shine, 

4  delight 


ALEXANDER  POPE 


3<J1 


Earth   for  whose  u«ef     Pride  answers,  "   'Tis 

for  mine: 
Eor  me  kind  nature  wakes  her  genial  power, 
Suckles    each    herb,    and    spreads    out    every 

flower ; 
Annual  for  me,  the  grape,  the  rose  renew 
The  juice  nectareous,  and  the  balmy  dew; 
For  me,  the  mine  a  thousand  treasures  brings; 
For  me,  health  gushes  from  a  thousand  springs; 
Seas  roll  to  waft  me,  suns  to  light  me  rise; 
y\y  footstool  earth,  my  canopy  the  skies."     140 
But  errs  not  Nature  from  this  gracious  end. 
From  burning  suns  when  livid  deaths  descend, 
When   earthquakes  swallow,   or   when   tempests 

sweep 
Towns  to  one  grave,  whole  nations  to  the  deep? 
Xo    ('tis  replied),  the  first  Almighty  Cause 
Acts  not  by  partial,  but  by  general  laws; 
Th '    exceptions    few ;    some    change,    since   all 

began: 
And  what  created  perfect? — Why  then  man? 
If  the  great  end  be  human  happiness,  149 

Then  nature  deviates;  and  can  mau  do  less? 
As  much  that  end  a  constant  course  requires 
Of  showers  and  sunshine,  as  of  man's  desires; 
As  much  eternal  springs  and  cloudless  skies. 
As  men  forever  temperate,  calm,  and  wise. 
If  plagues  or  earthquakes  break  not  Heaven's 

design, 
Why  then  a  Borgia,^  or  a  Catiline  ?« 
Who  knows  but  He,  whose  hand  the  lightning 

forms. 
Who    heaves    old    ocean,    and    who    wings    the 

storms ; 
Pours  fierce  ambition  in  a  Caesar's  mind, 
Or  turns  young  Ammon^  loose  to  scourge  man- 
kind? 160 
From    pride,    from   pride,   our    very    reasoning 

springs. 
Account  for  moral,  as  for  natural  things: 
Why    charge    we    Heaven    in    those,    in    these 

acquit  ? 
In  both,  to  reason  right  is  to  submit, 

Better  for  us,  perhaps,  it  might  appear. 
Were  there  all  harmony,  all  virtue  here; 
That  never  air  or  ocean  felt  the  wind; 
That  never  passion  discomposed  the  mind. 
But  all  subsists  by  elemental  strife: 
And  passions  are  the  elements  of  life. 
The  general  order,  since  the  whole  began, 
Is  kept  in  nature,  and  is  kept  in  man. 

VI.     What  would   this  man?     Now  upward 

will  he  soar. 


170 


5  Cesare  Borgia,  son  of 
Tope  .VlexanderVI.. 
a  notorious  criminal 
and  tyrant. 


6  Roman  conspirator. 

7  Alexander    the    Great. 

who  was  flattering- 
ly styled  the  son  of 
Jupiter  .4mmon. 


And  little  less  than  angel,  would  be  more; 
Xow   looking   downwards,   just   as   grieved   ap- 
pears 
To  want  the  strength  of  bulls,  the  fur  of  bears. 
Made  for  his  use  all  creatures  if  he  call, 
Say  what  their  use,  had  he  the  powers  of  all? 
Nature  to  these,  without  profusion,  kind. 
The  proper  organs,  proper  powers  assigned ;  IsiO 
Each   seeming   want   compensated   of  course, 
Here  with  degrees  of  swiftness,  there  of  force; 
All   in   exact  proportion   to   the  state; 
Nothing  to  add,  and  nothing  to  abate. 
Each  beast,  each  insect,  happy  in  its  own : 
Is  Heaven  unkind  to  man,  and  man  alone? 
Shall  he  alone,  whom  rational  we  call. 
Be   pleased  with   nothing,  if   not   blessed   with 
all? 
The  bliss  of  man  (could  ju-ide  that  blessing 
find) 
Is  not  to  act  or  think  beyond  mankind;        I'J'^ 
No  powers  of  body  or  of  t-oul  to  share, 
But  what  his  nature  and  his  state  can  bear. 
^^  hy  has  not  man  a  microscopic  eye? 
For  this  plain  '•eason,  man  is  not  a  fly. 
Say  what  the  use,  were,  finer  optics  given. 
T '  inspect  a  mite,  not  comprehend  the  heaven  I 
Or  touch,  if  tremblinglj-  alive  all  o'er. 
To  smart  and  agoniae  at  every  pore? 
Or,  quick  effluvia  darting  through  the  brain. 
Die  of  a  rose  in  aromatic  painf  200 

If  nature  thundered  in  his  opening  ears. 
And    stunned    him     with     the    music     of    tiio 

spheres,* 
How  would  he  wish  that  Heaven  had  left  him 

still 
The  whispering  zephyr  and  the  purling  rill! 
Who  finds  not  Providence  all  good  and  wise. 
Alike  in  what  it  gives,  and  what  denies? 

VII.     Far  as  creation 's  ample  range  extends. 
The  scale  of  sensual,  mental  powers  ascemls. 
Mark  how  it  mounts,  to  man 's  imperial  race. 
From  the  green  myriads  in  the  peopled  grass: 
What   modes   of   sight   betwixt   each    wide   ex- 
treme, 210 
The  mole's  dim  curtain,  and  the  lynx's  beam: 
Of  smell,  the  headlong  lioness  between 
And  hound  sagacious  on  the  tainted  greeu: 
Of  hearing,  from  the  life  that  fills  the  flood, 
To    that    which    warbles    through    the    vernal 

wood : 
The  spider's  touch,  how  exquisitely  fine! 
Feels  at  each  thread,  and  lives  along  the  line: 
In  the  nice  bee,  what  sense  so  subtly  troe 

8  Music,  too  fine  or  too  mighty  for  mortal  ears, 
supposed  to  be  made  by  the  revolution  of  the 
concentric  spheres  which,  according  to  the  old 
Ptolemaic  system,  composed  the  universe.  (See 
note  on  Doctor  Faustwi,  p.   1.58.) 


322 


EARLY  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


From  poisonous  herbs  extracts  the  healing  dew  ? 
How  instinct  varies  in  the  groveling  swine,  221 
Compared,  half -reasoning  elephant,  with  thine  I 
'Twixt  that  and  reason,  what  a  nice  barrier, 
Forever  separate,  yet  forever  near! 
Remembrance  and  reflection  how  allied; 
What   thin   partitions  sense   from   thought   di- 
vide : 
And  middle  natures,  how  they  long  to  join. 
Yet  never  pass  th'  insuperable  line! 
Without  this  just  gradation,  could  they  be 
Subjected,  these  to  those,  or  all  to  thee?       230 
The  powers  of  all  subdued  by  thee  alone. 
Is  not  thy  reason  all  these  powers  in  one  I 

VIII.  See,  through  this  air,  this  ocean,  and 
this  earth 

All  matter  quick,8  and  bursting  into  birth. 
Above,  how  high,  progressive  life  may  go! 
Around,  how  wide!   how  deep  extend  below! 
Vast  chain  of  being!   which  from  God  began. 
Natures  ethereal,  human,  angel,  man, 
Beast,  bird,  fish,  insect,  what  no  eye  can  see. 
No  glass  can  reach ;  from  infinite  to  thee,     240 
From  thee  to  nothing. — On  superior  powers 
Were  we  to  press,  inferior  mightio  on  ours; 
Or  in  the  full  creation  leave  a  void. 
Where,  one  step  broken,  the  great  scale's  de- 
stroyed : 
From  nature 's  chain  w  hatever  link  you  strike. 
Tenth,    or   ten    thousandth,    breaks    the    chain 
alike. 
And  if  each  system  in  gradation  roll 
Alike  essential  to  th'  amazing  whole. 
The  least  confusion  but  in  one,  not  all 
That  system  only  but  the  whole  must  fall.     250 
Let  earth  unbalanced  from  her  orbit  fly, 
Planets  and  suns  run  lawless  through  the  sky; 
Let  ruling  angels  from  their  spheres  be  hurled. 
Being  on  being  wrecked,  and  world  on  world; 
Heaven's    whole    foundations    to    their    centre 

nod, 
And  nature  tremble  to  the  throne  of  God. 
All    this   dread    order    break — for   whom?    for 

thee? 
Vile  worm! — Oh,  madness!  pride!  impiety! 

IX.  What   if   the   foot,   ordained   the   dust 
to  tread. 

Or  hand,  to  toil,  aspired  to  be  the  head?       260 
What  if  the  head,  the  eye,  or  ear  repined 
To  serve  mere  engines  to  the  ruling  mind? 
.lust  as  absurd  for  any  part  to  claim 
To  be  another,  in  this  general  frame;" 
Just  as  absurd,  to  mourn  the  tasks  or  pains, 
The  great  directing  Mind  of  all  ordains. 


B  alive 

10  Supply  "preBS." 


11  universe 


All  are  but  parts  of  one  stupendous  whole, 
Whose  body  nature  is,  and  God  the  soul; 
That,  changed  through  all,  and  yet  in  all  the 

same; 
Great  in  the  earth,  as  in  th '  ethereal  frame ;  270 
Warms  in  the  sun,  refreshes  in  the  breeze, 
Glows  in  the  stars,  and  blossoms  in  the  trees, 
Lives  through  all  life,  extends  through  all  ex- 
tent. 
Spreads  undivided,^  operates  unspent; 
Breathes  in  our  soul,  informs  our  mortal  part. 
As  full,  as  perfect,  in  a  hair  as  heart; 
As  full,  as  perfect,  in  vile  man  that  mourns, 
As  the  rapt  seraph  that  adores  and  burns: 
To  him  no  high,  no  low,  no  great,  no  small; 
He     fills,    he     bounds,     connects,     and     equals 
all.  280 

X.  Cease  then,  nor  order  imperfection  name: 
Our  proper  bliss  depends  on  what  we  blame. 
Know  thy  own  point:  this  kind,  this  due  degree 
Of    blindness,    weakness.    Heaven    bestows    on 

thee. 
Submit. — In  this,  or  any  other  sphere, 
Secure  to  be  as  blest  as  thou  canst  bear: 
Safe  in  the  hand  of  one  disposing  Power, 
Or  in  the  natal,  or  the  mortal  hour. 
All  nature  is  but  art,  unknown  to  thee; 
All  chance,  direction,  which  thou  canst  not  see; 
All  discord,  harmony  not  understood;  291 

All  partial  evil,  universal  good: 
And,  spite  of  pride,  in  erring  reason's  spite. 
One  truth  is  clear,  whatever  is,  is  right. 

Epistle  II 

I.     Know  then  thyself,  presume  not  God  to 
scan: 
The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man. 
Placed  on  this  istlinius  of  a  middle  state, 
A  being  darkly  wise  and  rudely  great: 
With  too  much  knowledge  for  the  sceptic  side, 
With  too  much  w  eakness  for  the  stoic  's  pride. 
He  hangs  between ;  in  doubt  to  act,  or  rest ; 
In  doubt  to  deem  himself  a  god  or  beast; 
In  doubt  his  mind  or  body  to  prefer; 
Born  but  to  die,  and  reasoning  but  to  err;     10 
Alike  in  ignorance,  his  reason  such, 
Whether  he  thinks  too  little  or  too  much : 
Chaos  of  thought  and  passion,  all  coiifus'd; 
Still  by  himself  abused,  or  disabused; 
Created  half  to  rise,  and  half  to  fall; 
Great  lord  of  all  things,  yet  a  prey  to  all; 
Sole  judge  of  truth,  in  endless  error  hurled; 
The  glory,  jest,  and  riddle  of  the  world! 

Go,  wondrous  creature;  mount  where  science 
guides. 


ALEXANDER  POPE 


323 


Go,   measure  earth,  weigh   air,   ami   state   the 
tides;  2« 

Instruct  the  planets  in  what  orbs  to  run, 
Correct  old  Time,  and  regulate  the  sun;i 
Go.  soar  with  Plato  to  th'  empyreal  spherc,2 
To  the  first  good,  first  perfect,  and  first  fair; 
Or  tread  the  mazy  round  his  followers  trod, 
And  quitting  sense  call  imitating  God; 
As  eastern  priests  in  giddy  circles  run,3 
And  turn  their  heads  to  imitate  the  sun. 
Go,  teach  Eternal  Wisdom  how  to  rule — 
Then  drop  into  thyself,  and  be  a  fool  I  30 

Superior  beings,  when  of  late  they  saw 
A  mortal  man  unfold  all  nature's  law. 
Admired  such  wisdom  in  an  earthly  shape. 
And  showed  a  Newton,  as  we  show  an  ape. 

Could  he,  whose  rules  the  rapid  comet  bind, 
Describe  or  fix  one  movement  of  his  mindf 
Who  saw  its  fires  here  rise,  and  there  descend, 
Explain  his  own  beginning  or  his  end? 
Alas!  what  wonder!     Man's  superior  part 
Unchecked    may  rise,   and  climb   from  art  to 

art; 
But  when  hii  own  great  work  is  but  begun,    41 
What  reason  weaves,  by  passion  is  undone. 

Trace  science,  then,  with  modesty  thy  guide; 
First  strip  off  all  her  equipage  of  pride; 
Deduct  what  is  but  vanity  or  dress, 
Or  learning's  luxury,  or  idleness. 
Or  tricks  to  show  the  stretch  of  human  brain. 
Mere   curious   pleasure,  or  ingenious  pain; 
Expunge  the  whole,  or  lop  th '  excrescent  parts 
Of  all  our  vices  have  created  arts;  50 

Then  see  how  little  the  remaining  sum. 
Which  served  the  past,  and  must  the  times  to 
come! 

II.     Two  principles  in  human  nature  reign; 
Self-love  to  urge,  and  reason  to  restrain; 
Nor  this  a  good,  nor  that  a  bad  we  call. 
Each  works  its  end  to  move  or  govern  all: 
And  to  their  proper  operation  still 
Ascribe  all  good;  to  their  improper,  ill. 

Self-love,    the    spring   of    motion,    acts*    the 
soul; 
Reason 's  comparing  balance  rules  the  whole.  60 
Man,  but  for  that,  no  action  could  attend, 
And,  but  for  this,  were  active  to  no  end: 
Fixed  like  a  plant  on  his  peculiar  spot, 
To  draw  nutrition,  propagate,  and  rot ; 
Or,  meteor-like,  flame  lawless  thro'  the  void, 

1  Alluding    to    the    reformation    of    the    calendar, 

wiiich  liad  fallen  some  twelve  da.Vfi  behind 
the  sun — a  reformation  then  already  generally 
adopted  in  Europe,  though  not  in  England  till 
1751. 

2  Compare  note  on  I.  202.    (Bolingbroke  held  Plato 

in  contempt.) 
•"•  The  dancing  dervishes. 
4  actuates,  moves 


Destroying  others,  by  himself  destroyed. 

Most  strength  the  moving  principle  requires; 
Active  its  task,  it  prompts,  impels,  inspires: 
Sedate  and  quiet,  the  comparing^  lies. 
Formed  but  to  check,  deliberate,  and  advise.  70 
Self-love  still  stronger,  as  its  objects  nigh; 
Reason's  at  distance  and  in  prospyect  lie: 
That  sees  immediate  good  by  present  sense; 
Reason,  the  future  and  the  consequence. 
Thicker  than  arguments,  temptations  throng. 
At    best    more   watchful   this,    but    that   more 

strong. 
The  action  of  the  stronger  to  suspend. 
Reason  still  use,  to  reason  still  attend. 
Attention,  habit  and  experience  gains:  79 

Each  strengthens  reason,  and  self-love  restrains. 

Let  subtle  schoolmen  teach  these  friends  to 
fight, 
More  studious  to  divide  than  to  unite; 
And  grace  and  virtue,  sense  and  reason  split, 
With  all  the  rash  dexterity  of  wit. 
Wits,  just  like  fools,  at  war  about  a  name. 
Have  full  as  oft  no  meaning,  or  the  same. 
Self-love  and  reason  to  one  end  aspire, 
Pain  their  aversion,  pleasure  their  desire; 
But  greedy  that,  its  object  would  devour. 
This    taste    the    honey,    and    not    wound    the 
flower :  90 

Pleasure,  or  wrong  or  rightly  understood. 
Our  greatest  evil,  or  our  greatest  good. 

III.     Modes    of    self-love    the    passions    we 
may  call; 
'T  is  real  good,  or  seeming,  moves  them  all: 
But  since  not  every  good  we  can  divide. 
And  reason  bids  us  for  our  own  provide, 
Passions,  though  selfish,  if  their  means  be  fair. 
List  under  reason,  and  deserve  her  care; 
Those  that  imparted,  court  a  nobler  aim. 
Exalt  their  kind,  and  take  some  virtue's  name. 

In  lazy  apathy  let  stoics  boast  101 

Their  virtue  fixed:    't  is  fixed  as  in  a  frost; 
Contracted  all,  retiring  to  the  breast; 
But  strength  of  mind  is  exercise,  not  rest: 
The  rising  tempest  puts  in  act  the  soul. 
Parts  it  may  ravage,  but  preserves  the  whole. 
On  life 's  vast  ocean  diversely  we  sail. 
Reason  the  card,8  but  passion  is  the  gale; 
Nor  God  alone  in  the  still  calm  we  find,        109 
He    mounts    the    storm,    and    walks    upon    the 
wind. 

Passions,  like  elements,  though  born  to  fight, 
Yet,  mixed  and  softened,  in  his  work  unite: 
I  These   'tis  enough  to  temper  and  employ ; 
I  But  what  composes  man.  can   man   destroy? 
SuflBce  that  reason  keep  to  nature's  road, 

5  Sapply  "principle."  6  compass 


3U 


EARLY  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


Subject,  compound  thorn,  follow  her  and  God. 
Love,   hope,   aud   joy,   fair   pleasure's   smiling 

train, 
Hate,  fear,  and  grief,  the  faiiuly  of  puiu. 
These,  mixed  with  art,  and  to  due  bounds  con- 
fined, 119 
Make  aud  maintain  the  balance  of  the  mind: 
The    lights    and    shades,    whose    well-accordetl 

strife 
Gives  all  the  strength  and  colour  of  our  life. 
Pleasures  are  ever  in  our  hands  or  eyes; 
And  when  in  act  they  cease,  in  prospect  rise: 
Present  to  grasp,  and  future  still  to  find, 
The  whole  employ  of  boily  and  of  mind. 
All    spread    their    charms,    but    charm   not    all 

alike; 
On  diflercnt  senses  different  objects  strike; 
Hence  different  passions  more  or  less  inflame. 
As  strong  or  weak  the  organs  of  the  frame;  3  3u 
And  hence  one  nmster-passion  in  the  breast, 
Like  Aaron  's  serj>ent,  swallows  up  the  rest. 

As  man,  perhaps,  the  moment  of  his  breath, 
Receives  the  lurking  principle  of  death; 
The  young  ilisease,  that  must  subdue  at  length. 
Grows   with   his   growth,  and   strengthens   witli 

his  strength : 
So.  cast  and  mingled  with  his  very  frame. 
The  mind's  disease,  its  ruling  passion,  came; 
Each     vital    humour    which    should    feed     the 

whole. 
Soon  flows  to  this,  in  body  and  in  soul:         140. 
Whatever  warms  the  heart,  or  fills  the  head, 
As  the  mind  opens,  and  its  functions  spread, 
Imagination  ])lies  her  dangerous  art, 
And  pours  it  all  upon  the  peccant  part. 
Nature  its  mother,  habit  is  its  nurse; 
Wit,  spirit,  faculties,  but  make  it  worse; 
Reason  itself  but  gives  it  edge  and  pow  'r; 
As   Heaven 's    blest    beam    turns   vinegar   more 

sour. 
We.    wretched    subjects,    though    to    lawful 

sway. 
In  this  weak  queen  some  favorite  still  obey; 
Ah!  if  she  lend  not  arms  as  well  as  rules,      151 
What  can  she  more  than  tell  us  we  are  fools? 
Teach  us  to  mourn  our  nature,  not  to  mend; 
A  sharp  accuser,  but  a  helpless  friend! 
Or  from  a  judge  turn  pleader,  to  persuade 
The  choice  we  make,  or  justify  it  made; 
Proud  of  an  easy  conquest  all  along, 
She  but  removes  weak  passions  for  the  strong. 
So,  when  small  humours  gather  to  a  gout, 
The  doctor  fancies  he  has  driven  them  out.  160 
Yes,  nature's  road  must  ever  be  preferred; 
litMSon  is  here  no  guide,  but  still  a  guard; 
'T  is  licrs  to  rectify,  not  overthrow, 


Aud  treat  this  passion  more  as  friend  than  foe: 
A  mightier  power  the  strong  direction  sends, 
And  several  men  impels  to  several  ends: 
Like  varying  winds  by  other  passions  tossed. 
This  drivej  them  constant  to  a  certain  coast. 
Let  power  or  knowledge,  gold  or  glory,  please. 
Or    (oft    more   strong    than    all)    the    love    of 
ease;  170 

Through  life   't  is  followed,  even  at  life's  ex- 
pense ; 
The  merchant's  toil,  the  sage's  indolence, 
Tlie  monk 's  humility,  the  hero 's  pride. 
All,  all  alike  find  reason  on  their  side. 

Th'  Eternal  Art,  educing  good  from  ill, 
(irafts  on  this  passion  our  best  ])rinciple: 
'T  is  thus  the  mercury  of  man  is  fixed. 
Strong  grows  the  virtue  with  his  nature  mixed; 
The  dross  cements  what  else  were  too  refined. 
And  in  one  interest  body  acts  with  mind.      l!>" 

As  fruits,  ungrateful  to  the  planter's  care, 
On  savage  stocks  inserted,  learn  to  bear, 
Tiie  surest  virtues  thus  from  passions  shoot. 
Wild  nature's  vigour  working  at  the  root. 
What  croi)s  of  wit  and  honesty  appear 
From  spleen,  from  obstinacy,  hate,  or  fear! 
See  anger,  zeal  and  fortitude  supply; 
Even  avarice,  prudence;  sloth,  philosophy; 
T.,ust,   through  some   certain   strainers   well   re- 
fined, 
Is  gentle  love,  and  charms  all  womankind;     li^O 
Knvy,  to  which  th'  ignoble  lujnd 's  a  slave. 
Is  enmlation  in  the  learned  or  brave; 
Xor  virtvu',  male  or  female,  can  we  name, 
But  what  will  grow  on  pride,  or  grow  on  shame. 
Tlius  nature  gives  us  (let  it  check  our  pride) 
The  virtue  nearest  to,  our  vice  allied; 
Reason  the  bias  turns  to  good  from  ill. 
And  Nero  reigns  a  Titus,  if  he  will.^ 
The  fiery  soul  abhorred  in  Catiline, 
In  Decius  charms,  in  (urtius  is  divine:*       *00 
The  same  ambition  can  destroy  or  save, 
And  makes  a  patriot  as  it  makes  a  knave. 
IV.     This   light   and   darkness  in   our  chaos 
joined. 
What  shall  divide?     The  God  within  the  mind. 

Kxtremes  in  nature  equal  emls  produce, 
In  man  they  join  to  some  mysterious  use; 
Though   each   by   turns   the   ofiier's   bound    in 

vade, 
As,    in    some    well-wrought    picture,    light    ami 
shade, 

7  1.  c,  the  t.vrant  turns  benefactor. 

•  l.>ecliis  voluntarily  rushed  Into  death  because  of 
a  vision  ussurlnK  victory  to  the  side  whose 
ffcnoral  should  fall.  Curtiiis  Is  allepod  to  have 
made  a  similar  self-sacrifice,  leaping  Into  a 
cbasm  in   the  Roman   forum. 


ALEXAKDEB  POPE 


325 


And  uft  so  mix,  the  difference  is  too  nice 

Where  ends  the  virtue,  or  begins  the  vice.  210 
Fools  I  who  from  hence  into  the  notion  fall. 
That  Wee  or  virtue  there  is  none  at  all. 
If  white  and  black  blend,  soften,  and  unite 
A  thousand  ways,  is  there  no  black  or  white! 
Ask  your  own  heart,  and  nothing  is  so  plain; 
'T    is    to    mistake    them    costs    the    time    and 

pain. 
\.     Vice  is  a  monster  of  so  frightful  mien. 
As  to  be  hated  needs  but  to  be  seen ; 
Yet  seen  too  oft,  familiar  with  her  face, 
We  first  endure,  then  pity,  then  embrace.      220 
But    where    th'    extreme    of    vice,    was    ne'er 

agreed : 
Ask  where    's  the  north!  at  York,   't  is  on  the 

Tweed; 
In  Scotland,  at  the  Ort-ades;  and  there. 
At    Greenland,    Zembla,    or    the    Lord    knows 

where. 
No  creature  owns  it  in  the  first  degree, 
But  thinks  his  neighbour  further  gone  than  he; 
Even  those  who  dwell  beneath  its  very  zone, 
Or  never  feel  the  rage,  or  never  own; 
What   happier  natures  shrink  at  with  affright 
The  hard  inhabitant  contends  is  right.  230 

Vi.     Virtuous   and   vicious  every   man  must 

be; 
Few  in  th'  extreme,  but  all  in  the  degree: 
The  rogue  and  fool  by  fits  is  fair  and  wise; 
And  even  the  best,  by  fits,  what  they  despise. 
'T  is  but  by  parts  we  follow  good  or  ill; 
For,  vice  or  virtue,  self  directs  it  still; 
Each  individual  seeks  a  several  goal; 
But  Heaven 's  great  view  is  one,  and  that  the 

whole. 
That  counterworks  each  folly  and  caprice; 
That  disappoints  th'  effect  of  every  vice;     240 
That,  happy  frailties  to  all  ranks  applied, 
Shame  to  the  virgin,  to  the  matron  pride, 
Fear  to  the  statesman,  rashness  to  the  chief. 
To  kings  presumption,  and  to  crowds  belief: 
That,  virtue's  ends  from  vanity  can  raise. 
Which  seeks  no  interest,  no  reward  but  praise; 
And  build  on  wants,  and  on  defects  of  mind, 
The  joy.  the  peace,  the  glory  of  mankind. 

Heaven,  forming  each  on  other  to  depend. 
A  master,  or  a  servant,  or  a  friend,  -50 

Bids  eaeli  on  other  for  assistance  call. 
Till  one  man's  weakness  grows  the  strength  of 

all. 
Wants,  frailties,  passions,  closer  still  ally 
The  common  interest,  or  endear  the  tie. 
I'u  these  we  owe  true  friendship,  love  sincere, 
F.ach  home-felt  joy  that  life  inherits  here; 
Yet  from  the  same  we  learn,  in  its  decline, 


Those  joys,  those  loves,  those  interests  to   re- 
sign: 
Taught  half  by  reason,  half  by  mere  decay. 
To  welcome  death,  and  calmly  pass  away.      260 

Whate'er  the  passion,  —  knowledge,  fame,  or 
pelf,— 
Xot  one  will  change  his  neighbour  with  himself. 
The  learned  is  happy  nature  to  explore, 
The  fool  is  happy  that  he  knows  no  more; 
The  rich  is  happy  in  the  plenty  given, 
The  poor  contents  him  with  the  care  of  Heaven. 
See  the  blind  beggar  dance,  the  cripple  sing. 
The  sot  a  hero,  lunatic  a  king; 
The  starving  chemist*  in  his  golden  views 
Supremely  blest,  the  poet  in  his  Muse.  270 

See  some  strange  comfort  every  state  attend. 
And  pride  bestowed  on  all,  a  common  friend: 
See  some  fit  passion  every  age  supply, 
Hope  travels  through,  nor  quits  us  when  we  die. 

Behold  the  child,  by  Nature's  kindly  law. 
Pleased  with  a  rattle,  tickled  with  a  straw; 
Some  livelier  plaything  gives  his  youth  delight, 
A  little  louder,  but  as  empty  quite; 
Scarfs,  garters,9  gold,  amuse  his  riper  stage,  279 
And  beads  and  prayer-books  are  the  toys  of 

age: 
Pleased  with  this  bauble  still,  as  that  before: 
Till   tired   he   sleeps,   and   life's  poor  play   is 
o'er. 

ileanwhile  Opinion  gilds,  with  Tarying  rays. 
Those  painted  clouds  that  beautify  our  days; 
Each  want  of  happiness  by  hope  supplied. 
And  each  vacuity  of  sense  by  pride: 
These  build  as  fast  as  knowledge  can  destroy; 
In  Folly's  cup  still  laughs  the  bubble  joy; 
One  prospect  lost,  another  still  we  gain; 
And  not  a  vanity  is  given  in  vain;  290 

Even  mean  self-love  becomes,  by  force  divine. 
The  scale  to  measure  others'  wants  by  thine. 
See,  and  confess,  one  comfort  still  must  rise; 
'T  is  this.  Though  man's  a  fool,  yet  God  is 
wise! 

THE  UXIVEKSAL  PRAYER. 

Father  of  aU!  in  every  age. 

In  every  clime  adored. 
By  saint,  by  savage,  and  by  stigc, 

Jehovah,  Jove,  or  Lord  I 

Thou  Great  First  Cause,  least  understootl: 

Who  all  my  sense  confined 
To  know  but  this,  that  Thou  art  good. 

And  that  myself  am  blind;  8 

8  alchemist 

a  The  badge  of  the  hishfst  order  of  Eni^Ilsh  knight- 
hood. '.-r-Ji. 


326 


EARLY  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


Yet  gave  me,  in  this  dark  estate, 

To  see  the  good  from  ill; 
And  binding  nature  fast  in  fate, 

Left  free  the  human  will. 

What  conscience  dictates  to  be  done, 

Or  warns  me  not  to  do, 
This,  teach  me  more  than  hell  to  shun. 

That,  more  than  heaven  pursue. 

What  blessings  Thy  free  bounty  gives, 

Let  me  not  cast  away ; 
For  God  is  paid  when  man  receives: 

T'  enjoy  is  to  obey. 

Yet  not  to  earth's  contracted  span 
Thy  goodness  let  me  bound. 

Or  think  Thee  Lord  alone  of  man. 
When  thousand  worlds  are  round. 

Let  not  this  weak,  unknowing  hand 
Presume  Thy  bolts  to  throw, 

And  deal  damnation  round  the  land. 
On  each  I  judge  Thy  foe. 

If  I  am  right,  Thy  grace  impart, 

Still  in  the  right  to  stay; 
If  I  am  wrong,  oh!  teach  my  heart 

To  find  that  better  way. 

Save  me  alike  from  foolish  pride. 

Or  impious  discontent, 
At  aught  Thy  wisdom  has  denied. 

Or  aught  Thy  goodness  lent. 

Teach  me  to  feel  another's  woe, 

To  hide  the  fault  I  see; 
That  mercy  I  to  others  show. 

That  mercy  show  to  me. 

Mean  though  T  am,  not  wholly  so. 
Since  quickened  by  Thy  breath; 

Oh,  lead  me  wheresoe'er  I  go. 

Through  this  day 's  life  or  death. 

This  day,  be  bread  and  peace  my  lot: 

All  else  beneath  the  sun, 
Thou  know'st  if  best  bestowed  or  not. 

And  let  Thy  will  be  done. 

To  Thee,  whose  temple  is  all  spaoe. 
Whose  altar  earth,  sea,  skies, 

One  chorus  let  all  being  raise. 
All  nature's  incense  rise! 


16 


24 


32 


40 


48 


DANIEL  DEFOE  (1659-1731) 

From  ROBINSON  CRUSOE 

The  Castaway* 

Had  I  continued  in  the  station  I  was  now 
in,  I  had  room  for  all  the  happy  things  to  have 
yet  befallen  me  for  which  my  father  so 
earnestly  recommended  a  quiet,  retired  life, 
and  of  which  he  had  so  sensibly  described  the 
middle  station  of  life  to  be  full.  But  other 
things  attended!  me,  and  I  was  still  to  be  the 
wilful  agent  of  all  my  own  miseries,  and  par- 
ticularly to  increase  my  fault  and  double  the 
reflections  upon  myself,  which  in  my  future 
sorrows  I  should  have  leisure  to  make.  All 
these  miscarriages  were  procured  by  my  ap- 
parent obstinate  adherence  to  my  foolish  in- 
clinations of  wandering  abroad,  and  pursuing 
that  inclination  in  contradiction  to  the  clearest 
views  of  doing  myself  good  in  a  fair  and  plain 
pursuit  of  those  prospects  and  those  measures 
of  life  which  Nature  and  Providence  concurred 
to  present  me  with  and  to  make  my  duty. 

As  I  had  once  done  thus  in  my  breaking 
away  from  my  parents,  so  I  could  not  be  con- 
tent now,  but  I  must  go  and  leave  the  happy 
view'Z  I  had  of  being  a  rich  and  thriving  man 
in  my  new  plantation,  only  to  pursue  a  rash 
and  immoderate  desire  of  rising  faster  than 
the  nature  of  the  thing  admitted;  and  thus  I 
cast  myself  down  again  into  the  deepest  gulf 
of  human  misery  that  ever  man  fell  into,  or 
perhaps  could  be  consistent  with  life  and  a 
state  of  health  in  the  world. 

To  come,  then,  by  the  just  degrees  to  the 
particulars  of  this  part  of  my  story.  You  may 
suppose  that  having  now  lived  almost  four 
years  in  the  Brazils,  and  beginning  to  thrive 
and  prosper  very  well  upon  my  plantation,  1 
had  not  only  learned  the  language,  but  had 
contracted  acquaintance  and  friendship  among 
my  fellow-planters,  as  well  as  among  the  mer- 
chants at  St.  Salvador,  which  was  our  port, 
and  that  in  my  discourses  among  them  I  had 
frequently  given  them  an  account  of  my  two 
voyages  to  the  coast  of  Guinea,  the  manner  of 


1  awaltpd  =  prospoct 

•  Crusoe,  having  run  away  to  sea  at  the  ago  or 
nineteen  and  bf-en  wrecked  on  the  KnKlish 
coast,  had  next  embarked  on  a  trading  vessel 
to  the  coast  of  Guinea.  Upon  a  second  voy- 
age he  was  captured  by  the  Moors.  Kscaping 
after  two  years  of  slavery,  he  was  picked  up 
by  a  Portusfuese  vessel  and  taken  to  the 
Brazils.  There  he  set  up  as  a  planter  and 
sent  back  to  England  tor  half  of  the  two 
hundred  pounds  he  had  saved  from  his  first 
venture. 


DANIEL  DEFOE 


327 


trading  with  the  negroes  there,  and  how  easy 
it  was  to  purchase  upon  the  coast  for  trifles — 
such  as  beads,  toys,  knives,  scissors,  hatchets, 
bits  of  glass,  and  the  like — not  only  gold-dust, 
Guinea  grains,3  elephants'  teeth,  etc.,  but 
negroes,  for  the  service  of  the  BrazUs,  in  great 
numbers. 

They  listened  always  very  attentively  to  my 
discourses  on  these  heads,  but  especially  to  that 
part  which  related  to  the  buying  negroes; 
which  was  a  trade,  at  that  time,  not  only  not 
far  entered  into,  but,  as  far  as  it  was,  had  been 
carried  on  by  the  assiento,  or  permission,  of  the 
kings  of  Spain  and  Portugal,  and  engrossed  in 
the  public,*  so  that  few  negroes  were  brought, 
and  those  excessive  dear. 

It  happened,  being  in  company  with  some 
merchants  and  planters  of  my  acquaintance, 
and  talking  of  those  things  very  earnestly, 
three  of  them  came  to  me  the  next  morning, 
and  told  me  they  had  been  musing  very  much 
upon  what  I  had  discoursed  with  them  of,  the 
last  night,  and  they  came  to  make  a  secret  pro- 
posal to  me.  And  after  enjoining  me  secrecy, 
they  told  me  that  they  had  a  mind  to  fit  out  a 
ship  to  go  to  Guinea;  that  they  had  all  planta- 
tions as  well  as  I,  and  were  straitened  for  noth- 
ing so  much  as  servants ;  that  as  it  was  a  trade 
that  could  not  be  carried  on  because  they  could 
not  publicly  sell  the  negroes  when  they  came 
home,  so  they  desired  to  make  but  one  voyage, 
to  bring  the  negroes  on  shore  privately,  and 
divide  them  among  their  own  plantations;  and, 
in  a  word,  the  question  was,  whether  I  would 
go  their  supercargo  in  the  ship,  to  manage  the 
trading  part  upon  the  coast  of  Guinea.  And 
they  offered  me  that  I  should  have  my  equal 
share  of  the  negroes  without  providing  any 
part  of  the  stock. 

This  was  a  fair  proposal,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, had  it  been  made  to  any  one  that  had 
not  had  a  settlement  and  plantation  of  his  own 
to  look  after,  which  was  in  a  fair  way  of  com- 
ing to  be  very  considerable,  and  with  a  good 
stock  upon  it.  But  for  me,  that  was  thus  en- 
tered and  established,  and  had  nothing  to  do 
but  go  on  as  I  had  begun,  for  three  or  four 
years  more,  and  to  have  sent  for  the  other 
hundred  pounds  from  England;  and  who,  in 
that  time,  and  with  that  little  addition,  could 
scarce  have  failed  of  being  worth  three  or 
four  thousand  pounds  sterling,  and  that  in- 
creasing too — for  me  to  think  of  such  a  voyage, 


3  aromatic    seeds    (used  for  spicing  liqaor) 
*  held  as  a   state  monopoly    •  Possibly  some  word 
like  "stock"  has  been  omitted.) 


was  the  most  preposterous  thing  that  ever  man, 
in  such  circumstances,  could  be  guilty  of. 

But  I,  that  was  born  to  be  my  own  destroyer, 
could  no  more  resist  the  offer  than  I  could  re- 
strain my  first  rambling  designs,  when  my 
father's  good  eounselwas  lost  upon  me.  In  a 
word,  I  told  them  I  would  go  with  all  my 
heart,  if  they  would  undertake  to  look  after 
my  plantation  in  my  absence,  and  would  dis- 
pose of  it  to  such  as  I  should  direct  if  I  mis- 
carried. This  they  all  engaged  to  do,  and  en- 
tered into  writings  or  covenants  to  do  so ;  and 
I  made  a  formal  will,  disposing  of  my  planta- 
tion and  effects,  in  case  of  my  death;  making 
the  captain  of  the  ship  that  had  saved  my 
life,  as  before,  my  universal  heir,  but  obliging 
him  to  dispose  of  my  effects  as  I  had  directed 
in  my  will,  one  half  of  the  produce  being  to 
himself,  and  the  other  to  be  shipped  to  Eng- 
land. 

In  short,  I  took  all  possible  caution  to  pre- 
serve my  effects,  and  keep  up  my  plantation. 
Had  I  used  half  as  much  prudence  to  have 
looked  into  my  own  interest,  and  have  made  a 
judgment  of  what  I  ought  to  have  done  and 
not  to  have  done,  I  had  certainly  never  gone 
away  from  so  prosperous  an  undertaking,  leav- 
ing all  the  probable  views  of  a  thriving  circum- 
stance, and  gone  upon  a  voyage  to  sea,  attended 
with  all  its  conmion  hazards,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  reasons  I  had  to  expect  particular  mis- 
fortune to  myself. 

But  I  was  hurried  on,  and  obeyed  blindly  the 
dictates  of  my  fancy  rather  than  my  reason. 
And  accordingly,  the  ship  being  fitted  out,  and 
the  cargo  furnished,  and  all  things  done  as  by 
agreement  by  my  partners  in  the  voyage,  I 
went  on  board  in  an  evil  hour,  the  [first]  of 
[September  1659],  being  the  same  day  eight 
year  that  I  went  from  my  father  and  mother  at 
HuU,  in  order  to  act  the  rebel  to  their  author- 
ity, and  the  fool  to  my  own  interest. 

Our  ship  was  about  120  tons  burthen;  car- 
ried six  guns  and  fourteen  men,  besides  the 
master,  his  boy,  and  myself.  We  had  on  board 
no  large  cargo  of  goods,  except  of  such  toys  at 
were  tit  for  our  trade  with  the  negroes — such 
as  beads,  bits  of  glass,  shells,  and  odd  trifles, 
especially  little  looking-glasses,  knives,  scissors, 
hatchets,  and  the  like. 

The  same  day  I  went  on  board  we  set  sail, 
standing  away  to  the  northward  upon  our  own 
coast,  with  design  to  stretch  over  for  the 
African  coast,  when  they*  came  about  ten  or 

*  This  chanire  of  subject  need  not  surprise.     De- 
foe's syntax  is  often  very  loose. 


328 


EARLY  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


twelve  degrees  of  northern  latitude;  which,  it 
seems,  was  the  manner  of  their  course  in  those 
days.  We  had  very  good  weather,  only  ex- 
cessive hot,  all  the  way  upon  our  own  coast, 
till  we  came  the  height  ofs  Cape  St.  Augus- 
tino;o  from  whence,  keeping  farther  off  at  sea, 
we  lost  sight  of  land,  and  steered  as  if  we  were 
bound  for  the  isle  Fernando  de  Noronha,  hold- 
ing our  course  N.E.  by  N.,  and  leaving  those 
isles  on  the  east.  In  this  course  we  passed  the 
line  in  about  twelve  days'  time,  and  were,  by 
our  last  observation,  in  7°  22'  northern  lati- 
tude, when  a  violent  tornado,  or  hurricane,  took 
us  quite  out  of  our  knowledge.  It  began  from 
the  south-east,  came  about  to  the  north-west, 
and  then  settled  into  the  north-east,  from 
whence  it  blew  in  such  a  terrible  manner,  that 
for  twelve  days  together  we  could  do  nothing 
but  drive,  and,  scudding  away  before  it,  let 
it  carry  us  wherever  fate  and  the  fury  of  the 
winds  directed ;  and  during  these  twelve  days, 
1  neetl  not  say  that  I  expected  every  day  to  be 
swallowed  up;  nor,  indeed,  did  any  in  the  ship 
expect  to  save  their  lives. 

In  this  distress  we  had,  besides  the  terror  of 
the  storm,  one  of  our  men  died  of  the  calen- 
ture,7  and  one  man  and  the  boy  washed  over- 
board. About  the  twelfth  day,  the  weather 
abating  a  little,  the  master  made  an  observa- 
tion as  well  as  he  could,  and  found  that  he 
was  in  about  1 1  degrees  north  latitude,  but  that 
he  was  22  degrees  of  longitude  difference  west 
from  Cape  St.  Augustino;  so  that  he  found 
he  was  gotten  upon  the  coast  of  Guiana,  or  the 
north  part  of  Brazil,  beyond  the  river  Amazon, 
toward  that  of  the  river  Orinoco,  commonly 
called  the  Great  River,  and  began  to  consult 
with  me  what  course  he  should  take,  for  the 
ship  was  leaky  and  very  much  disabled,  and  he 
was  going  directly  back  to  the  coast  of  Brazil. 

I  was  positively  against  that;  and  looking 
over  the  charts  of  the  sea-coast  of  America  with 
him,  we  concluded  there  was  no  inhabited  coun- 
try for  us  to  have  recourse  to  till  we  came 
within  the  circle  of  the  Caribbee  Islands,  and 
therefore  resolved  to  stand  away  for  Bar- 
badoes;  which  by  keeping  off  at  sea,  to  avoid 
the  indraft  of  the  Bay  or  Gulf  of  Mexico,  we 
might  easily  perform,  as  we  hoped,  in  about 
fifteen  days'  sail;  whereas  we  could  not  pos- 
sibly make  our  voyage  to  the  coast  of  Africa 
without  some  assistance,  both  to  our  ship  and 
to  ourselves. 

'•  reached  the  latitude  of 

« Cape   Sao   Afrostlnhos.   alwnt   four  degrees   north 

ut  Hno  Halvudor  (Itahiai. 
v  A  dellriuiiN  fever. 


"With  this  design  we  changed  our  course,  and 
steered  away  N.\\.  by  W.  in  order  to  reach 
some  of  our  English  islands,  where  I  hoped  for 
relief;  but  our  voyage  was  otherwise  de- 
termined; for  being  in  the  latitude  of  12  de- 
grees 18  minutes  a  second  storm  came  upon  us, 
which  carried  us  away  with  the  same  im- 
petuosity westward,  and  drove  us  so  out  of  the 
very  way  of  all  human  commerce,  that  had  all 
our  lives  been  saved,  as  to  the  sea,  we  were 
rather  in  danger  of  being  devoured  by  savages 
than  ever  returning  to  our  own  country. 

In  this  distress,  the  wind  still  blowing  very 
hard,  one  of  our  men  early  in  the  morning 
cried  out,  "Land!  "  and  we  had  no  sooner  ran 
out  of  the  cabin  to  look  out,  in  hopes  of  see- 
ing whereabouts  in  the  world  we  were,  but  the 
ship  struck  upon  a  sand,  and  in  a  moment,  her 
motion  being  so  stopped,  the  sea  broke  over  her 
in  such  a  manner,  that  we  expected  we  should 
all  have  perished  immediately ;  and  we  w  ere 
immediately  driven  into  our  cl(»se  quarters,  to 
shelter  us  from  the  very  foam  and  spray  of  the 
sea. 

It  is  not  easy  for  any  one,  who  has  not  been 
in  the  like  condition,  to  describe  or  conceive 
the  consternation  of  men  in  such  circumstances. 
We  knew  nothing  where  we  were,  or  upon  what 
land  it  was  we  were  driven,  whether  an  island 
or  the  main,  whether  inhabited  or  not  in- 
iiabited;  and  as  the  rage  of  the  wind  was  still 
great,  though  rather  less  than  at  first,  we  could 
not  so  much  as  hope  to  have  the  ship  hold  many 
minutes  without  breaking  in  pieces,  unless  the 
winds,  by  a  kind  of  miracle,  should  turn  im- 
mediately about.  In  a  word,  we  sat  looking 
one  upon  another,  and  expecting  death  every 
moment,  and  every  man  acting  accordingly,  as 
preparing  for  another  world ;  for  there  was 
little  or  nothing  more  for  us  to  do  in  this.  That 
which  was  our  present  comfort,  and  all  the 
comfort  we  had,  was  that,  contrary  to  our  ex- 
pectation, the  ship  did  not  break  yet,  and  that 
the  master  said  the  wind  began  to  abate. 

Now,  though  we  thought  that  the  wind  did  a 
little  abate,  yet  the  ship  having  thus  struck 
upon  the  sand,  and  sticking  too  fast  for  us  to 
expect  her  getting  off.  wo  were  in  a  dreadful 
condition  indeed,  and  had  notliing  to  do  but 
to  tliink  of  saving  our  lives  as  well  as  we  could. 
We  ha<l  a  boat  at  our  stern  just  before  the 
storm,  but  she  was  first  staved  by  dashing 
against  the  ship's  rudder,  and  in  the  next 
place,  she  broke  away,  and  either  sunk,  or  was 
driven  off  to  sea,  so  there  was  no  hope  from 
her.     We  had  another  boat  on  board,  but  how 


DANIEL  DEFOE 


329 


to  get  off  into  the  sea  was  a  doubtful  thiug. 
However,  there  was  no  room  to  debate,  for  we 
fancied  the  ship  would  break  in  pieces  every 
minute,  and  some  told  us  she  was  actually 
broken  already. 

In  this  distress,  the  mate  of  our  vessel  lays 
hold  of  the  boat,  and  with  the  help  of  the  rest 
of  the  men  they  got  her  slung  over  the  ship 's 
side;  and  getting  all  into  her,  let  go,  and  com- 
mitted ourselves,  being  eleven  in  number,  to 
God's  mercy,  and  the  wild  sea;  for  though  the 
storm  was  abated  considerably,  yet  the  sea 
went  dreadful  high  upon  the  shore,  and  might 
well  be  called  den  wild  see,  as  the  Dutch  call 
the  sea  in  a  ttorm. 

And  now  our  case  was  very  dismal  indeed, 
for  we  all  saw  plainly  that  the  sea  went  so 
high,  that  the  boat  could  not  live,  and  that  we 
should  be  ine\-itably  drowned.  As  to  making 
sail,  we  had  none;  nor,  if  we  had,  could  we 
have  done  anything  with  it:  so  we  worked  at 
the  oar  towards  the  land,  though  with  heavy 
hearts,  like  men  going  to  execution;  for  we  all 
knew  that  when  the  boat  came  nearer  the  shore 
she  would  be  dashed  in  a  thousand  pieces  by 
the  breach  of  the  sea.  However,  we  committed 
our  souls  to  God  in  the  most  earnest  manner; 
and  the  wind  driving  us  towards  the  shore,  we 
hastened  our  destruction  with  our  own  bands, 
pulling  as  well  as  we  could  towards  land. 

What  the  shore  was,  whether  rock  or  sand, 
whether  steep  or  shoal,  we  knew  not;  the  only 
hope  that  could  rationally  give  us  the  least 
shadow  of  expectation  was,  if  we  might  hap- 
pen into  some  bay  or  gulf,  or  the  mouth  of 
some  river,  where  by  great  chance  we  might 
have  run  our  boat  in,  or  got  under  the  lee  of 
the  land,  and  perhaps  made  smooth  water.  But 
there  was  nothing  of  this  appeared;  but  as  we 
made  nearer  and  nearer  the  shore,  the  land 
looked  more  frightful  than  the  sea. 

After  we  had  rowed,  or  rather  driven,  about 
a  league  and  a  half,  as  we  reckoned  it,  a  raging 
wave,  mountain-like,  came  rolling  astern  of  us, 
and  plainly  bade  us  expect  the  coup  de  grdce.^ 
In  a  word,  it  took  us  with  such  a  fury,  that  it 
overset  the  boat  at  once;  and  separating  us,  as 
well  from  the  boat  as  from  one  another,  gave 
us  not  time  hardly  to  say,  "O  GodI  "  for  we 
were  all  swallowed  up  in  a  moment. 

Nothing  can  describe  the  confusion  of 
thought  which  I  felt  when  I  sunk  into  the 
water;  for  though  I  swam  very  well,  yet  I 
could  not  deliver  myself  from  the  waves  so  as 
to  draw  breath,  till   that  wave  having  driven 

8  finishing  stroke 


me,  or  rather  carried  me,  a  vast  way  on  towards 
the  shore,  and  having  spent  itself,  went  back, 
and  left  me  upon  the  land  almost  dry,  but  half 
dead  with  the  water  I  took  in.  I  had  so  much 
presence  of  nund,  as  well  as  breath  left,  that 
seeing  myself  nearer  the  mainland  than  I  ex- 
pected, I  got  upon  my  feet,  and  endeavoured 
to  make  on  towards  the  land  as  fast  as  I  could, 
before  another  wave  should  return  and  take 
me  up  again.  But  I  soon  found  it  was  impos- 
sible to  avoid  it;  for  I  saw  the  sea  come  after 
me  as  high  as  a  great  hill,  and  as  furious  as 
an  enemy,  which  I  had  no  means  or  strength  to 
contend  with.  My  business  was  to  hold  my 
breath,  and  raise  myself  upon  the  water,  if  I 
could;  and  so  by  swimming,  to  preserve  my 
breathing',  and  pilot  myself  towards  the  shore, 
if  possible;  my  greatest  concern  now  being, 
that  the  sea,  as  it  would  carry  me  a  great  way 
towards  the  shore  when  it  came  on,  might  not 
carry  me  back  again  with  it  when  it  gave 
back  towards  the  sea. 

The  wave  that  came  upon  me  again,  buried 
me  at  once  20  or  30  feet  deep  in  its  own  body, 
and  I  could  feel  myself  carried  with  a  mighty 
force  and  swiftness  towards  the  shore  a  very 
great  way;  but  I  held  my  breath,  and  assisted 
myself  to  swim  still  forward  with  all  my  might. 
I  was  ready  to  burst  with  holding  my  breath, 
when,  as  I  felt  myself  rising  up,  so,  to  my 
immediate  relief,  I  found  my  head  and  hands 
shoot  out  above  the  surface  of  the  water;  and 
though  it  was  not  two  seconds  of  time  that  I 
could  keep  myself  so,  yet  it  relieved  me  greatly, 
gave  me  breath  and  new  courage.  I  was  cov- 
ered again  with  water  a  good  while,  but  not  so 
long  but  I  held  it  out ;  and  finding  the  water 
had  spent  itself,  and  began  to  return,  I  struck 
forward  against  the  return  of  the  waves,  and 
felt  ground  again  with  my  feet.  I  stood  still 
a  few  moments  to  recover  breath,  and  till  the 
water  went  from  me,  and  then  took  to  my  heels 
and  ran  with  what  strength  I  had  farther  to- 
wards the  shore.  But  neither  would  this  de- 
liver me  from  the  fury  of  the  sea,  which  came 
pouring  in  after  me  again,  and  twice  more  I 
was  lifted  up  by  the  waves  and  carried  for- 
wards as  before,  the  shore  being  very  flat. 

The  last  time  of  these  two  had  well  near 
been  fatal  to  me;  for  the  sea,  having  hurried 
me  along  as  before,  landed  me,  or  rather 
dasheil  me,  against  a  piece  of  a  rock,  and  that 
with  such  force,  as  it  left  me  senseless,  and 
indeed  helpless,  as  to  my  own  deliverance;  for 
the  blow  taking  my  side  and  breast,  beat  the 
breath  as  it  were  quite  out  of  my  body:   and 


330 


EARLY  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


hail  it  returned  again  immediately,  I  must  have 
been  strangled  in  the  water.  But  I  recovered 
a  little  before  the  return  of  the  waves,  and 
seeing  I  should  be  covered  again  with  the 
water,  I  resolved  to  hold  fast  by  a  piece  of  the 
rock,  and  so  to  hold  my  breath,  if  possible,  till 
the  wave  went  back.  Now  as  the  waves  were 
not  so  high  as  at  first,  being  near  land,  I  held 
my  hold  till  the  wave  abated,  and  then  fetched 
another  run,  which  brought  me  so  near  the 
shore,  that  the  next  wave,  though  it  went  over 
me,  yet  did  not  so  swallow  me  up  as  to  carry 
me  away,  and  the  next  run  I  took  I  got  to  the 
mainland,  where,  to  my  great  comfort,  I  clam- 
bered up  the  cliffs  of  the  shore,  and  sat  me 
down  upon  the  grass,  free  from  danger,  and 
quite  out  of  the  reach  of  the  water. 

I  was  now  landed,  and  safe  on  shore,  and 
began  to  look  up  and  thank  God  that  my  life 
was  saved  in  a  ease  wherein  there  was  some 
minutes  before  scarce  any  room  to  hope.  I 
believe  it  is  impossible  to  express  to  the  life 
what  the  ecstasies  and  transports  of  the  soul 
are  when  it  is  so  saved,  as  I  may  say,  out  of 
the  very  grave;  and  I  do  not  wonder  now  at 
that  custom,  namely,  that  when  a  malefactor, 
who  has  the  halter  about  his  neck,  is  tied  up, 
and  just  going  to  be  turned  off,  and  has  a 
reprieve  brought  to  him, — I  say,  I  do  not  won- 
der that  they  bring  a  surgeon  with  it,  to  let 
him  bloodo  that  very  moment  they  tell  him 
of  it,  that  the  surprise  may  not  drive  the  ani- 
mal spirits  from  the  heart  and  overwhelm  him: 

' '  For    sudden    joys,    like    griefs,   confound    at 
first." 

I  walked  about  on  the  shore,  lifting  up  my 
hands,  and  my  whole  being,  as  I  may  say, 
wrapt  up  in  the  contemplation  of  my  deliver- 
ance, making  a  thousand  gestures  and  motions 
which  I  cannot  describe,  reflecting  upon  all  my 
comrades  that  were  drowned,  and  that  there 
should  not  be  one  soul  saved  but  myself;  for, 
as  for  them,  I  never  saw  them  afterwards,  or 
any  sign  of  them,  except  three  of  their  hats, 
one  cap,  and  two  shoes  that  were  not  fellows. 

I  cast  my  eyes  to  the  stranded  vessel,  when 
the  brearli  and  froth  of  the  sea  being  so  big.  I 
could  hardly  see  it,  it  lay  so  far  off,  and  con- 
sidered, T>ord!  how  was  it  possible  I  could  get 
on  shore? 

After  I  had  solaced  my  mind  with  the  com- 
fortable part  of  my  condition,  I  began  to  look 
round  me  to  see  what  kind  of  place  I  was  in, 
and  what  w:«s  next  to  be  done,  and  I  soon 
»  1.  e.,  bleed  him 


found  my  comforts  abate,  and  that,  in  a  word, 
I  had  a  dreadful  deliverance;  for  I  was  wet, 
had  no  clothes  to  shift  me,  nor  anything  either 
to  eat  or  drink  to  comfort  me,  neither  did  I  see 
any  prospect  before  me  but  that  of  perishing 
with  hunger,  or  being  devoured  by  wild  beasts; 
and  that  which  was  particularly  afflicting  to 
me  was,  that  I  had  no  weapon  either  to  hunt 
and  kill  any  creature  for  my  sustenance,  or  to 
defend  myself  against  any  other  creature  that 
might  desire  to  kill  me  for  theirs.  In  a  word, 
I  had  nothing  about  me  but  a  knife,  a  tobacco- 
pipe,  and  a  little  tobacco  in  a  box.  This  was 
all  my  provision;  and  this  threw  me  into  ter- 
rible agonies  of  mind,  that  for  a  while  I  ran 
about  like  a  madman.  Night  coming  upon  me, 
I  began,  with  a  heavy  heart,  to  consider  what 
would  be  my  lot  if  there  were  any  ravenous 
beasts  in  that  country,  seeing  at  night  they 
always  come  abroad  for  their  prey. 

All  the  remedy  that  offered  to  my  thoughts 
at  that  time  was,  to  get  up  into  a  thick  bushy 
tree  like  a  fir,  but  thorny,  which  grew  near  me, 
and  where  I  resolved  to  sit  all  night,  and  con- 
sider the  next  day  what  death  I  should  die,  for 
as  yet  I  saw  no  prospect  of  life.  I  walked 
about  a  furlong  from  the  shore,  to  see  if  I 
could  find  any  fresh  water  to  drink,  which  I 
did,  to  my  great  joy;  and  having  drank,  and 
put  a  little  tobacco  in  my  mouth  to  prevent 
hunger,  I  went  to  the  tree,  and  getting  up 
into  it,  endeavoured  to  place  myself  so,  as 
that  if  I  should  sleep  I  might  not  fall;  and 
having  cut  me  a  short  stick,  like  a  truncheon, 
for  my  defence,  I  took  up  my  lodging,  and  hav- 
ing been  excessively  fatigued,  I  fell  fast  asleep, 
and  slept  as  comfortably  as,  I  believe,  few 
could  have  done  in  my  condition,  and  found 
myself  the  most  refreshed  with  it  that  I  think 
1  ever  was  on  such  an  occasion. 


JONATHAN  SWIFT  (1667-1745) 

GULLIVER'S  TRAVELS.* 

From  Part  I.    A  Voyage  to  Liluput. 

Chapter  I. 

My  father  had  a  small  estate  in  Nottingham- 
shire; I  was  the  third  of  fivo  sons.  He  sent 
me  to  Emmanuel  College  in  Cambridge  at  four- 
teen years  old,  where  I  resided  three  years,  and 


•This  apparently  simple  tale  I«  In  reality  a  con- 
tinuouH  and  sweeping  satire.  Says  Sir  Wal- 
ter Scott  :  "No  word  drops  from  (iulliver's  pen 


JONATHAN  SWIFT 


331 


applied  myself  close  to  my  studies;  but  the 
charge  of  maintaining  me,  although  I  had  a 
very  scanty  allowance,  being  too  great  for  a 
narrow  fortune,  I  was  bound  apprentice  to  Mr. 
James  Bates,  an  eminent  surgeon  in  London, 
with  whom  I  continued  four  years;  and  my 
father  now  and  then  sending  me  small  sums 
of  money,  I  laid  them  out  in  learning  naviga- 
tion, and  other  parts  of  the  mathematics  use- 
ful to  those  who  intend  to  travel,  as  I  always 
believed  it  would  be,  some  time  or  other,  my 
fortune  to  do.  When  I  left  Mr.  Bates,  I  went 
down  to  my  father;  where,  by  the  assistance 
of  him,  and  my  uncle  John  and  some  other 
relations,  I  got  forty  pounds,  and  a  promise 
of  thirty  pounds  a  year,  to  maintain  me  at 
Leyden.  There  I  studied  physic  two  years  and 
seven  months,  knowing  it  would  be  useful  in 
long  voyages. 

Soon  after  my  return  from  Leyden,  I  was 
recommended  by  my  good  master,  Mr.  Bates, 
to  be  surgeon  to  2he  Stcallow,  Captain  Abra- 
ham Pannell,  commander;  with  whom  I  con- 
tinued three  years  and  a  half,  making  a  voyage 
or  two  into  the  Levant,i  and  some  other  parts. 
When  I  came  back  I  resolved  to  settle  in  Lou- 
don; to  which  Mr.  Bates,  my  master,  en- 
couraged me,  and  by  him  I  was  recommended 
to  several  patients.  I  took  part  of  a  small 
house  in  the  Old  Jewry; 2  and  being  advised  to 
alter  my  condition,  I  married  Mrs.3  Mary 
Burton,  second  daughter  to  Mr.  Edmund  Bur- 
ton, hosier  in  Newgate  Street,  with  whom  I 
received  four  hundred  pounds  for  a  portion. 

But  my  good  master,  Bates,  dying  in  two 
years  after,  and  I  having  few  friends,  my  busi- 
ness began  to  fail;  for  my  conscience  would 
not  suffer  me  to  imitate  the  bad  practice  of 
too  many  among  my  brethren.     Having,  there- 

1  The  Orient,  especially      3  Mistress,   a  title  then 

the    east    coast    of  given  to  both  mar- 

tlie    Mediterranean.  ried  and  unmarried 

2  A  street  in  the  heart  women. 

of  London. 


in  vain.  Where  his  work  ceases  for  a  moment 
to  satirize  the  vices  of  mankind  in  general,  it 
becomes  a  stricture  upon  the  parties,  politics, 
and  court  of  Britain  :  where  it  abandons  that 
subject  of  censure,  it  presents  a  lively  picture 
of  the  vices  and  follies  of  the  fashionable 
world,  or  of  the  vain  pursuits  of  philosophy, 
while  the  parts  of  the  narrative  which  refer  to 
the  traveller's  own  adventures  form  a  humor- 
ous and  striking  parody  of  the  manner  of  old 
voyagers."  Of  Part  I.,  the  Voyage  to  Lilliput. 
the  same  writer  says :  "The  satire  is  here 
levelled  against  the  court  and  ministry  of 
George  I.  In  some  points  the  parallel  is  very 
closely  drawn,  as  where  the  parties  in  the 
church  and  state  are  described,  and  the  mode 
in  which  offices  and  marks  of  distinction  are 
conferred  in  the  Lilliputian  court."  See  also 
Eng.   Lit.,  pp.   174-175. 


fore,  consulted  with  my  wife,  and  some  of  my 
acquaintance,  I  determined  to  go  again  to  sea. 
I  was  surgeon  successively  in  two  ships,  and 
made  several  voyages,  for  six  years,  to  the  f^ast 
and  West  Indies,  by  which  I  got  some  addition 
to  my  fortune.  My  hours  of  leisure  I  spent  in 
reading  the  best  authors,  ancient  and  modern, 
being  always  provided  with  a  good  number 
of  books;  and,  when  I  was  ashore,  in  observing 
the  manners  and  dispositions  of  the  people,  as 
well  as  learning  their  language,  wherein  I  had 
a  great  facility,  by  the  strength  of  my 
memory. 

The  last  of  these  voyages  not  pro\ing  very 
fortunate,  I  grew  weary  of  the  sea,  and  in- 
tended to  stay  at  home  with  my  wife  and  fam- 
ily. I  removed  from  the  Old  Jewry  to  Fetter 
Lane,  and  from  thence  to  Wapping,  hoping  to 
get  business  among  the  sailors;  but  it  would 
not  turn  to  account.  After  three  years'  ex- 
pectation that  things  would  mend,  I  accepted 
an  advantageous  offer  from  Captain  William 
Frichard,  master  of  The  Antelope,  who  was 
making  a  voyage  to  the  South  Sea.  We  set 
sail  from  Bristol,  May  4,  1699;  and  our  voy- 
age at  first  was  very  prosperous. 

It  would  not  be  proper,  for  some  reasons,  to 
trouble  the  reader  with  the  particulars  of  our 
adventures  in  those  seas.  Let  it  suflBce  to  in- 
form him,  that,  in  our  passage  from  thence  to 
the  East  Indies,  we  were  driven  by  a  violent 
storm  to  the  northwest  of  Van  Diemen's  Land. 
By  an  observation,  we  found  ourselves  in  the 
latitude  of  30  degrees  2  minutes  south.  Twelve 
of  our  crew  were  dead  by  immoderate  labour 
and  ill  food ;  the  rest  were  in  a  very  weak  con- 
dition. 

On  the  fifth  of  November,  which  was  the  be- 
ginning of  summer  in  those  parts,  the  weather 
being  very  hazy,  the  seamen  spied  a  rock  within 
half  a  cable's  length  of  the  ship;  but  the  wind 
was  so  strong,  that  we  were  driven  directly 
upon  it,  and  immediately  split.  Six  of  the 
crew,  of  whom  I  was  one,  having  let  down  the 
boat  into  the  sea,  made  a  shift  to  get  clear  of 
the  ship  and  the  rock.  We  rowed,  by  my  com- 
putation, about  three  leagues,  till  we  were  able 
to  work  no  longer,  being  already  spent  with 
labour,  while  we  were  in  the  ship.  We,  there- 
fore, trusted  ourselves  to  the  mercy  of  the 
waves;  and,  in  about  half  an  hour,  the  boat 
was  overset  by  a  sudden  flurry  from  the  north. 
What  became  of  my  companions  in  the  boat, 
as  well  as  of  those  who  escaped  on  the  rock,  or 
were  left  in  the  vessel,  I  cannot  tdl,  but  con- 
clude they  were  all  lost. 


332 


EARLY  EIGHTEENTH  CENTUKV 


•/..For  my  owu  part,  1  swam  as  fortune  directed 
me,  and  was  pushod  forward  by  wind  and  tide. 
1  often  h't  my  logs  drop,  and  could  feel  no 
bottom ;  but,  when  I  was  almost  gone,  and 
able  to  struggle  no  longer,  I  found  myself 
within  my  depth;  and,  by  this  time,  the  storm 
was  much  abated. 

The  declivity  was  so  small  that  I  walked  near 
a  mile  before  I  got  to  the  shore,  which  I  con- 
jectured was  about  eight  o'clock  in  the  even- 
ing. I  then  advanced  forward  near  half  a 
mile,  but  could  not  discover  any  sign  of  houses 
or  inhabitants;  at  least,  I  was  in  so  weak  a 
condition,  that  I  did  not  observe  them.  I  was 
extremely  tired,  and  with  that,  and  the  heat 
of  the  weather,  and  about  half  a  pint  of 
brandy  that  I  drank  as  I  left  the  ship,  I  found 
myself  much  inclined  to  sleep.  I  lay  down  on 
.the  grass,  which  was  very  short  and  soft,  where 
I  slept  sounder  than  ever  I  remembered  to 
have  done  in  my  life,  and,  as  I  reckoned,  above 
nine  hours;  for,  when  I  awaked,  it  was  just 
daylight.  I  attempted  to  rise,  but  was  not  able 
to  stir:  for  as  I  happened  to  lie  on  my  back, 
I  found  my  arms  and  legs  were  strongly  fas- 
tened on  each  side  to  the  ground;  and  my  hair, 
which  was  long  and  thick,  tied  down  in  the 
same  manner.  I  likewise  felt  several  slender 
ligatures  across  my  body,  from  my  armpits  to 
my  thighs.  I  could  only  look  upwards;  the 
sun  began  to  grow  hot,  and  the  light  offended 
my  eyes. 

I  beard  a  confused  noise  about  me;  but,  in 
the  posture  I  lay,  could  see  nothing  except  the 
sky.  In  a  little  time  I  felt  something  alive  on 
my  left  leg,  which,  advancing  gently  forward 
over  my  breast,  came  almost  up  to  my  chin; 
when,  bending  my  eyes  downward  as  much  as  I 
could,  I  perceived  it  to  be  a  human  creature, 
not  six  inches  high,  with  a  bow  and  arrow  in 
his  hands,  and  a  quiver  at  his  back.  In  the 
meantime  I  felt  at  least  forty  more  of  the  same 
kind  (as  I  conjectured)  following  the  first. 

I  was  in  the  utmost  astonishment,  and  roared 
.80  loud  that  they  all  ran  back  in  a  fright ;  and 
some  of  them,  as  I  was  afterwards  told,  were 
hurt  with  the  falls  they  got  by  leaping  from 
my  sides  upon  the  ground.  However,  they  soon 
returned,  and  one  of  them,  who  Tentured  so 
far  as  to  get  a  full  sight  of  my  face,  lifting 
up  his  hands  and  eyes  by  way  of  admiration, 
cried  out  in  a  shrill  but  distinct  voice — Helinah 
degul!  The  others  repeated  the  same  words 
several  times,  but  I  then  knew  not  what  they 
meant. 

I  lay  all  this  while,  as  the  reader  may  believe. 


in  great  uneasiness.  At  length,  struggling  to 
get  loose,  I  had  the  fortune  to  break  the 
strings,  and  wrench  out  the  pegs,  that  fastened 
my  left  arm  to  the  ground;  for  by  lifting  it 
up  to  my  face,  I  discovered  the  methods  they 
had  taken  to  bind  me,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
with  a  violent  pull,  which  gave  me  excessive 
pain,  I  a  little  loosened  the  strings  that  tied 
down  my  hair  on  the  left  side,  so  that  I  was 
just  able  to  turn  my  head  about  two  inches. 

But  the  creatures  ran  off  a  second  time,  be- 
fore I  could  seize  them ;  whereupon  there  was 
a  great  shout  in  a  very  shrill  accent,  and  after 
it  ceased,  I  heard  one  of  them  cry  aloud,  Tolgo 
plionac;  when,  in  an  instant,  I  felt  above  an 
hundred  arrows  discharged  on  my  left  hand, 
which  pricked  me  like  so  many  needles;  and, 
besides,  they  shot  another  flight  into  the  air, 
as  we  do  bombs  in  Europe,  whereof  many,  I 
suppose,  fell  on  my  body  (though  I  felt  them 
not),  and  some  on  my  face,  which  I  im- 
mediately covered  with  my  left  hand. 

When  this  shower  of  arrows  was  over,  I  fell 
a-groaning  with  grief  and  pain,  and  then  striv- 
ing again  to  get  loose,  they  discharged  another 
volley  larger  than  the  first,  and  some  of  them 
attempted  with  spears  to  stick  me  in  the  sides; 
but  by  good  luck  I  had  on  me  a  buff  jerkin,* 
which  they  could  not  pierce.  I  thought  it  the 
most  prudent  method  to  lie  still,  and  my  design 
was  to  continue  so  till  night,  when,  my  left 
hand  being  already  loose,  I  could  easily  free 
myself;  and  as  for  the  inhabitants,  I  had 
reason  to  believe  I  might  be  a  match  for  the 
greatest  armies  thev  could  bring  against  me,  if 
they  were  all  of  the  same  size  with  him  that 
I  saw. 

But  fortune  disposed  otherwise  of  me.  When 
the  people  observed  I  was  quiet,  they  dis- 
charged no  more  arrows:  but,  by  the  noise  I 
heard,  I  knew  their  numbers  increased;  and 
about  four  yards  from  me,  over  against  my 
right  ear,  I  heard  a  knocking  for  above  an 
hour,  like  that  of  people  at  work;  when,  turn- 
ing my  head  that  way,  as  well  as  the  pegs  and 
strings  would  permit  me,  I  saw  a  stage  erected, 
about  a  foot  and  a  half  from  the  ground,  capa- 
ble of  holding  four  of  the  inhabitants,  with 
two  or  three  ladders  to  mount  it ;  from  whence 
one  of  them,  who  seemed  to  be  a  person  of 
quality,  made  me  a  long  speech  whereof  I  un- 
derstood not  one  syllable. 

But  I  should  have  mentioned,  that,  before 
the  principal  person  began  his  oration,  lie  i  rie<l 

*  leather  waistcoat 


JONATHAN  SWIFT 


333 


out  three  times,  Laiiyro  dehul  sua  (these  words, 
aud  the  former,  were  afterwards  repeated,  and 
explained  to  me).  Whereupon  immediately 
alx>ut  fifty  of  the  inhabitants  came  and  cut 
the  strings  that  fastened  the  left  side  of  my 
head,  which  gave  me  the  liberty  of  turning  it 
to  the  right,  and  of  observing  the  person  and 
gesture  of  him  that  was  to  speak.  He  appeared 
to  be  of  a  middle  age,  and  taller  than  any  of 
the  other  three  who  attended  him,  whereof  one 
was  a  page  that  held  up  his  train,  and  seemed 
to  be  somewhat  longer  than  my  middle  finger; 
the  other  two  stood  one  on  each  side,  to  sup- 
port him.  He  acted  every  part  of  an  orator, 
and  I  could  observe  many  periods^  of  threaten- 
ings,  and  others  of  promises,  pity,  and  kindness. 

1  answered  in  a  few  words,  but  in  the  most 
submissive  manner,  lifting  up  my  left  hand 
and  both  my  eyes  to  the  sun,  as  calling  him  for 
a  witness:  and,  being  almost  famished  with 
hunger,  having  not  eaten  a  morsel  for  some 
hours  before  I  left  the  ship,  I  found  the  de- 
mands of  nature  so- strong  upon  me,  that  I 
could  not  forbear  showing  my  impatience  (per- 
haps against  the  strict  rules  of  decency)  by 
putting  my  finger  frequently  to  my  mouth,  to 
signify  that  I  wanted  food.  The  hurgo  (for 
so  they  call  a  great  lord,  as  I  afterwards 
learned)  understood  me  very  welL  He  de- 
scended from  the  stage,  and  commanded  that 
several  ladders  should  be  applied  to  my  sides; 
on  which  above  an  hundred  of  the  inhabitants 
mounted,  and  walked  towards  my  mouth,  laden 
with  baskets  full  of  meat,  which  had  been  pro- 
vided and  sent  thither  by  the  king's  orders, 
upon  the  first  intelligence  he  received  of  me. 

I  observed  there  was  the  flesh  of  several  ani- 
mals, but  could  not  distinguish  them  by  the 
taste.  There  were  shoulders,  legs,  and  loins, 
shaped  like  those  of  mutton,  and  very  well 
dressed,  but  smaller  than  the  wings  of  a  lark. 
I  ate  them  by  two  or  three  at  a  mouthful,  and 
took  three  loaves  at  a  time,  about  the  bigness 
of  musket  buUets.  They  supplied  me  as  they 
could,  showing  a  thousand  marks  of  wonder 
and  astonishment  at  my  bulk  and  appetite.  1 
then  made  another  sign  that  I  wanted  drink. 

They  found  by  my  eating  that  a  small  quan- 
tity would  not  suffice  me;  and  being  a  most 
ingenious  people,  they  slung  up,  with  great 
dexterity,  one  of  their  largest  hogsheads,  then 
rolled  it  towards  my  hand,  and  beat  out  the 
top:  I  drank  it  off  at  a  draught;  which  I 
might  well  do,  for  it  did  not  hold  half  a  pint, 
and  tasted  like  a  small«  wine  of  Burgundy,  but 
5  sentences  6  weak 


much  more  delicious.  They  brought  me  a  sec- 
ond hogshead,  which  I  drank  in  the  same  man- 
ner, and  made  signs  for  more;  but  they  had 
none  to  give  me. 

When  I  had  performed  these  wonders,  they 
shouted  for  joy,  and  danced  upon  my  breast, 
repeating,  several  times,  as  they  did  at  first, 
Hekinah  degul.  They  made  me  a  sign  that  1 
should  throw  down  the  two  hogsheads,  but  first 
warning  the  people  below  to  stand  out  of  the 
way,  crying  aloud,  Borach  mivola;  and,  when 
they  saw  the  vessels  in  the  air,  there  was  an 
universal  shout  of  Hekinah  degul. 

I  confess,  I  was  often  tempted,  while  they 
were  passing  backwards  and  forwards  on  my 
body,  to  seize  forty  or  fifty  of  the  first  that 
came  in  my  reach,  and  dash  them  against  the 
ground.  But  the  remembrance  of  what  I  had 
felt,  which  probably  might  not  be  the  worst 
they  could  do,  and  the  promise  of  honour  I 
made  them — for  so  I  interpreted  my  submiisive 
behaviour — soon  drove  out  these  imaginations. 
Besides,  I  now  considered  myself  as  bound,  by 
the  laws  of  hospitality,  to  a  people  who  had 
treated  me  with  so  much  expense  and  magnifi- 
cence. However,  in  my  thoughts  I  could  not 
sufficiently  wonder  at  the  intrepidity  of  these 
diminutive  mortals,  who  durst  venture  to  mount 
and  walk  upon  my  body,  while  one  of  my  hands 
was  at  liberty,  without  trembling«at  the  very 
sight  of  so  prodigious  a  creature  as  I  must 
appear  to  them. 

After  some  time,  when  they  observed  that  I 
made  no  more  demands  for  meat,  there  ap- 
peared before  me  a  person  of  high  rank  from 
his  imperial  majesty.  His  excellency,  having 
mounted  on  the  small  of  my  right  leg,  advanced 
forwards  up  to  my  face,  with  about  a  dozen  of 
his  retinue:  and,  pro<lucing  his  credentials 
under  the  signet-royal,  which  he  applied  close 
to  my  eyes,  spoke  about  ten  minutes,  without 
any  signs  of  anger,  but  with  a  kind  of  de- 
terminate resolution,  often  pointing  forwards, 
which,  as  I  afterwards  found,  was  towards  the 
capital  city,  about  half  a  mile  distant,  whither 
it  was  agreed  by  his  majesty  in  council  that  I 
must  be  conveyed.  I  answered  in  a  few  words, 
but  to  no  purpose,  and  made  a  sign  with  my 
hand  that  was  loose,  putting  it  to  the  other 
(but  over  his  excellency's  head,  for  fear  of 
hurting  him  or  his  train)  and  then  to  my  own 
head  and  body,  to  signify  that  I  desired  my 
liberty. 

It  appeared  that  he  understood  me  well 
enough,  for  he  shook  his  head  by  way  of  dis- 
approbation, and  held  his  hands  in  a   posture 


334 


EARLY  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


to  show  that  I  must  be  carried  as  a  prisoner. 
However,  lie  made  other  signs,  to  let  me  under- 
stand that  I  should  have  meat  and  drink 
enough,  and  very  good  treatment.  Whereupon 
I  once  more  thought  of  attempting  to  break 
my  bonds;  but  again,  when  I  felt  the  smart  of 
their  arrows  upon  my  face  and  hands,  which 
were  all  in  blisters,  and  many  of  the  darts  still 
sticking  in  them,  and  observing,  likewise,  that 
the  number  of  my  enemies  increased,  I  gave 
tokens  to  let  them  know  that  they  might  do 
with  me  what  they  pleased.  Upon  this  the 
hurgo  and  his  train  withdrew,  with  much  civ- 
ility, and  cheerful  countenances. 

Soon  after,  I  heard  a  general  shout,  with 
frequent  repetitions  of  the  words,  Peplom 
sehni,  and  I  felt  great  numbers  of  people  on 
my  left  side,  relaxing  the  cords  to  such  a  de- 
gree, that  I  was  able  to  turn  upon  my  right, 
and  so  get  a  little  ease.  But,  before  this,  they 
had  daubed  my  face  and  both  my  hands  with 
a  sort  of  ointment  very  pleasant  to  the  smell, 
which,  in  a  few  minutes,  removed  all  the  smart 
of  their  arrows.  These  circumstances,  added 
to  the  refreshment  I  had  received  by  their 
victuals  and  drink,  which  were  very  nourish- 
ing, disposed  me  to  sleep.  I  slept  about  eight 
hours,  as  I  was  afterwards  assured;  and  it 
was  no  wonder,  for  the  physicians,  by  the  em- 
peror's ord^,  had  mingled  a  sleepy  potion  in 
the  hogsheads  of  wine. 

It  seems  that,  upon  the  first  moment  I  was 
discovered  sleeping  on  the  ground,  after  my 
landing,  the  emperor  had  early  notice  of  it  by 
an  exi)ress;  and  determined  in  council,  that 
I  should  be  tied  in  the  manner  I  have  related 
(which  was  done  in  the  night,  while  I  slept), 
that  plenty  of  meat  and  drink  should  be  sent 
to  me,  and  a  machine  prepared  to  carry  me  to 
the  capital  city. 

This  resolution,  perhaps,  may  appear  very 
bold  and  dangerous,  and  I  am  confident  would 
not  be  imitated  by  any  prince  in  Europe  on  the 
like  occasion.  However,  in  my  opinion,  it  was 
extremely  prudent,  as  well  as  generous;  for, 
supposing  these  people  had  endeavoured  to 
kill  me  with  their  spears  and  arrows,  while  I 
was  asleep,  I  should  certainly  have  awaked 
with  the  first  sense  of  smart,  which  might  so 
far  have  roused  my  rage  and  strength,  as  to 
have  enabled  me  to  break  the  strings  where- 
with I  was  tied;  after  which,  as  they  were  not 
able  to  make  resistance,  so  they  could  expect 
no  mercy. 

These  people  are  most  excellent  mathemati- 
ciano,    and    arrived    to    n    great    perfection    in 


mechanics,  by  the  countenance  and  encourage- 
ment of  the  emperor,  who  is  a  renowned  patron 
of  learning.  This  prince  hath  several  ma- 
chines fixed  on  wheels  for  the  carriage  of  trees 
and  other  great  weights.  He  often  builds  his 
largest  men-of-war,  whereof  some  are  nine  foot 
long,  in  the  woods  where  the  timber  grows,  and 
has  them  carried  on  these  engines  three  or  four 
hundred  yards  to  the  sea.*  Five  hundred  car- 
penters and  engineers  were  immediately  set  at 
work  to  prepare  the  greatest  engine  they  had. 
It  was  a  frame  of  wood,  raised  three  inches 
from  the  ground,  about  seven  feet  long  and 
four  wide,  moving  upon  twenty-two  wheels. 
The  shout  I  heard  was  upon  the  arrival  of  this 
engine,  which,  it  seems,  set  out  in  four  hours 
after  my  landing.  It  was  brought  parallel  to 
me  as  I  lay.  But  the  principal  diflSculty  was 
to  raise  and  place  me  in  this  vehicle. 

Eighty  poles,  each  of  one  foot  high,  were 
erected  for  this  purpose,  and  very  strong  cords, 
of  the  bigness  of  packthread,  were  fastened  by 
hooks  to  many  bandages,  which  the  workmen 
had  girt  round  my  neck,  my  hands,  my  body, 
and  my  legs.  Nine  hundred  of  the  strongest 
men  were  employed  to  draw  up  these  cords  by 
many  pulleys  fastened  on  the  poles;  and  thus 
in  less  than  three  hours  I  was  raised  and  slung 
into  the  engine,  and  there  tied  fast. 

All  this  I  was  told;  for,  while  the  whole 
operation  was  performing,  I  lay  in  a  profound 
sleep,  by  the  force  of  that  soporiferous  medi- 
cine infused  into  my  liquor.  Fifteen  hundred 
of  the  emperor's  largest  horses,  each  about  four 
inches  and  a  half  high,  were  employed  to  draw 
me  towards  the  metropolis,  which,  as  I  said, 
was  half  a  mile  distant. 

About  four  hours  after  we  began  our  jour- 
ney, I  awaked,  by  a  very  ridiculous  accident ; 
for  the  carriage  being  stopped  a  while,  to 
adjust  something  that  was  out  of  order,  two  or 
three  of  the  young  natives  had  the  curiosity  to 
see  how  I  looked,  when  I  was  asleep.  They 
climbed  up  into  the  engine,  and  advancing  very 
softly  to  my  face,  one  of  them,  an  officer  in  the 
guards,  put  the  sharp  end  of  his  half-pike  a 
good  way  up  into  my  left  nostril,  which  tickled 
my  nose  like  a  straw,  and  made  me  sneeze  vio- 
lently; whereupon  they  stole  off,  unpereeived, 
and  it  was  three  weeks  before  I  knew  the  cause 
of  my  awaking  so  suddenly. 

We  made  a  long  march  the  remaining  part 


*  Swift  has  l)con  ndmlrod  for  the  oorroctness  of 
his  JlRures.  Compart'  tlu'  ien^th  of  these  men- 
of-war  with  the  height  of  the  Lilliputians. 


JONATHAN  SWIFT 


535 


of  that  day,  and  rested  at  night  with  five  hun- 
dred guards  on  each  side  of  me,  half  with 
torches,  and  half  with  bows  and  arrows,  ready 
to  shoot  nie,  if  I  should  offer  to  stir.  The 
next  morning,  at  sunrise,  we  continued  our 
march,  and  arrived  within  two  hundred  yards 
of  the  city  gates  about  noon.  The  emperor, 
and  all  his  court,  came  out  to  meet  us;  but 
his  great  officers  would  by  no  means  suffer  his 
majesty  to  endanger  his  person  by  mounting 
on  my  body. 

At  the  place  where  the  carriage  stopped  there 
stood  an  ancient  temple,  esteemed  to  be  the 
largest  in  the  whole  kingdom;  which,  having 
been  polluted  some  years  before  by  an  un- 
natural murder,  was,  according  to  the  zeal  of 
those  people,  looked  upon  as  profane,  and  there- 
fore had  been  applied  to  common  use,,  and  all 
the  ornaments  and  furniture  carried  away.  In 
this  edifice  it  was  determined  I  should  lodge. 
The  great  gate,  fronting  to  the  north,  was 
about  four  feet  high,  and  almost  two  feet 
wide,  through  which  I  could  easily  creep.  On 
each  side  of  the  gate  was  a  small  window,  not 
above  six  inches  from  the  ground;  into  that 
on  the  left  side  the  king 's  smith  conveyed  four 
score  and  eleven  chains,  like  those  that  hang 
to  a  lady's  watch  in  Europe,  and  almost  as 
large,  wliich  were  locked  to  my  left  leg  with 
six-and-thirty  padlocks. 

Over  against  this  temple,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  great  highway,  at  twenty  feet  distance, 
there  was  a  turret  at  least  five  feet  high.  Here 
the  emperor  ascended,  with  many  principal 
lords  of  his  court,  to  have  an  opportunity  of 
viewing  me,  as  I  was  told,  for  I  could  not  see 
them.  It  was  reckoned  that  above  an  hundreil 
thousand  inhabitants  came  out  of  the  town 
upon  the  same  errand;  and,  in  spite  of  my 
guards,  I  believe  there  could  not  be  fewer  than 
ten  thousand,  at  several  times,  who  mounted 
my  body,  by  the  help  of  ladders.  But  a  proc- 
lamation was  soon  issued,  to  forbid  it,  upon 
pain  of  death. 

When  the  workmen  found  it  was  impossible 
for  me  to  break  loose,  they  cut  all  the  strings 
that  bound  me;  whereupon  I  rose  up,  with  as 
melancholy  a  disposition  as  ever  I  had  in  my 
life.  But  the  noise  and  astonishment  of  the 
people,  at  seeing  me  rise  and  walk,  are  not  to 
be  expressed.  The  chains  that  held  my  left  leg 
were  about  two  yards  long,  and  gave  me  not 
only  the  liberty  of  walking  backwards  and  for- 
wards in  a  semicircle,  but.  being  fixed  within 
four  inches  of  the  gate,  allowed  me  to  creep  in. 
and  lie  at  my  full  length  in  the  temple. 


Chapter  II; 

When  I  found  myself  on  my  feet  I  looked 
about  me,  and  must  confess  I  never  beheld  a 
more  entertaining  prospect.  The  country 
around  appeared  like  a  continued  garden,  anil 
the  enclosed  fields,  which  were  generally  forty 
foot  square,  resembled  so  many  betls  of  flow- 
ers. These  fields  were  intermingled  with  wooils 
of  half  a  stang.i  and  the  tallest  trees,  as  I 
could  judge,  appeared  to  be  seven  foot  high. 
I  viewed  the  town  on  my  left  hand,  which 
looked  like  the  paintetl  scene  of  a  city  in  a 
theatre.  ... 

The  emperor  was  already  descended  from  the 
tower,  and  advancing  on  horseback  towards 
me,  which  had  like  to  have  cost  him  dear;  for 
the  beast,  though  very  well  trained,  yet  wholly 
unused  to  such  a  sight,  which  appearetl  as  if 
a  mountain  moved  before  him,  reared  up  on  his 
hinder  feet.  But  that  prince,  who  is  an  ex- 
cellent horseman,  kept  his  seat,  till  his  attend- 
ants ran  in  and  held  the  bridle,  while  his 
majesty  had  time  to  dismount. 

When  he  alighted,  he  surveyed  me  round  with 
great  admiration,  but  kept  without  the  length 
of  my  chain.     He  ordered  his  cooks  and  but- 
lers, who  were  already   prepared,   to   give  me 
victuals  and  drink,  which  they  pushed  forward 
in  a  sort  of  vehicles  upon  wheels,  till  I  could 
reach  them.     I   took  these  vehicles,  and   soon 
emptied  them  all;   twenty  of  them  were  filled 
with   meat,  and  ten  with  liquor;   each   of  the 
former  afforded  me  two  or  three  good  mouth- 
fuls;  and  I  emptied  the  liquor  of  ten  vessels, 
which  was  contained  in  earthen  vials,  into  one 
vehicle,  drinking  it   off  at  a  draught;   and  so 
I  did  with  the  rest.     The  empress  and  young 
princes  of  the  blood  of  both  sexes,  attended 
by  many  ladies,  sat  at  some  tlistanee  in  their 
chairs; 2  but  upon  the  accident   that  happened 
to  the  emperor 's  horse,  they  alighted,  and  came 
near  his  person,  which  I  am  now  going  to  de- 
scribe.    He   is  taller,   by   almost   the   breadth 
of  my  nail,  than  any  of  his  court,  which  alone 
is-  enough  to  strike  an  awe  into  the  beholders. 
His  features  are  strong  and  masculine,  with  an 
Austrian   lip   and   arched   nose,   his  complexion 
olive,  his  countenance  erect,  his  body  and  limbs 
well  proportioned,  all  his  motions  graceful,  and 
his  deportment  majestic.    He  was  then  past  his 
prime,    being    twenty-eight    years    and    three- 
quarters   old,   of  which   he  had   reigned   about 
seven  in  great  felicity,  and  generally  victorious. 


1  half  a  rood  (one-eighth  of  an  acre) 

2  sedan-chairs 


336 


EARLY  EIGHTEENTH  CEXTrRY 


For  the  better  conveuience  of  beholding  him, 
1  lay  ou  my  side,  so  that  my  face  was  parallel  i 
to  his,  and  he  stood  but  three  yards  off.  How- 
ever, I  have  had  him  since  many  times  in  my 
hand,  and  therefore  cannot  be  deceived  in  the 
description. 

His  dress  was  very  plain  and  simple,  and  the 
fashion  of  it  between  the  Asiatic  and  the 
European;  but  he  had  on  his  head  a  light  hel- 
met of  gold,  adorned  with  jewels,  and  a  plume 
on  the  crest.  He  held  his  sword  drawn  in 
his  hand,  to  defend  himself,  if  I  should  hap- 
pen to  break  loose;  it  was  almost  three  inches 
long;  the  hilt  and  scabbard  were  gold,  en- 
riched with  diamonds.  His  voice  was  shrill, 
but  very  clear  and  articulate,  and  I  could  dis- 
tinctly hear  it,  when  I  stood  up. 

The  ladies  and  courtiers  were  all  most  mag- 
nificently clad;  so  that  the  spot  they  stood 
upon  seemed  to  resemble  a  petticoat  spread 
on  the  ground,  embroidered  with  figures  of  gold 
and  silver.  His  imperial  majesty  spoke  often 
to  me,  and  I  returned  answers,  but  neither  of 
us  could  understand  a  syllable.  There  were 
several  of  his  priests  and  lawyers  present  (as 
I  conjectured  by  their  habits-),  who  were  com- 
manded to  address  themselves  to  me;  and  1 
spoke  to  them  in  as  many  languages  as  I  had 
the  least  smattering  of,  which  were.  High  and 
Low  Dutch,  Latin,  French,  Spanish,  Italian, 
and  Lingua  Franca;*  but  all  to  no  purpose. 

After  about  two  hours  the  court  retired,  and 
1  was  left  with  a  strong  guard,  to  prevent  the 
impertinence,  and  probably  the  malice  of  the 
rabble,  who  were  very  impatient  to  crowd  about 
me  as  near  as  they  durst;  and  some  of  them 
had  the  impudence  to  shoot  their  arrows  at  me, 
as  I  sat  on  the  ground  by  the  door  of  my 
house,  whereof  one  very  narrowly  missed  my 
left  eye.  But  the  colonel  ordered  six  of  the 
ring-leaders  to  be  seized,  and  thought  no  pun- 
ishment so  proper  as  to  deliver  them  bound 
into  my  hands;  which  some  of  his  soldiers  ac- 
cordingly did,  pushing  them  forwards  with  the 
butt-ends  of  their  pikes  into  my  reach.  I  took 
them  all  in  my  right  hand,  put  five  of  them 
into  my  coat-pocket;  and  as  to  the  sixth,  1 
made  a  countenance  as  if  I  would  eat  him 
alive.  The  poor  man  sfpialled  terribly,  and  the 
colonel  and  his  oflicers  were  in  much  pain,  espe- 
cially when  they  saw  me  take  out  my  penknife; 
but  I  soon  put  them  out  of  fear,  for,  looking 
mildly,  and  immediately  cutting  the  strings  ho 
was    bound    with,    1    set    him    gently    on    the 

3  (■OKtiItnOR 

4  A    rommorclal    Jargon    oompoimdod    thon    chiefly 

of  Italian  and  Orlrnlnl  lanKiinKPB. 


ground,  and  away  he  ran.  I  treated  the  rest 
in  the  same  manner,  taking  them  one  by  one 
out  of  my  pocket;  and  1  observed  both  the 
soldiers  and  people  were  highly  obliged  at  this 
mark  of  my  clemency,  wliich  was  represeute<i 
very  much  to  my  advantage  at  court. 

Towards  night,  1  got  with  some  dif3dculty 
into  my  house,  where  I  lay  on  the  ground,  and 
continued  to  do  so  about  a  fortnight,  during 
which  time  the  emperor  gave  orders  to  have 
a  bed  prepared  for  me.  Six  hundred  beds,  of 
the  common  measure,  were  brought  in  carriages 
and  worked  up  in  my  house;  an  hundreil  and 
fifty  of  their  beds,  sewn  together,  made  up  tlie 
breadth  and  length;  and  these  were  four 
ilouble,  which,  however,  kept  me  but  very  in- 
differently from  the  hardness  of  the  floor,  that 
was  of  smooth  stone.  By  the  same  computa- 
tion, they  provided  me  with  sheets,  blankets, 
and  coverlets,  tolerable  enough  for  one  who 
had  been  so  long  inured  to  hardships  as  I. 

As  the  news  of  my  arrival  spread  through 
the  kingdom,  it  brought  prodigious  numbers  of 
rich,  idle,  and  curious  people  to  see  me;  so 
that  the  villages  were  almost  emptied ;  and 
great  neglect  of  tillage  and  household  affairs 
must  have  ensued,  if  his  imperial  majesty  had 
not  i^rovided,  by  several  proclamatious  and 
orders  of  state,  against  this  inconveniency.  He 
directed  that  those  who  had  already  beheld 
me  should  return  home,  and  not  presume  to 
come  within  fifty  yards  of  my  house  without 
license  from  court;  whereby  the  secretaries  of 
state  got  considerable  fees. 

In  the  meantime,  the  emperor  held  frequent 
councils,  to  debate  what  course  should  be  taken 
with  me;  and  I  was  afterwards  assured  by  a 
|)articular  friend,  a  person  of  great  quality, 
who  was  looked  upon  to  be  as  much  in  the 
secret  as  any,  that  the  court  was  untler  many 
difficulties  concerning  me.  They  ap|)rehended 
my  breaking  loose;  that  my  diet  would  be  very 
expensive,  and  might  cause  a  famine.  Some- 
times they  determined  to  starve  me,  or  at  least 
to  shoot  me  in  the  face  and  hands  with  poisoned 
arrows,  which  would  soon  dispatch  me:  but 
again  they  considered  that  the  stench  of  so 
large  a  carcase  might  produce  a  plague  in  the 
metropolis,  and  probably  spread  through  the 
whole  kingdom. 

In  the  midst  of  these  consultations,  several 
officers  of  the  army  went  to  the  door  of  the 
great  council-chamber,  and  two  of  them  being 
admitted,  gave  an  account  of  my  behaviour  to 
the  six  criminals  above-mentioned,  which  made 
so   favourable  an  impression   in   the  breast  of 


JONATHAN  SWIFT 


337 


his  majesty  and  the  whole  board  in  my  bdialf, 
that  an  imperial  commission  was  issued  out, 
obliging  all  the  viUages  nine  hunilred  yards 
round  the  city  to  deliver  in,  every  morning,  six 
beeves,  forty  sheep,  and  other  victuals,  for  my 
sustenance;  together  with  a  proportionable 
ijuantity  ot  bread  and  wine,  and  other  liquors; 
for  the  due  payment  of  which  his  majesty  gave 
assignments  upon  his  treasury.  For  this  prince 
Jives  chiefly  upon  his  own  demesnes,  seldom, 
except  upon  great  occasions,  raising  any  sub- 
sidies upon  his  subjects,  who  are  bound  to  at- 
tend him  in  his  wars  at  their  own  expense.  An 
establishment  was  also  made  of  six  hundred 
persons,  to  be  my  domestics,  who  had  board- 
wages  allowed  for  their  maintenance,  and  tents 
built  for  them  very  conveniently  on  each  side 
of  my  door. 

It  was  likewise  ordered  that  three  hundred 
tailors  should  make  me  a  suit  of  clothes,  after 
the  fashion  of  the  country;  that  six  of  Ms 
majesty  "s  greatest  scholars  should  be  employed 
to  instruct  me  in  their  language;  and  lastly, 
that  the  emperor's  horses,  and  those  of  the 
nobility  and  troops  of  guards,  should  be  fre- 
quently exerciseil  in  my  sight,  to  accustom 
themselves  to  me. 

All  these  orders  were  duly  put  in  execution, 
and  in  about  three  weeks  I  made  a  great 
progress  in  learning  their  language:  during 
which  time  the  emperor  frequently  honoured 
me  with  his  visits,  and  was  pleased  to  assist 
my  masters  in  teaching  me.  AVe  began  already 
to  converse  together  in  some  sort;  and  the 
first  words  I  learnt  were  to  express  my  desire 
that  he  would  please  to  give  me  liberty,  which 
I  every  day  repeated  on  my  knees.  His  answer, 
as  I  could  apprehend  it,  was.  that  this  must 
be  a  work  of  time,  not  to  be  thought  on  with- 
out the  advice  of  his  council,  and  that  first  I 
must  Juntos  lelmin  pesso  deKinar  Ion  emitoso; 
that  is,  swear  a  peace  with  him  and  his  king- 
dom; however,  that  I  should  be  used  with  all 
kindness;  and  he  advised  me  to  acquire,  by  my 
patience  and  discreet  behaviour,  the  good 
opinion  of  himself  and  his  subjects. 

He  desiretl  I  would  not  take  it  ill  if  he  gave 
orders  to  certain  proper  oflScers  to  search  me; 
for  probably  I  might  carry  about  me  several 
■weapons  which  must  neetls  be  dangerous  things, 
if  they  answered  the  bulk  of  so  prodigious  a 
person.  I  said  his  majesty  should  be  satisfied, 
for  I  was  ready  to  strip  myself  an<l  turn  up  my 
pockets  before  him.  This  I  delivere<l,  part  in 
words,  and  part  in  signs. 

He  replied,  that  by  the  laws  of  the  kingdom 


I  must  be  searched  by  two  of  his  oflScers;  that 
he  knew  this  could  not  be  done  without  my 
consent  and  assistance;  that  he  had  so  good  an 
opinion  of  my  generosity  and  justice,  as  to 
trust  their  persons  in  my  hands;  that  what- 
ever they  took  from  me  should  be  returned 
when  I  left  the  country,  or  paid  for  at  the  rate 
which  I  should  set  upon  them.  I  took  up  the 
two  oflficers  in  my  hands,  put  them  first  into 
my  coat-pockets,  and  then  into  every  other 
pocket  about  me,  except  my  two  fobs  and 
another  secret  pocket  I  had  no  mind  should  be 
searched,  wherein  I  had  some  little  necessaries 
that  were  of  no  consequence  to  any  but  myself. 
In  one  of  my  fobs  there  was  a  silver  watch, 
and  in  the  other  a  small  quantity  of  gold  in 
a  purse. 

These  gentlemen  having  pen,  ink,  and  paper 
about  them,  made  an  exact  inventory  of  every- 
thing they  saw;  and,  when  they  had  done,  de- 
sired I  would  set  them  down,  that  they  might 
deliver  it  to  the  emperor.  This  inventory  I 
afterwards  translated  into  English,  and  is 
word  for  word  as  follows:  * 

Imprimis,^  In  the  right  coat-pocket  of  the 
great  man-mountain  (for  so  I  interpret  the 
words  quinhus  festrin),  after  the  strictest 
search,  we  found  only  one  great  piece  of 
coarse  cloth,  large  enough  to  be  a  foot-cloth 
for  your  majesty's  chief  room  of  state.  In  the 
left  pocket  we  saw  a  huge  silver  chest,  with  a 
cover  of  the  same  metal,  which  we  the  search- 
ers were  not  able  to  lift.  We  desiretl  it  should 
J>e  opened,  and  one  of  us  stepping  into  it, 
found  himself  up  to  the  mid-leg  in  a  sort  of 
dust,  some  part  whereof  flying  up  to  our  faces, 
set  us  both  a  sneezing  for  several  times  to- 
gether. In  his  right  waistcoat  pocket  we  found 
a  prodigious  bundle  of  white  thin  substances 
folded  one  over  another,  about  the  bigness  of 
three  men,  tied  with  a  strong  cable,  and  marketl 
with  black  figures;  which  we  humbly  conceive 
to  be  writings,  every  letter  almost  half  as  large 
as  the  palm  of  our  hands.  In  the  left,  there 
was  a  sort  of  engine,  from  the  back  of  which 
were  extended  twenty  long  poles,  resembling 
the  palisadoes  before  your  majesty's  court; 
wherewith  we  conjecture  the  man-mountain 
combs  his  head,  for  we  did  not  always  trouble 
him  with  questions,  because  we  found  it  a  great 
i  diflfifultv  to  make  him  understand   us.     In  the 


-.  first 

'  This  report  mav  possibly  satirize  the  reports  of 

the    committees    of   secrecy    on    the    Jacobite 

plots.  -  -   ■  - 


338 


EARLY  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


large  pocket  on  the  right  side  of  his  middle 
cover  (so  I  translate  the  word  ranfii-lo,  by 
which  they  meant  my  breeches),  we  saw  a  hol- 
low pillar  of  iron,  about  the  length  of  a  man, 
fastened  to  a  strong  piece  of  timber,  larger 
than  the  pillar;  and  upon  one  side  of  the  pillar 
were  huge  pieces  of  iron  sticking  out,  cut  into 
strange  figures,  which  we  know  not  what  to 
make  of.  In  the  left  pocket,  another  engine  of 
the  same  kind.  In  the  smaller  pocket  on  the 
right  side  were  several  round  flat  pieces  of 
white  and  red  metal,  of  different  bulk;  some 
of  the  white,  which  seemed  to  be  silver,  were 
so  large  and  heavy  that  my  comrade  and  I 
could  hardly  lift  them.  In  the  left  pocket  were 
two  black  pillars  irregularly  shaped;  we  could 
not  without  difficulty  reach  the  top  of  them, 
as  we  stood  at  the  bottom  of  his  pocket.  One 
of  them  was  covered,  and  seemed  all  of  a 
piece;  but  at  the  upper  end  of  the  other  there 
appeared  a  white  round  substance,  about  twice 
the  bigness  of  our  heads.  Within  each  of  these 
was  enclosed  a  prodigious  plate  of  steel,  which, 
by  our  orders,  we  obliged  him  to  show  us,  be- 
cause we  apprehended  they  might  be  dangerous 
engines.  He  took  them  out  of  their  cases,  and 
told  us  that  in  his  own  country  his  practice 
was  to  shave  his  beard  with  one  of  these,  and 
to  cut  his  meat  with  the  other.  There  were 
two  pockets  which  we  could  not  enter:  these 
he  called  his  fobs.  Out  of  the  right  fob  hung 
a  great  silver  chain,  with  a  wonderful  kind  of 
engine  at  the  bottom.  We  directed  him  to 
draw  out  whatever  was  fastened  to  that  chain, 
which  appeared  to  be  a  globe,  half  silver,  and 
half  of  some  transparent  metal;  for  on  the 
transparent  side  we  saw  certain  strange  figures, 
circularly  drawn,  and  thought  we  could  touch 
them  till  we  found  our  fingers  stopped  by  that 
lucid  substance.  He  put  this  engine  to  our 
cars,  which  made  an  incessant  noise,  like  that 
of  a  water-mill;  and  we  conjecture  it  is  either 
some  unknown  animal,  or  the  god  that  he  wor- 
ships; but  we  are  more  inclined  to  the  latter 
opinion,  because  he  assured  us  (if  we  under- 
stood him  right,  for  he  expressed  himself  verj' 
imperfectly),  that  he  seldom  did  anything  with- 
out consulting  it.  He  called  it  his  oracle,  and 
said  it  pointed  out  the  time  for  every  action 
of  his  life.  From  the  left  fob  he  took  out  a 
net  almost  large  enough  for  a  fisherman,  but 
contrived  to  open  and  shut  like  a  purse,  and 
served  him  for  the  same  use;  we  found  therein 
several  massy  pieces  of  yellow  metal,  which, 
if  they  be  real  gold,  must  be  of  immense  value. 
Having  thus,  in  obedience  to  your  majesty's 


commands,  diligently  searched  all  his  pockets, 
we  observed  a  girdle  about  his  waist,  made  of 
the  hide  of  some  prodigious  animal,  from 
which,  on  the  left  side,  hung  a  sword  of  the 
length  of  five  men;  and  on  the  right,  a  bag 
or  pouch,  divided  into  two  cells,  each  cell  capa- 
ble of  holding  three  of  your  majesty's  sub- 
jects. In  one  of  these  cells  were  several  globes, 
or  balls,  of  a  most  ponderous  metal,  about  the 
bigness  of  our  heads,  and  required  a  strong 
hand  to  lift  them;  the  other  cell  contained  a 
heap  of  certain  black  grains,  but  of  no  great 
bulk  or  weight,  for  we  could  hold  about  fifty 
of  them  in  the  palms  of  our  hands. 

This  is  an  exact  inventory  of  what  we  found 
about  the  body  of  the  man-mountain,  who  used 
us  with  great  civility  and  due  respect  to  your 
majesty's  commission.  Signed  and  sealed,  on 
the  fourth  day  of  the  eighty-ninth  moon  of  your 
majesty's  auspicious  reign. 

Clefrex  Freloc, 
Mars  I  Freloc. 


When  this  inventory  was  read  over  to  the 
emperor,  he  directed  me,  although  in  very  gen- 
tle terms,  to  deliver  up  the  several  particulars. 

He  first  called  for  my  scimitar,  which  I  took 
out,  scabbard  and  all.  In  the  meantime,  he 
ordered  three  thousand  of  his  choicest  troops 
(who  then  attended  him)  to  surround  me  at  a 
distance,  with  their  bows  and  arrows  just 
ready  to  discharge;  but  I  did  not  observe  it, 
for  mine  eyes  were  wholly  fixed  upon  his 
majesty.  He  then  desired  me  to  draw  my 
scimitar,  which,  although  it  had  got  some  rust 
by  the  sea-water,  was  in  most  parts  exceeding 
bright.  I  did  so,  and  immediately  all  the  troops 
gave  a  shout  between  terror  and  surprise;  for 
the  sun  shone  clear,  and  the  reflection  dazzled 
their  eyes,  as  I  waved  the  scimitar  to  and  fro 
in  my  hand.  His  majesty,  who  is  a  most  mag- 
nanimous prince,  was  less  daunted  than  I  could 
expect;  he  ordered  me  to  return  it  into  the 
scabbard  and  east  it  on  the  ground  as  gently 
as  I  could,  about  six  foot  from  the  end  of 
my  chain. 

The  next  tiling  he  demanded  was  one  of  the 
hollow  iron  pillars,  by  which  he  meant  ray 
pocket-pistols.  I  drew  it  out,  and  at  his  de- 
sire, as  well  as  I  could,  expressed  to  him  the 
use  of  it;  and  charging  it  only  with  powder, 
which,  by  the  closeness  of  my  pouch,  happened 
to  escape  wetting  in  the  sea  (an  inconvenience 
against  which  all  prudent  mariners  take  special 
care   to   provide),   I   first   cautioned   the   em- 


JONATHAN  SWIFT 


339 


peror  not  to  be  afraid,  and  then  I  let  it  off  in 
the  air. 

The  astonishment  here  was  much  greater 
than  at  the  sight  of  my  scimitar.  Hundreds 
fell  down  as  if  they  had  been  struck  dead;  and 
even  the  emperor,  although  he  stood  his 
ground,  could  not  recover  himself  in  some 
time. 

I  delivered  up  both  my  pistols,  in  the  same 
manner  as  I  had  done  my  scimitar,  and  then  my 
pouch  of  powder  and  bullets,  begging  him  that 
the  former  might  be  kept  from  the  fire,  for  it 
would  kindle  with  the  smallest  spark,  and  blow 
up  his  imperial  palace  into  the  air. 

1  likewise  delivered  up  my  watch,  which  the 
emperor  was  very  curious  to  see,  and  com- 
manded two  of  his  tallest  yeomen  of  the  guards 
to  bear  it  on  a  pole  upon  their  shoulders,  as 
draymen  in  England  do  a  barrel  of  ale.  He 
was  amazed  at  the  continual  noise  it  made  and 
the  motion  of  the  minute-hand,  which  he  could 
easily  discern  (for  their  sight  is  much  more 
acute  than  ours),  and  asked  the  opinions  of  his 
learned  men  about  it,  which  were  various  and 
remote,  as  the  reader  may  well  imagine  without 
my  repeating;  although,  indeed,  I  could  not 
very  perfectly  understand  them. 

I  then  gave  up  my  silver  and  copper  money, 
my  purse,  with  nine  large  pieces  of  gold,  and 
some  smaller  ones;  my  knife  and  razor,  my 
comb  and  silver  snuff-box,  my  handkerchief 
and  journal-book.  My  scimitar,  pistols,  and 
pouch  were  conveyed  in  carriages  to  his 
majesty's  stores;  but  the  rest  of  my  goods 
were  returned  to  me. 

I  had,  as  I  before  observed,  one  private 
pocket,  which  escaped  their  search,  wherein 
there  was  a  pair  of  spectacles  (which  I  some- 
times use  for  the  weakness  of  mine  eyes),  a 
pocket  perspective,^  and  several  other  little  con- 
veniences; which,  being  of  no  consequence  to 
the  emperor,  I  did  not  think  myself  bound  in 
honour  to  discover;  and  I  apprehended  they 
might  be  lost  or  spoiled  if  I  ventured  them  out 
of  my  possession. 

Chapter  III 

My  gentleness  and  good  behaviour  had  gainetl 
so  far  on  the  emperor  and  his  court,  and  indeed 
upon  the  army  and  people  in.  general,  that  I 
began  to  conceive  hopes  of  getting  my  liberty 
in  a  short  time.  I  took  all  possible  methods 
to  cultivate  this  favourable  disposition.  The 
natives  came  by  degrees  to  be  less  apprehensive 
6  telescope 


of  any  danger  from  me.  I  would  sometimes  lie 
down,  and  let  five  or  six  of  them  dance  on  my 
hand;  and  at  last  the  boys  and  girls  would 
venture  to  come  and  play  at  hide-and-seek  in 
my  hair.  I  had  now  made  a  good  progress  in 
understanding  and  speaking  their  language. 

The  emperor  had  a  mind,  one  day,  to  enter- 
tain me  with  several  of  the  country  shows, 
wherein  they  exceed  all  nations  I  have  known, 
both  for  dexterity  and  magnificence.  I  was 
diverted  with  none  so  much  as  that  of  the  rope- 
dancers,  performed  upon  a  slender  white 
thread,  extended  about  two  feet,  and  twelve 
inches  from  the  ground.  Upon  which  I  shall 
desire  liberty,  with  the  reader's  patience,  to 
enlarge  a  little. 

This  diversion  is  only  practised  by  those  per- 
sons who  are  candidates  for  great  employments 
and  high  favour  at  court.  They  are  trained  in 
this  art  from  their  youth,  and  are  not  always  of 
noble  birth  or  liberal  education.  When  a  great 
office  is  vacant,  either  by  death  or  disgrace 
(which  often  happens),  five  or  six  of  those 
candidates  petition  the  emperor  to  entertain  his 
majesty  and  the  court  with  a  dance  on  the 
rope;  and  whoever  jumps  the  highest,  without 
falling,  succeeds  in  the  office.  Very  often  the 
chief  ministers  themselves  are  commanded  to 
show  their  skill,  and  to  convince  the  emperor 
that  they  have  not  lost  their  faculty.  Flim- 
nap,*  the  treasurer,  is  allowed  to  cut  a  caper 
on  the  strait  rope,  at  least  an  inch  higher  than 
any  other  lord  in  the  whole  empire.  I  have 
seen  him  do  the  summerset  several  times  to- 
gether upon  a  trencher,  fixed  on  a  rope,  which 
is  no  thicker  than  a  common  packthread  in 
England.  My  friend  Keldresal,  principal  sec- 
retary for  private  affairs,  is,  in  my  opinion,  if 
I  am  not  partial,  the  second  after  the  treas- 
urer; the  rest  of  the  great  officers  are  much 
upon  a  par. 

These  diversions  are  often  attended  with 
fatal  accidents,  whereof  great  numbers  are  on 
record.  I  myself  have  seen  two  or  three  can- 
didates break  a  limb.  But  the  danger  is  much 
greater  when  the  ministers  themselves  are  com- 
manded to  show  their  dexterity!  for,  by  con- 
tending to  excel  themselves  and  their  fellows, 
they  strain  so  far  that  there  is  hardly  one  of 
them  who  hath  not  received  a  fall,  and  some  of 
them  two  or  three.  I  was  assured  that  a  year 
or  two  before  my  arrival,  Flimnap  would  have 

*  Flimnap  stands  for  Sir  Robert  Walpolc,  at  that 
time  Lord  of  the  Treasury,  who,  when  Swift 
was  a  Whig — before  1710 — had  failed  to  aid 
Swift  to  gain  promotion. 


340 


EAKLY  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


infallibly  brokef  his  neck  if  one  of  the  king's 
cughions,  that  accidontally  lay  on  the  ground, 
had  not  weakened  the  force  of  his  fall.t 

There  is  likewise  another  diversion,  which 
is  only  shown  before  the  emperor  and  empress 
and  first  minister,  upon  particular  occasions. 
The  emperor  lays  on  the  table  three  fine  silken 
tlireads,  of  six  inches  long;  one  is  purple,  the 
other  yellow,  and  the  third  Avhite.§  Tliese 
threads  are  proposed  as  prizes  for  those  per- 
sons whom  the  emperor  hath  a  mind  to  dis- 
tinguish by  a  peculiar  mark  of  his  favour.  The 
ceremony  is  performed  in  his  majesty's  great 
chamber  of  state,  Avhore  the  candidates  are  to 
undergo  a  trial  of  dexterity  very  different  from 
the  former,  and  such  as  1  have  not  observed  the 
least  resemblance  of  in  any  other  country  of 
the  old  or  the  new  world. 

The  emperor  holds  a  stick  in  his  hands,  both 
ends  parallel  to  the  horizon,  while  the  candi- 
dates, advancing  one  by  one,  sometimes  leap 
over  the  stick,  sometimes  creep  under  it  back- 
wards and  forwards  several  times,  according  as 
the  stick  is  advanced  or  depressed.  Sometimes 
the  emperor  holds  one  end  of  the  stick,  and  his 
first  minister  the  other;  sometimes  the  minister 
has  it  entirely  to  himself.  Whoever  performs 
his  part  with  most  agility,  and  holds  out  the 
longest  in  leaping  and  creeping,  is  rewarded 
with  the  purple  coloured  silk;  the  yellow  is 
given  to  the  next,  and  the  white  to  the  third, 
which  they  all  wear  girt  twice  round  about  the 
middle;  and  you  see  few  great  persons  about 
this  court  who  are  not  adorned  with  one  of 
these  girdles. 

The  horses  of  the  army,  and  those  of  the 
royal  stables,  having  been  daily  led  before  me, 
were  no  longer  shy,  but  would  come  up  to  my 
very  feet  without  starting.  The  riders  would 
leap  them  over  my  hand  as  I  held  it  on  the 
ground;  and  one  of  the  emperor's  huntsmen, 
upon  a  large  courser,  took  my  foot,  shoe  and 
all,  which  was  indeed  a  prodigious  leap. 

I  had  the  good  fortune  to  divert  the  em- 
peror one  day  after  a  very  extraordinary  man- 
ner.   I  desired  he  would  order  several  sticks  of 

t  The  preterit  form  for  Jlio  participle  was  freely 
used  In  the  clKliteentli  centurj.  Nole  also 
Iwlow  "these  kind  of  feal«." 

i  In  1717  Walpoie  was  dismissed  from  office,  l)ut 
was  probably  saved  from  disastrous  conse- 
quences through  the  influence  of  the  Duchess 
of  Kendal,  favorite  of  <;eorKe  I. 

X  In  some  editions  these  eolors  are  given  as  blue, 
red,  and  green,  the  colors  of  the  badges  of  the 
Orders  of  the  Oarter.  Bath,  and  Thistle.  The 
second  named  order,  says  Walpole's  biographer. 
William  Coxe,  was  revived  by  Walpoie  as  "a 
cheap  means  of  gratifying  his  political  ad- 
herents." 


two  feet  high,  and  the  thickness  of  an  ordinary 
cane,  to  be  brought  me;  whereupon  his  majesty 
commanded  the  master  of  his  woods  to  give 
directions  accordingly;  and  the  next  morning 
six  woodmen  arrived  with  as  many  carriages, 
drawn  by  eight  horses  to  each. 

I  took  nine  of  these  sticks,  and  fixing  them 
firmly  in  the  ground  in  a  quadrangular  figure, 
two  foot  and  a  half  square,  I  took  four  other 
sticks  and  tied  them  parallel  at  each  corner, 
about  two  foot  from  the  ground;  then  I 
fastened  my  handkerchief  to  the  nine  sticks 
that  stood  erect,  and  extended  it  on  all  sides, 
till  it  was  as  tight  as  the  top  of  a  drum ;  and 
the  four  parallel  sticks,  rising  about  five  inches 
higher  than  the  handkerchief,  served  as  ledges 
on  each  side. 

When  I  had  finished  my  work,  I  desired  the 
emperor  to  let  a  troop  of  his  best  horse, 
twenty-four  in  number,  come  and  exercise  upon 
this  plain.  His  majesty  approved  of  the  pro- 
posal, and  1  took  them  up  one  by  one  in  my 
hands,  ready  mounted  and  armed,  with  the 
proper  oflBcers  to  exercise  them.  As  soon  as 
they  got  into  order,  they  divided  into  two  par- 
ties, performed  mock  skirmishes,  discharged 
blunt  arrows,  drew  their  swords,  fled  and  pur- 
sued, attacked  and  retired,  and,  in  short,  dis- 
covered the  best  military  discipline  I  ever  be- 
held. The  parallel  sticks  secured  them  and 
their  horses  from  falling  over  the  stage:  and 
the  emperor  was  so  much  delighted  that  he 
ordered  this  entertainment  to  be  repeated  sev- 
eral days,  and  once  was  pleased  to  be  lifted  up 
and  give  the  word  of  command ;  and,  with 
great  difficulty,  persuaded  even  the  empress  her- 
self to  let  me  hold  her  in  her  close  chair  within 
two  yards  of  the  stage,  from  whence  she  was 
able  to  take  a  full  view  of  the  whole  perform- 
ance. 

It  was  my  good  fortune  that  no  ill  accident 
happened  in  these  entertainments;  only  once 
a  fiery  horse,  that  belonged  to  one  of  the  cap- 
tains, pawing  with  his  hoof,  struck  a  hole  in 
my  handkerchief,  and  his  foot  slipping,  he 
overthrew  his  rider  and  himself;  but  I  im- 
mediately relieved  them  both,  and  covering  the 
hole  with  one  hand,  1  set  down  the  troop  witli 
the  other,  in  the  same  manner  as  I  took  them 
up.  The  horse  that  fell  was  strained  in  the 
left  shouMer,  but  the  rider  got  no  hurt,  and 
I  repaired  my  handkerchief  as  well  as  I  could; 
however,  1  would  not  trust  to  the  strength  of 
it  any  more  in  such  dangerous  enterprises. 

About  two  or  three  days  before  I  was  set  at 
liberty,  as  I  was  entertaining  the  court  with 


JONATHAN  SWIFT 


Ul 


Uiese  kiud  of  feats,  there  arrived  an  express 
to  inform  his  majesty  that  some  of  his  sub- 
jects riding  near  the  place  where  I  was  iirst 
taken  up,  had  seen  a  great  black  substance 
lying  on  the  ground,  very  oddly  shaped,  extend- 
ing its  edges  round  as  wide  as  his  majesty's 
bedchamber,  and  rising  up  in  the  middle  as 
high  as  a  man;  that  it  was  no  living  creature, 
as  they  at  first  apprehended,  for  it  lay  on  the 
grass  without  motion ;  and  some  of  them  had 
walked  round  it  several  times;  that,  by  mount- 
ing upon  each  other's  shoulders,  they  had  got 
to  the  top,  which  was  Hat  and  even,  and,  stamp- 
ing upon  it,  they  found  it  was  hollow  Avithin; 
that  they  humbly  conceived  it  might  be  some- 
thing belonging  to  the  man-mountain;  and  if 
his  majesty  pleased,  they  would  undertake  to 
bring  it  with  only  jve  horses. 

1  presently  knew  what  they  meant,  and  was 
glad  at  heart  to  receive  this  intelligence.  It 
seems,  upon  my  first  reaching  the  shore  after 
our  shipwreck,  I  was  in  such  confusion  that, 
before  I  came  to  the  place  where  I  went  to 
sleep,  my  hat,  which  I  had  fastened  with  a 
string  to  my  head  while  I  was  rowing,  and 
had  stuck  on  all  the  time  I  was  swimming, 
fell  off  after  I  came  to  land;  the  string,  as 
I  conjecture,  breaking  by  some  accident  which 
I  never  observed,  but  thought  my  hat  had  been 
lost  at  sea.  I  entreated  his  imperial  majesty 
to  give  orders  it  might  be  brought  to  me  as 
soon  as  possible,  describing  to  him  the  use 
and  nature  of  it ;  and  the  next  day  the 
wagoners  arrived  with  it,  but  not  in  a  very 
good  condition;  they  had  bored  two  holes  in 
the  brim,  within  an  inch  and  a  half  of  the 
edge,  and  fastened  two  hooks  in  the  holes; 
these  hooks  were  tied  by  a  long  cord  to  the 
harness,  and  thus  my  hat  was  dragged  along 
for  above  half  an  English  mile;  but  the  ground 
in  that  country  being  extremely  smooth  and 
level,  it  received  less  damage  than  I  expected. 

Two  days  after  this  adventure,  the  emperor, 
having  ordered  that  part  of  the  army  which 
quarters  in  and  about  his  metropolis  to  be  in 
readiness,  took  a  fancy  of  diverting  himself 
in  a  very  singular  manner.*  He  desired  I 
would  stand  like  a  colossus,  with  my  legs  as 
far  asunder  as  I  conveniently  could.  He  then 
commanded  his  general  (who  was  an  old,  ex- 
perienced leader  and  a  great  patron  of  mine) 
to  draw  up  the  troops  in  close  order  and  march 
them  under  me;  the  foot  by  twenty-four  in  a 
breast  and  the  horse  by  sixteen,  with  drums 
beating,    colours    flying,    and    pikes    advanced. 

•  George  I.  was  espcclallj-  fond  of  reviews. 


This  body  consisted  of  three  thousand  foot  and 
a  thousand  horse 

I  had  sent  so  many  memorials  and  petitions 
for  my  liberty,  that  his  majesty  at  length  men- 
tioned the  matter,  first  in  the  cabinet,  and 
then  in  a  full  council ;  where  it  was  opposed 
by  none,  except  Skyresh  Bolgolam  who  was 
pleased,  without  any  provocation,  to  be  my 
mortal  enemy.  But  it  was  carried  against  him 
by  the  Avhole  board,  and  confirmed  by  the  em- 
peror. That  minister  was  galbet,  or  admiral 
of  the  realm,  very  much  in  his  master's  confi- 
dence, and  a  person  well  versed  in  affairs,  but 
of  a  morose  and  sour  complexion.  However, 
he  was  at  length  persuaded  to  comply;  but 
prevailed  that  the  articles  and  conditions  upon 
which  I  should  be  set  free,  and  to  which  I  must 
swear,  should  be  drawn  up  by  himself. 

These  articles  were  brought  to  .  me  by 
Skyresh  Bolgolam  in  person,  attended  by  two 
under-secretaries,  and  several  persons  of  dis- 
tinction. After  they  were  read,  I  was  de- 
manded to  swear  to  the  performance  of  them, 
first  in  the  manner  of  my  own  country,  and 
afterwards  in  the  method  prescribed  by  their 
laws ;  which  was,  to  hold  my  right  foot  in  my 
left  hand,  and  to  place  the  middle  finger  of  my 
right  hand  on  the  crown  of  my  head,  and  ray 
thumb  on  the  tip  of  my  right  ear. 

But  because  the  reader  may  be  curious  to 
have  some  idea  of  the  style  and  manner  of 
expression  peculiar  to  that  people,  as  well  as 
to  know  the  articles  upon  which  I  recovered 
my  liberty,  I  have  made  a  translation  of  the 
whole  instrument,  word  for  word,  as  near  as 
I  was  able,  which  I  here  offer  to  the  public. 

Golbasto  Momaren  Evlaine  Gurdilo  She  fin 
Mully  Ully  Gue,  most  mighty  Emperor  of 
Lilliput,  delight  and  terror  of  the  universe, 
whose  dominions  extend  five  thousand  blustrugs 
(about  twelve  miles  in  circumference)  to  the 
extremities  of  the  globe;  monarch  of  all  mon- 
archs,  taller  than  the  sons  of  men ;  whose  feet 
press  down  to  the  center,  and  whose  head 
strikes  against  the  sun;  at  whose  nod  the 
princes  of  the  earth  shake  their  knees ;  pleasant 
as  the  spring,  comfortable  as  the  summer, 
fruitful  as  autumn,  dreadful  as  winter.  His 
most  sublime  Majesty  proposeth  to  the  ilan- 
mountain,  lately  arrived  to  our  celestial  do- 
minions, the  following  articles,  which  by  a 
solemn  oath  he  shall  be  obliged  to  perform. 
!  First.  The  Man-mountain  shall  not  depart 
from  our  dominions  without  our  license  under 
our  great  seal. 

2d.     He  shall  not  presume  to  come  into  our 


343 


EARLY  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


metropolis  without  our  express  order;  at  which 
time  the  inhabitants  shall  have  two  hours' 
warning  to  keep  within  their  doors. 

3d.  The  said  Man-mountain  shall  confine  his 
walks  to  our  principal  high  roads,  and  not  offer 
to  walk  or  lie  down  in  a  meadow  or  field  of 
corn. 

4th.  As  he  walks  the  said  roads,  he  shall 
take  the  utmost  care  not  to  trample  upon  the 
bodies  of  any  of  our  loving  subjects,  their 
horses  or  carriages,  nor  take  any  of  our  said 
subjects  into  his  hands  without  their  own  con- 
sent. 

5th.  If  an  express  requires  extraordinary 
dispatch,  the  Man-mountain  shall  be  obliged 
to  carry  in  his  pocket  the  messenger  and  horse 
a  six-days'  journey  once  in  every  moon,  and 
return  the  said  messenger  back  (if  so  required) 
safe  to  our  imperial  presence. 

6th.  He  shall  be  our  ally  against  our  enemies 
in  the  island  of  Blefuscu,  and  do  his  utmost 
to  destroy  their  fleet,  which  is  now  preparing 
to  invade  us. 

7th.  That  the  said  Man-mountain  shall  at 
his  times  of  leisure  be  aiding  and  assisting  to 
our  workmen,  in  helping  to  raise  certain  great 
stones  towards  covering  the  wall  of  the  prin- 
cipal park,  and  other  our  royal  buildings. 

8th.  That  the  said  Man-mountain  shall,  in 
two  moons'  time,  deliver  in  an  exact  survey 
of  the  circumference  of  our  dominions,  by  a 
computation  of  his  own  paces  round  the  coast. 

Lastly.  That  upon  his  solemn  oath  to  ob- 
serve all  the  above  articles,  the  said  Man- 
mountain  shall  have  a  daily  allowance  of  meat 
and  drink  suflScient  for  the  support  of  1724 
of  our  subjects,  with  free  access  to  our  royal 
person,  and  other  marks  of  our  favour.  Given 
at  our  palace  at  Belfalorac  the  twelfth  day  of 
the  ninety-first  moon  of  our  reign. 

I  swore  and  subscribed  to  these  articles  with 
great  cheerfulnesi  and  content,  although  some 
of  them  were  not  as  honourable  as  I  could  have 
wished;  which  proceeded  wholly  from  the 
malice  of  Skyresh  Bolgolam  the  high  admiral: 
whereupon  my  chains  were  immediately  un- 
locked, and  I  was  at  full  liberty;  the  Emperor 
himself  in  person  did  me  the  honour  to  be  by  at 
the  whole  ceremony.  I  made  my  acknowledge- 
ments by  prostrating  myself  at  his  majesty's 
feet:  but  he  commanded  me  to  rise;  and  after 
many  gracious  expressions,  which  to  avoid  the 
censure  of  vanity,  I  shall  not  repeat,  he  added, 
that  he  hoped  I  should  prove  a  useful  servant, 
and  well  deserve  all  the  favours  he  had  already 
conferred  upon  me,  or  might  do  for  the  future. 


The  reader  may  please  to  observe,  that  in 
the  last  article  for  the  recovery  of  my  liberty 
the  emperor  stipulates  to  allow  me  a  quantity 
of  meat  and  drink  suflScient  for  the  support  of 
1724  Lilliputiani.  Some  time  after,  asking  a 
friend  at  court  how  they  came  to  fix  on  that  de- 
termined number,  he  told  me  that  his  majesty's 
mathematicians  having  taken  the  height  of  my 
body  by  the  help  of  a  quadrant,  and  finding  it 
to  exceed  theirs  in  the  proportion  of  twelve  to 
one,  they  concluded,  from  the  similarity  of  their 
bodies,  that  mine  must  contain  at  least  1724 
of  theirs,  and  consequently  would  require  as 
much  food  as  was  necessary  to  support  that 
number  of  Lilliputians.  By  which  the  reader 
may  conceive  an  idea  of  the  ingenuity  of  that 
people,  as  well  as  the  prudent  and  exact  econ- 
omy of  so  great  a  prince. 


JAMES  THOMSON  (1700-1748) 

From  THE  SEASONS 

Spring 

Come,  gentle  Spring,  ethereal  mildness,  come; 
And  from  the  bosom  of  yon  dropping  cloud, 
While  music  wakes  around,  veiled  in  a  shower 
Of  shadowing  roses,  on  our  plains  descend. 

O  Hertford,  fitted  or  to  shine  in  courts*      5 
With  unaffected  grace,  or  walk  the  plain 
With   innocence  and  meditation  joined 
In  soft  assemblage,  listen  to  my  song. 
Which  thy  own  season  paints;  when  nature  all 
Is  blooming,  and  benevolent,  like  thee.         10 

And  see  where  surly  Winter  passes  off, 
Far  to  the  north,  and  calls  his  ruffian  blasts: 
His  blasts  obey,  and  quit  the  howling  hill, 
The  shattered  forest,  and  the  ravaged  vale; 
While    softer    gales    succeed,    at    whose    kind 
touch,  15 

Dissolving  snows  in  livid  torrents  lost, 
The  mountains  lift  their  green  heads  to  the 
sky. 

As  yet  the  trembling  year  is  unconfirmed, 
And  winter  oft  at  eve  resumes  the  breeze, 

*  The  freshness  of  Thomson's  poetry,  derived  from 
direct  contact  with  nature,  was  recojinlzcd  as 
early  as  1756  by  Joseph  Warton,  who  wrote  : 
"His  descriptions  have  a  distinctness  and 
truth  which  are  utterly  wanting  to  those  of 
poets  who  have  only  copied  from  each  other 
and  have  never  looked  abroad  on  the  objects 
themselves."  Of  the  four  sections  of  this 
poem,  Spring  was  published  last.  In  1728;  the 
Countess  of  Hertford,  to  whom  It  Is  dedicated, 
was  a  patroness  of  poetry  whose  Interest  In 
the  author  bad  been  aroused  by  the  publica- 
tion of  the  preceding  parts. 


JAMES  THOMSON 


343 


Chills    the    pale    morn,    and    bids    his    driving 

sleets  20 

Deform  the  day  delightless:  so  that  scarce 
The  bittern  knows  his  time,  with  bill  ingulfed, 
To    shake    the    sounding    marsh;    or    from    the 

shore 
The  plovers  when  to  scatter  o'er  the  heath. 
And    sing    their    wild    notes    to    the    listening 

waste.  25 

At  last  from  Aries  rolls  the  bounteous  sun,i 

And  the  bright  Bull  receives   him.     Then  no 

more 
The    expansive    atmosphere    is    cramped    with 

cold ; 
But,  full  of  life  and  vivifying  soul. 
Lifts    the    light    clouds    sublime,    and    spreads 

them  thin,  30 

Fleecy,  and  white,  o  'er  all-surrounding  Heaven. 

Forth  fly  the  tepid  airs:    and  unconfined, 
Unbinding  earth,  the  moving  softness  strays. 
Joyous  the  impatient  husbandman  perceives 
Kelenting  Nature,  and  his  lusty  steers  35 

Drives  from  their  stalls,  to  where  the  well  used 

plough 
Lies  in  the  furrow,  loosened  from  the  frost. 
There,  unrefusing,  to  the  harnessed  yoke 
They  lend  their  shoulder,  and  begin  their  toil, 
Cheered  by  the  simple  song  and  soaring  lark.  40 
Meanwhile  incumbent  o'er  the  shining  share2 
The  Master  leans,  removes  the  obstructing  clay, 
Windss  the  whole  work,  and  sidelong  lays  the 

glebe. 
White,   through   the   neighbouring   fields  the 

sower  stalks, 
"With  measured   step;    and,  liberal,  throws  the 

grain  45 

Into  the  faithful  bosom  of  the  ground ; 
The  harrow  follows  harsh,  and  shuts  the  s-^ene. 
Be  gracious.  Heaven  I  for  now  laborious  man 
Has  done  his  part.  Ye  fostering  breezes,  blow! 
Ye    softening    dews,    ye    tender    showers,    de- 
scend !  50 
And  temper  all,  thou  world-reviving  sun. 
Into  the  perfect  year!     Nor  ye  who  live 
In  luxury  and  ease,  in  pomp  and  pride. 
Think  these  last  themes  unworthy  of  your  ear: 
Such  themes  as  these  the  rural  Maro*  sung     55 
To  wide-imperial  Kome,  in  the  full  height 
Of  elegance  and  taste,  by  Greece  refined. 
In  ancient  times  the  sacred  plough  employed 
The  kings  and  awful  fathers  of  mankind: 
And  some,5  with  whom  compared  your  insect 

tribes  60 


1  Passing  from  Aries, 
the  first  sign  of  ttie 
zodiac,  to  Taurus, 
the  second  (April 
20). 


2  plowshare 

3  directs 

4  Virgil,  in  his  Oeorgica. 

5  e.  g.,  Cincinnatus. 


Are  but  the  beings  of  a  summer's  day, 

Have  held  the  scale  of  empire,  ruled  the  storm 

Of  mighty  war;  then,  with  victorious  hand, 

Disdaining  little  delicacies,  seized 

The  plough,  and,  greatly  independent,  scorned 

All  the  vile  stores  corruption  can  bestow.        66 

As  rising  from  the  vegetable  world  570 

My  theme  ascends,  with  equal  wing  ascend. 
My   panting    Muse;    and   hark,    how    loud    the 

woods 
Invite  you  forth  in  all  your  gayest  trim. 
Lend  me  your  song,  ye  nightingales!  oh  pour 
The  mazy-running  soul  of  melody  575 

Into  my  varied  verse!  while  I  deduce. 
From  the  first  note  the  hollow  cuckoo  sings. 
The  symphony  of  spring,  and  touch  a  theme 
Unknown  to  fame — the  passion  of  the  groves. 

When  first  the  soul  of  Love  is  sent  abroad,    580 
Warm  through  the  vital  air,  and  on  the  heart 
Harmonious  seizes,  the  gay  troops  begin. 
In  gallant  thought,  to  plume  the  painted  wing; 
And  try  again  the  long-forgotten  strain. 
At  first  faint-warbled.  But  so  sooner  grows   585 
The  soft  infusion  prevalent  and  wide. 
Than,  all  alive,  at  once  their  joy  o'erflows 
In  music  unconfined.     Up-springs  the  lark. 
Shrill-voiced  and  loud,  the  messenger  of  morn: 
Ere  yet  the  shadows  fly,  he  mounted  sings    590 
Amid    the    dawning    clouds,    and    from    their 

haunts 
Calls  up  the  tuneful  nations.     Every  copse 
Deep-tangled,  tree  irregular,  and  bush 
Bending  with  dewy  moisture,  o  'er  the  heads 
Of  the  coy  quiristerss  that  lodge  within,         595 
Are  prodigal  of  harmony.     The  thrush 
And  wood-lark,  o  'er  the  kind-contending  throng 
Superior     heard,     run     through     the     sweetest 

length 
Of  notes;  when  listening  Philomela^  deigns 
To  let  them  joy,  and  purposes,  in  thought    600 
Elate,  to  make  her  night  excel  their  day. 
The  black-bird  whistles  from  the  thorny  brake; 
The  mellow  bull-finch  answers  from  the  grove: 
Nor  are  the  linnets,  o  'er  the  flowering  furze  604 
Poured  outs  profusely,  silent.     Joined  to  these, 
Innumerouss  songsters,  in  the  freshening  shade 
Of  new-sprung  leaves,  their  modulations  mix 
Mellifluous.     The  jay,  the  rook,  the  daw. 
And  each  harsh  pipe,  discordant  heard  alone. 
Aid    the    full    concert:     while    the    stock-dove 

breathes  610 

A  melancholy  murmur  through  the  whole. 
'Tis  Love  creates  their  melody,  and  all 
This  waste  of  music  is  the  voice  of  Love. 


6  choristers 

7  the  nightingale 


8  spread  about 

9  innumerable 


344 


EARLY  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


Ebom   THE  CASTLE  OF  INDOLENCE* 

1 

O  mortal  man,  who  livest  here  by  toil, 
Do  not  complain  of  this  thy  hard  estate; 
That  like  an  emmet  thou  must  ever  moiU 
Is  a  sad  sentence  of  an  ancient  date; 2 
And,  certes,  there  is  for  it  reason  great; 
Eor,    though    sometimes    it    makes    thee    weep 

and  wail, 
And  curse  thy  star,  and  early  drudge  and  late; 
Withouten  that  would  come  a  heavier  bale. 
Loose  life,  unruly  passions,  and  diseases  pale. 


In  lowly  dale,  fast  by  a  river's  side 

With  woody  hill  o'er  hill  encompassed  round, 

A  most  enchanting  wizard  did  abide, 

Than  whom  a  fiend  more  fell  is  nowhere  found. 

It  was,  1  ween,  a  lovely  spot  of  ground; 

And  there  a  season  atween  June  and  May, 

Half   prankts   with   spring,   with   summer   half 

imbrowned, 
A  listless  climate  made,  where,  sooth  to  say, 
No  living  wight  could  work,  ne  cared  eveu  for 

play. 

3 
Was  nought  around  but  images  of  rest: 
Sleep-soothing    groves,    and    quiet    lawns    be- 
tween ; 
And    flowery    beds,    that    slumbrous    influence 

kest,* 
From  poppies  breathed;  and  beds  of  pleasant 

green. 
Where  never  yet  was  creeping  creature  seen. 
Meantime     unnumbered     glittering     streamlets 

played. 
And  hurled  everywhere  their  waters  sheen; 
That,  as  they  bickered  through  the  sunny  glade, 
Though    restless    still    themselves,    a    lulling 

murmur  made. 

4 
Joined  to  the  prattle  of  the  purling  rills, 
Were  heard  the  lowing  herds  along  the  vale, 
And  flocks  loud-bleating  from  the  distant  hills. 
And  vacant j  shepherds  piping  in  the  dale: 
And  now  and  then  sweet  Philomel  would  wail, 
Or  stock-doves  plain«  amid  the  forest  deep. 
That  drowsy  rustled  to  the  sighing  gale; 


1  labor  *  cast 

2  Oeneais  111.,  10.  b  carp-free 
a  adorned                                "  mourn 

•  "This  poem  being  writ  In  the  uiunner  of  Spenser, 
the  obsolete  words,  and  the  simplicity  of  dic- 
tion In  some  of  the  lines,  which  Iwrders  on 
the  ludicrous,  were  necessary  to  make  the  Imi- 
tation more  perfect."  (Thomson's  note.)  The 
Influence  of  the  poem  in  turn  upon  Tennyson's 
The  Lotot-Eatera  Is  also  to  be  obBcrved. 


And  still  a  coil^  the  grasshopper  did  keep: 
Y'et    all    the   sounds   yblent^    inclinfed   all   to 
sleep. 

5 
Full  in  the  passage  of  the  vale,  above, 
A  sable,  silent,  solemn  forest  stood; 
Where  nought  but  shadowy  forms  was  seen  to 

move. 
As  Idless9  fancied  in  her  dreaming  mood: 
And  up  the  hills,  on  either  side,  a  wood 
Of  blackening  pines,  aye  waving  to  and  fro. 
Sent  forth  a  sleepy  horror  through  the  blood ; 
And  where  this  valley  winded  out  below. 
The  murmuring  main  was  heard,  and  scarcely 

heard,  to  flow. 


A  pleasing  land  of  drowsy -hedio  it  was: 
Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half -shut  eye; 
And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass, 
Forever  flushing  round  a  summer-sky. 
There  eke  the  soft  delights,  that  witchingly 
Instil  a  wanton  sweetness  through   the  breast. 
And  the  calm  pleasures,  always  hovered  nigh; 
But  whate'er  smackt  of  noyance,  or  unrest, 
Was  far,  far  off  expelled  from  this  delicious 

nest. 

7 
The  landskip  such,  inspiring  perfect  ease, 
Where  Indolence  (for  so  the  wizard  hightu) 
Close-hid  his  castle  mid  embowering  trees. 
That  half  shut  out  the  beams  of  Phoebus  bright, 
xVnd  made  a  kind  of  checkered  day  and  night. 
Meanwhile,  unceasing  at  the  massy  gate, 
Beneath  .a  spacious  palm,  the  wicked  wight 
Was  placed;  and  to  his  lute,  of  cruel  fate 
And     labour     harsh,     complained,    lamenting 

man's  estate. 

8 
Thither  continual  pilgrims  crowded  still, 
I>om  all  the  roads  of  earth  that  pass  there  by : 
For,  as  they  chanced  to  breathe  on  neighbour- 
ing hill. 
The  freshness  of  this  valley  smote  their  eye, 
And  drew  them  ever  and  anon  more  nigh ; 
Till  clustering  round  the  enchanter  false  they 

hung, 
Ymolteni2  with  his  syren  melody; 
While    o'er   the   enfeebling   lute    his   hand    he 
flung, 
And  to  the  trembling  chords  these  temptin-? 
Terses  sung: 


'  u  noise. 
8  blended 
B  idleness 


a  etir 


10  drowsiness 

11  was  niiiiiirt 
!•-•  nu>lt»'(l 


JAMES  THOMSON 


345 


"Beholil!   ye  pilgrims  of  this  earth,  behold! 
See  all  but  man  with  unearned  pleasure  gay : 
See  her  bright  robes  the  butterfly  unfold, 
Broke  from  her  wintry  tomb  in  prime  of  May! 
What  youthful  bride  can  equal  her  array? 
"Who  can  with  her  for  easy  pleasure  vie  I 
From  mead  to  mead  with  gentle  wing  to  stray, 
I->om  flower  to  flower  on  balmy  gales  to  fly, 
Is  all  slie  has  to  do  l)eneath  the  radiant  sky. 

10 

"Behold  the  merry  minstrels  of  the  morn. 
The  swarming  songsters  of  the  careless  grove; 
Ten  thousand  throats  that,  from  the  flowering 

thorn, 
Hymn  their  good  God,  and  carol  sweet  of  love. 
Such  grateful  kindly  raptures  them  emove! 
They  neither  plough,  nor  sow;  ne,  fit  for  flail, 
E'er   to    the    barn    the    nodding   sheaves    they 

drove ; 
Yet  theirs  each  harvest  dancing  in  the  gale, 
Whatever  crowns  the  hill,  or  smiles  along  the 

vale. 

11 

"Outcast  of  Nature,  man!  the  wretched  thrall 
Of  bitter-dropping  sweat,  of  sweltryis  pain. 
Of  cares  that  eat  away  thy  heart  with  gall, 
And  of  the  vices,  an  inhuman  train. 
That  all  proceed  from  savage  thirst  of  gain : 
For  when  hard-hearted  Interest  first  began 
To  poison  earth,  Astrseai*  left  the  plain; 
Guile,  Violence,  and  Murder,  seized  on  man, 
And,  for  soft  milky  streams,  with  blood  the 
rivers  ran. 

12 

"Come,  ye  who  still  the  cumbrous  load  of  life 
.    Push  hard  up-hill;  but  as  the  farthest  steep 
You  trust  to  gain,  and  put  an  end  to  strife, 
Down    thunders    back    the    stone    with    mighty 

sweep. 
And  hurls  your  labours  to  the  valley  deep. 
Forever  vain:   come,   and,  withouten   fee, 
I  in  oblivion  will  your  sorrows  steep, 
Your  cares,  your  toils;  will  steep  you  in  a  sea 
Of  full  delight:    O  come,  ye  weary  wights, 
to  me !  " 

13  sultry  .  ..     ,     ..         ,j 

14  The  goddess  of  justice,  who  in  the  golden  age 

lived  among  men. 


BULE,  BEIT  ANN  I A 

Fko^i  the  Masque  of  "Alfred." 

1 

When  Britain  first,  at  Heaven 's  command, 

Arose  from  out  the  azure  main, 
This  was  the  charter  of  the  land. 

And  guardian  angels  sang  this  strain: 
Rule,   Britannia,   rule   the   waves, 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 


The  nations  not  so  blest  as  thee, 

Must  in  their  turns  to  tyrants  fall, 
Whilst  thou  shalt  flourish  great  and  free, 
The  dread  and  envy  of  them  all. 
Rule,   Britannia,  rule   the   waves, 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 


Still  more  majestic  shalt  thou  rise. 

More  dreadful  from  each  foreign  stroke; 
As  the  loud  blast  that  tears  the  skies 
Serves  but  to  root  thy  native  oak. 
Rule,   Britannia,  rule  the   waves, 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 


Thee  haughty  tyrants  ne'er  shall  tame; 
All  their  attempts  to  bend  thee  down 
Will  but  arouse  thy  generous  flame. 
But  work  their  woe  and  thy  renown. 
Rule,   Britannia,  rule   the   waves, 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 


To  thee  belongs  the  rural  reign; 

Thy  cities  shall  with  commerce  shine; 
All  thine  shall  be  the  subject  main, 
And  every  shore  it  circles  thine. 
Rule,    Britannia,  rule   the   waves, 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 

6 

The  Muses,  still  with  freedom  found, 

Shall  to  thy  happy  coast  repair; 
Blest  isle,  with  matchless  beauty  crowned, 
And  manly  hearts  to  guard  the  fair! 
Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves, 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 


LATER  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


WILLIAM  COLLINS  (1721-1759) 

A  SONG  FROM   SHAKESPEARE'S 
CYMBELINE* 


To  fair  Fidele's  grassy  tomb 

Soft  maids  and  village  hindsi  shall  bring 
Each  opening  sweet,  of  earliest  bloom, 
.  And  rifle  all  the  breathing  spring. 

2 
No  wailing  ghost  shall  dare  appear, 

To  vex  with  shrieks  this  quiet  grove; 
But  shepherd  lads  aasemble  here, 

And  melting  virgins  own  their  love. 

3 

No  withered  witch  shall  here  be  seen, 
No  goblins  lead  their  nightly  crew; 

The  female  fays  shall  haunt  the  green. 
And  dress  thy  grave  with  pearly  dew. 

4 
The  redbreast  oft  at  evening  hours 

Shall  kindly  lend  his  little  aid, 
With  hoary  moss,  and  gathered  flowers. 

To  deck  the  ground  where  thou  art  laid. 

5 
"When  howling  winds,  and  beating  rain. 
In  tempests  shake  the  sylvan  cell, 

1  rustics,  peasants 

«  This  song,  which  flows  almost  like  an  Improvi- 
sation, Collins  constructed  from  the  scene  in 
Ci/mbeliiie  IV.  ii.  215-229,  in  which  Gulderiiis 
and  Arviragus  speak  over  the  body  of  tlieir 
sister  Imogen,  wlio  is  disguised  as  Fldele  and 
whom  they  suppose  to  be  dead : 

Gut.  Why,  he  but  sleeps  : 

If  he  be  gone,  he"ll  make  his  grave  a  bed : 
With  female  fairies  will  his  tomb  be  haunted, 
And  worms  will  not  come  to  thee. 

Arv.  With  fairest  flowers 

Whilst  summer  lasts  and  I  live  here,  Fldele, 
I'll    sweeten    thy    sad   grave :    thou    shalt   not 

lack 
The    flower    that's    like    thy   face,    pale    prim- 
rose, nor 
The  azured  harebell,  like  thy  veins,  no,  nor 
Tlie  leaf  of  egliintlne,  wliom  not  to  slander. 
Out-sweetened    not    thy    breath:    the    ruddtu-k 

would. 
With    charitable    bill,     .     .     .     bring   thee   all 

this: 
Yea,    and    fnrr'd    moss    besides,    when    flowers 

are  none. 
To  winter-ground  thy  corse. 


Or  midst  the  chase  on  every  plain. 

The  tender  thought  on  thee  shall  dwell. 

6 
Each  lonely  scene  shall  thee  restore, 

For  thee  the  tear  be  duly  shed: 
Beloved,  till  life  could  charm  no  more; 

And  mourned,  till  Pity's  self  be  dead. 

ODEt 
1 

How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold. 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mold. 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

2 
By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung, 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung; 
There  Honour  comes,  a  pilgrim  grey, 
To   bless   the   turf   that   wraps  their  clay; 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair, 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there! 

ODE  TO  EVENING  J 

1 

If  ought  of  oaten  stop,2  or  pastoral  song, 
May  hope,  diaste  Eve,  to  sootlie  thy  modest  ear. 

Like  thy  own  solemn  springs. 

Thy  springs  and  dying  gales, 

2 
O  nymph  reserved,  while  now  the  bright-haired 

sun 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy  skirts, 
With  brede^  ethereal  wove, 
O'erhang  his  wavy  bed: 

2  musical  pipe  a  embroidery 

t  "Written."  says  Collins.  "In  the  beginning  of  Ihe 
year  1740."  The  British  troops  had  lately 
suffered  losses  in  the  War  of  the  Austrian 
Succession,  e.  g.,  at  Fontenoy  In  174r>,  and 
Falkirk,  .lanuary,  1740. 

X  "Although  less  popular  than  The  Denertnl  Vil- 
laf/r  and  (Jray's  Elviifi.  the  Ode  itt  Kvenhui  Is 
yet  like  them  in  eml)odying  in  exquisite  form 
sights,  sounds,  and  feelings  of  such  permanent 
beauty  that  age  cannot  wither  them  nor  cus- 
tom stale." — W.  C.  Itronson.  See  also  Eitfi. 
Lit.,   21S)-220. 


346 


THOMAS   GRAY 


347 


Now  air  is  hushed,  save  where  the  weak-eyed 

bat, 
With   short   shrill   shriek,   flits   by   on   leathern 
wing. 
Or  where  the  beetle  win<ls 
His  small  but  sullen  horn, 

4 
As  oft  he  rises  'midst  the  twilight  path. 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum: 

Now  teach  me,  maid  composed. 

To  breathe  some  softened  strain, 

5 
Whose  numbers,  stealing  thro'  thy  darkening 

vale 
May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness  suit, 
As,  musing  slow,  I  hail 
Thy  genial  loved  return! 

6 

For  when  thy  folding-star*  arising  shows 
His  paly  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp 

The  fragrant  Hours,  and  elves 

Who  slept  in  flowers  the  day, 

7 
And  many  a  nymph  who  wreathes  her  brows 

with  sedge. 
And    sheds    the    freshening   dew,    and,   lovelier 
still. 
The  pensive  Pleasures  sweet. 
Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 

8 
Then    lead,   calm   votaress,   where   some  sheety 

lake 
Cheers   the  lone   heath,   or   some   time-hallowed 
pile 
Or  upland  fallows  grey 
Reflect  its  last  cool  gleam. 

9 
But    when    chill    blustering    winds,    or    driving 

rain. 
Forbid  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut 
That  from  the  mountain's  side 
Views  wilds,  and  swelling  floods, 

10 
And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discovered  spires. 
And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks  o'er  all 

Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 

The  grailual  dusky  veil. 

11 
While  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as  oft  he 
wont, 

i  Marking  the  time  for  folding  the  flocks. 


And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest  Eve; 
While  Summer  loves  to  sport 
Beneath  thy  lingering  light ; 

12 
While  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap  with  leaves; 
Or  Winter,  yelling  thro'  the  troublous  air, 

Aflfrights  thy  shrinking  train. 

And  rudely  rends  thy  robes; 

13 
So  long,  sure-found  beneath  the  sylvan  shed, 
Shall    Fancy,    Friendship,    Science,    rose-lipped 
Health, 
Thy  gentlest  influence  own, 
And  hymn  thy  favourite  name! 


THOMAS  GRAY  (1716-1771) 

ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY 
CHURCHYARD 


The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day. 
The  lowing  herd  wind  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 

The  plowman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 


Now   fades   the   glimmering  landscape   on   the 
sight. 

And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds. 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 

And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds; 

3 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such,  as  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 


Beneath    those    rugged    elms,    that    yew-tree's 
shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering 
heap. 
Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid. 
The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

5 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn. 
The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built 
shed. 
The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them   from  their  lowly 
bed. 

6 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 

Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care: 


3  IS 


LATER  ETC.HTEENTH  CEXTUBY 


No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire  's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 


Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 

Their    furrow    oft    the    stubborn    glebe    has 
broke; 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield! 
How   bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy 
stroke! 

8 
Eet  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil. 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 
Nor  grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile, 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 


The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power. 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 

Awaits  alike   th'  inevitable   hour.i 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

10 

Xor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault, 

If  memory  o  'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 

"Where   thro'   the   long-drawn   aisle  and  fretted 

vault 

The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

11 
Can  storied  urn^  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 
(an  honour's  voice  provoke"  the  silent  dust, 

Or  flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death? 

12 
Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire; 
Hands,    that    the    rod    of    empire    might    have 
swayed. 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre, 

13 

But  knowleilge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time  did  ne'er  unroll; 

(,'hill  penury  repressed  their  noble  rage. 
And  froze  the  geniaH  current  of  the  soul. 

14 
Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear: 
Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen. 

And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air, 

1.5 
Some    village    Hampden.'    that    with    dauntless 
l)rea.st 


1  Subject  of  "awaits." 
a  .\   iMirlal   urn.   pldorl- 

ally  (Iccoratf'd. 
»  call  forth 


4  natural 

-  A  Puritan  leader  who 
resisted   ChurleH    I, 


The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood; 
Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 
Some    Cromwell    guiltless    of    his    country  'a 
blood,* 

IG 
Th'  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command. 

The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation '.s  eyes. 

17 
Their  lot  forbade:  nor  circumscribed  alone 
Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  eon- 
fined  ; 
Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind, 

18 
The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide. 

To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame. 
Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride 

With  incense  kindled  at  the   Muse's  flarae.« 

19 
Far'  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife. 

Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray; 
Along  the  cool  sequestered  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

20 
Yet  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh. 
With   uncouth   rhymes   and   shapeless   sculpture 
decked, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

21 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  th '  unlettered 
Muse,8 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply: 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 


For  who  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey, 

This  pleasing  anxious  being  e 'er.  resigned, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Xor  cast  one  longing  lingering  look  behind? 

2.". 
On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 

Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires; 
Even  from  Ihe  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries, 

Even  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

0  1.    0..    wrlt->    fnltorlui?       t  i.e..   belnj?  far 
versos  to  win  lavor        «  untaught  pot-t 

*  lutll  a  cumpnratlvol.v  recent  time  Cromwell  was 
veiv  si'nerally  rejrarrted  as  a  man  who  sncrl- 
liiecl  evervtliing  to  his  own  Inordinate  uinltl- 
lion.  In  "tlie  llrst  draft  of  this  sian/.a,  Cray 
had  written  Ihe  names  of  Romans — t'ato, 
Tuily   (Cicero),  and  ("ai'sar. 


THOMAS   UHAV 


34<) 


24 
For  thee,  who  mindful  of  th '  uuhonoured  dead 

Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate; 
If  chance,"  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, 

25 
Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 

' '  Oft  liave  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 
Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away 

To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

26 
' '  There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech 

That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 
His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 

And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

27 
' '  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove, 
Now  drooping,  woeful  wan,  like  one  forlorn, 
Or  crazed   with  care,  or   crossed  in   hopeless 
love. 

28 
' '  One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  customed  hill, 
Along  the  heath  and  near  his  favourite  tree; 
Another  came;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 

Xor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he ; 

29 
"The  next  with  dirges  due  in  sad  arraj' 

Slow  thro '  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him 
borne. 
Approach  and  read   (for  thou  canst  read)   the 

lay, 

Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn. ' ' 

THE  EPITAPH 

!         30 
Here  rests  his  head  upon  ihc  lap  of  earth 

A  youth  to  fortune  and  io  fame  unknown. 
Fair  science  frowned  not  on  )iis  humble  birth,  \ 

And  melancholy  marled  him  for  her  own. 

31 
Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  sotd  sincere. 
Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send: 
77.'  gave  to  misery  all  he  had,  a  tear. 
He  gained  from  Heaven  {'twas  all  he  tvished) 
a  friend. 

32 
No  farther  seeTc  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 
(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 

9  perchance 


THE  PROGEESS  OF   POESY 
A  Pindaric  Ode'' 

I.     1 

Awake,  .^olian  lyre,  awake, 
And  give  to  rapture  all  thy  trembling  strings. 
From  Helicon's  harmonious  springs 
A  thousand  rills  their  mazy  progress  take: 
The  laughing  flowers,  that  round  tliem  blow, 
Drink  life  and  fragrance  as  they  flow. 
Now  tlie  rich  stream  of  music  wiiuls  along 
Deep,  majestic,  smooth,  and  strong, 
Thro'  verdant  vales,  and  Ceres'  golden  reign: 
Now  rolling  down  the  steep  amain. 
Headlong,  impetuous,  see  it  pour: 
The  rocks,  and  nodding  groves  rebellow  to  the 
roar. 

I.     2 

Oh!  sovereign  of  the  willing  soul, 
Parent  of  sweet  and  solemn-breathing  air.';. 
Enchanting  shell !  i  the  sullen  cares, 
And  frantic  passions  hear  thy  soft  control. 
On  Tracia  's  hills  the  Lord  of  War2 
Has  curbed  the  fury  of  his  car, 
/  nd  dropped  his  thirsty  lance  at  thy  command. 
Perching  on  the  sceptred  hand 
Of  Jove,  thy  magic  lulls  the  feathere<l  king"* 
With  ruffled  plumes,  and  flagging  wing: 
Quenched  in  dark  clouds  of  slumber  lie 
The  terror  of  his  beak,  and  lightnings  of  hi.s 
eye. 

T.     3 

Thee  the  voice,  the  dance,  obey. 
Tempered  to  thy  warbled  lay. 
O  'er  Idalia  's  velvet-green* 


1  The  lyre,  said  to  have       2  Mars 

been  matlc  by  Her-       3  .[ove's  eagle 

mes     from     a     tor-        4  In    Cyprus,    sacred    to 

toise   shell.  Venus     (Cythcrea). 

»  The  odes  of  Pindar,  the  most  renowned  lyric  pot-t 
of  ancient  Greece,  were  mostly  constructed  in 
symmetrical  triads,  each  triad  containing  a 
strophe,  antistrophe.  and  epode,  or  turn, 
counter-turn,  and  after-song.  Metrically  the 
strophes  and  antistrophes  all  corresponded 
exactly  throughout,  and  likewise  the  epodcs. 
Tho  livelier  odes  were  written  in  what  was 
known  as  the  JOolian  mood,  in  contrast  to  the 
;;raver  Dorian  mood  and  the  more  tender 
I.ydian  measures.  Gray  has  borrowed  freely 
from  Pindar,  even  translating  a  portion  of  the 
tirst  I'ythlan  Ode.  The  following  is  a  con- 
densation  of  Gray's   notes   to   his  own   poem  : 

I.  1.  The  various  sources  of  poetry,  which 
gives  life  and  lustre  to  all  It  touches. — I.  -. 
Power  of  harmony  to  calm  the  turbulent  snl- 
lies  of  the  soul. — I.  3.  Power  of  harmony  to 
produce  all  the  graces  of  motion  in  the  body. 
IF.  1.  Poetry  given  to  mankind  to  compensate 
the  real  and  imaginary  ills  of  life. — II.  2.  Kx 
tensive  influence  of  poetic  genius  over  the 
remotest     and     most     uncivilized      nations. — 

II.  ?>.  Progress  of  Poetrv  from  fireece  to 
Italy,  and  from  Italy  to  i:ngland. —  III.  1.  2.  3. 
Shakespeare.    Milton,    Dryden. 


350 


LATER  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


The  rosy-crownecl  Loves  are  seen 

On  Cytherea's  day 

With  antic  Sports,  an.l  blue-eyed  Pleasures, 

Frisking  light  in  frolic  measures; 

Now  pursuing,  now  retreating. 

Now  in  circling  troops  they  meet: 

To  brisk  notes  in  cadence  beating 

Glance  their  many-twinkling  feet. 

Slow-melting    strains    their    queen's    approach 

declare : 
Where'er  she  turns  the  Graces  homage  pay. 
With  arms  sublime,5  that  float  upon  the  air. 
In  gliding  state  she  wins  her  easy  way: 
O'er  her  warm  cheek,  and  rising  bosom,  move 
The  bloom  of  young  desire,  and  purple  light  of 

love. 

XL     1 
Plan's  feeble  race  what  ills  await. 
Labour,  and  penury,  the  racks  of  pain, 
Disease,  and  sorrow 's  weeping  train, 
And  death,  sad  refuge  from  the  storms  of  fate! 
The  fonds  complaint,  my  song,  disprove, 
And  justify  the  laws  of  Jove. 
Say,  has  he  given  in  vain  the  heavenly  iluse? 
Night,  and  all  her  sickly  dews. 
Her  spectres  wan,  and  birds  of  boding  cry. 
He  gives  to  range  the  dreary  sky: 
Till"  down  the  eastern  cliffs  afar 
Hyperion's    march    they    spy,    and    glittering 

shafts  of  war. 

IL     2 

In  climes  beyond  the  solar  road, 
Where  shaggy  forms  o  'er  ice-built  mountains 

roam, 
The  Muse  has  broke  the  twilight-gloom 
To  cheer  the  shivering  native's  dull  abode. 
And  oft,  beneath  the  odorous  shade 
Of  Chili's  boundless  forests  laid. 
She  deigns  to  hear  the  savage  youth  repeat 
In  loose  numbers  wildly  sweet 
Their  feather-cinctured  chiefs,  and  dusky  loves. 
Her  track,  where'er  the  goddess  roves. 
Glory  pursue,  and  generous  shame, 
Th'  unconquerable  mind,  and  freedom's   holy 

flame. 

IT.     3 
Woods,  that  wave  o'er  Delphi's  steep, 
Isles,  that  crow  n  th '  ^]gean  deep, 
Fields,  that  cool  Ilissus  laves, 
Or  where  Mseander's  amber  waves 
In  lingering  labyrinths  creep, 
How  do  your  tuneful  echoes  languish, 
Mute,  but  to  the  voice  of  anguish? 
Where  each  old  poetic  mountain 
Inspiration  breathed  around: 


s  uplifted 


6  foolish 


Every  shade  and  hallowed  fountain 
Murmured  deep  a  solemn  sound: 
Till  the  sad  Nine  in  Greece's  evil  hour 
Left  their  Parnassus  for  the  Latian  plains. 
Alike  they  scofn  the  pomp  of  tyrant-power. 
And  coward  vice,  that  revels  in  her  chains. 
When  Latium  had  her  lofty  spirit  lost. 
They  sought,  0  Albion!   next  thy  sea-encircled 
coast. 

III.     1 
Far  from  the  sun  and  summer-gale, 
In  thy  green  lap  was  nature's  darling  laid, 
What  time,  where  lucid  Avon  strayed. 
To  him  the  mighty  mother  did  unveil 
Her  awful  face:  the  dauntless  child 
Stretched  forth  his  little  arms,  and  smiled. 
This  pencil  take  (she  said)  whose  colours  clear 
Richly  paint  the  vernal  year: 
Thine  too  these  golden  keys,  immortal  boy! 
This  can  unlock  the  gates  of  joy; 
Of  horror  that,  and  thrilling  fears. 
Or  ope  the  sacred  source  of  sympathetic  tears. 

IIL     2. 
Nor  second  he,  that  rode  sublime 

Upon  the  seraph-wings  of  ecstacy. 

The  secrets  of  th'  abyss  to  spy. 

He  passed   the   flaming   bounds   of   place   and 
time: 

The  living  throne,  the  sapphire-blaze,^ 

Where  angels  tremble,  while  they  gaze. 

He  saw;  but  blasted  with  excess  of  light. 

Closed  his  eyes  in  endless  night. 

Behold,  where  Dry  den's  less  presumptuous  car, 

Wide  o'er  the  fields  of  glory  bear 

Two  coursers  of  ethereal  race,^ 

With    necks    in    thunder    elothed,o    and    long- 
resounding  pace. 

III.     3 
Hark,  his  hands  the  lyre  explore! 
Bright-eyed  Fancy  hovering  o  'er 
Scatters  from  her  pictured  urn 
Thoughts  that  breathe,  and   words  that  burn. 

But  ah!    'tis  heard  no  more 

O  lyre  divine,  what  daring  spirit 
Wakes  thee  now?  tho'  he  inherit 
Xor  the  pride,  nor  ample  pinion. 
That  the  Theban  Eagleio  bear 
Sailing  with  supreme  dominion 
Thro'  the  azure  deep  of  air: 
Yet  oft  before  his  infant  eyes  would  run 
Such  forms,  as  glitter  in  the  Muse 's  ray 
Wilh  orient  hues,  unborrowed  of  the  sun: 

7  Ezekiel  1.  20 

N  "Meant  to  express  the  stately  march  and  Round. 

Ing  enerK.v  of  Dryden's   rhymes."     (Gray). 
0  Job  xxxix,   10 
10  rindar 


JAMES  MACPHERSON 


351 


Yet  shall  he  mount,  and  keep  his  distant  way 
Beyond  the  limits  of  a  vulgar  fate, 
Beneath  the  good  how  far — but  far  above  the 
great. 

"OSSIAN" 

JAMES  MACPHERSON 
(1736-1796) 

OINA-MORUL.* 

As  flies  the  inconstant  sun,  over  Larmon's 
grassy  hill,  so  pass  the  tales  of  old,  along  my 
soul  by  night!  When  bards  are  removed  to 
their  place:  when  harps  are  hung  in  Selma's 
hall;i  then  conies  a  voice  to  Ossian,  and 
awakes  his  soul!  It  is  the  voice  of  years  that 
are  gone!  they  roll  before  me,  with  all  their 
deeds!  I  seize  the  tales  as  they  pass,  and  pour 
them  forth  in  song.  Nor  a  troubled  stream  is 
the  song  of  the  king,  it  is  like  the  rising  of 
music  from  Lutha  of  the  strings.  Lutha  of 
many  strings,  not  silent  are  thy  streamy  rocks, 
when  the  white  hands  of  Malvina  move  upon 
the  harp!  Light  of  the  shadowy  thoughts,  that 
fly  across  my  soul,  daughter  of  Toscar  of  hel- 
mets, wilt  thou  not  hear  the  song?  We  call 
back,  maid  of  Lutha,  the  years  that  have  rolled 
away ! 

It  was  in  the  days  of  the  king,  while  yet 
my  locks  were  young,  that  I  marked  Con- 
eathlin,2  on  high,  from  ocean 's  nightly  wave. 
My  course  was  towards  the  isle  of  Fuarfed, 
woody  dweller  of  seas!  Fingal  had  sent  me  to 
the  aid  of  Mal-orchol,  king  of  Fuarfed  wild : 
for  war  was  around  him,  and  our  fathers  had 
met  at  the  feast. 

In  Col-coiled,  I  bound  my  sails;  I  sent  my 
sword  to  Mal-orchol  of  shells.3  He  knew  the 
signal  of  Albion,  and  his  joy  arose.  He  came 
from   his   own   high  hall,   and   seized   my  hand 

1  The  royal  residence  of       3  See  note   1   to   Gray's 

Fingal.  ode  just  preceding. 

2  A    star,    perhaps    the 

pole-star. 
•  The  rhythmical  prose  pieces  published  by  James 
Macpherson  In  1760-1763  as  translations  from 
the  ancient  Gaelic  bard  Ossian  (Oisln),  son 
of  Fingal  (Finn),  were  apparently  based  upon 
genuine  Gaelic,  though  probably  not  Ossianic, 
remains,  with  liberal  additions  by  Macpherson 
himself.  See  Eng.  Lit.  22S.  In  the  poem  here 
given.  Ossian.  addressing  his  daughter-in-law 
Malvina,  "maid  of  Lutha.''  relates  a  generous 
deed  of  his  youthful  days.  Sent  by  his  father 
t<)  the  assistance  of  the  king  of  Fuarfed.  he 
defeated  the  foe,  Ton-thormod.  and  was  prom- 
ised the  king's  daughter.  Oina-morul.  But  dis- 
covering that  she  loved  Ton-thormod,  he 
yielded  his  claim  and  brought  about  a  recon 
ciliation  of  the  foes.  The  rather  excessive 
punctuation  of  the  piece  is  meant  to  empha- 
size its  rhythmical  character. 


in  grief.  ' '  Why  comes  the  race  of  heroes  to  a 
falling  king?  Ton-thormod  of  many  spears  is 
the  chief  of  wavy  Sar-dronlo.  He  saw  and 
loved  my  daughter,  white-bosomed  Oina-morul. 
He  sought;  I  denied  the  maid!  for  our  fathers 
had  been  foes.  He  came,  with  battle,  to  Fuar- 
fed; my  people  are  rolled  away.  Why  comes 
the  race  of  heroes  to  a  falling  king  ? ' ' 

* '  I  come  not, ' '  I  said,  ' '  to  look,  like  a  boy, 
on  the  strife.  Fingal  remembers  Mal-orehol, 
and  his  hall  for  strangers.  From  his  waves, 
the  warrior  descended  on  thy  woody  isle.  Thou 
wert  no  cloud  before  him.  Thy  feast  was 
spread  with  songs.  For  this  my  sword  shall 
rise;  and  thy  foes  perhaps  may  fail.  Our 
friends  are  not  forgot  in  their  danger,  though 
distant  is  our  land. ' ' 

"Descendant  of  the  daring  Trenmor,  thy 
words  are  like  the  voice  of  Cruth-loda,*  when 
he  speaks,  from  his  parting  cloud,  strong 
dweller  of  the  sky!  Many  have  rejoiced  at  my 
feast;  but  they  all  have  forgot  Mal-orchol.  I 
have  looked  towards  all  the  winds;  but  no 
white  sails  were  seen.  But  steel  resounds  in 
my  hall;  and  not  the  joyful  shells.  Come  to 
my  dwelling,  race  of  heroes!  dark-skirted  night 
is  near.  Hear  the  voice  of  songs,  from  the 
maid  of  Fuarfed  wild." 

We  went.  On  the  harp  arose  the  white  hands 
of  Oina-morul.  She  waked  her  own  sad  tale, 
from  every  trembling  string.  I  stood  in 
silence;  for  bright  in  her  locks  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  many  isles!  Her  eyes  were  two  stars, 
looking  forward  through  a  rushing  shower.  The 
mariner  marks  them  on  high,  and  blesses  the 
lovely  beams.  With  morning  we  rushed  to 
battle,  to  Tormul's  resounding  stream:  the  foe 
moved  to  the  sound  of  Ton-thormod 's  bossy 
shield.  From  wing  to  wing  the  strife  was 
mixed.  I  met  Ton-thormod  in  flight.  Wide 
flew  his  broken  steel.  I  seized  the  king  in  war. 
I  gave  his  hand,  bound  fast  with  thongs,  to 
Mal-orchol,  the  giver  of  shells.  Joy  rose  at 
the  feast  of  Fuarfed,  for  the  foe  had  failed. 
Ton-thormod  turned  his  face  away,  from  Oina- 
morul  of  isles! 

'  *  Son  of  Fingal, ' '  began  ]\Ial-orchol,  ' '  not 
forgot  shalt  thou  pass  from  me.  A  light  shall 
dwell  in  thy  ship,  Oina-morul  of  slow-rolling 
eyes.  She  shall  kindle  gladness,  along  thy 
mighty  soul.  Nor  unheeded  shall  the  maid 
move  in  Selma,  through  the  dwelling  of 
kings!  " 

In  the  hall  I  lay  in  night,  iline  eyes  were 
half-dosed  in  sleep.  Soft  music  came  to  mine 
ear:  it  was  like  the  rising  breeze,  that  whirls. 

4  Odin. 


LATER  KIGHTEKXTH  CKXTT^EY 


first,  the  thistle's  beard;  then  flies,  dark 
<ado\vy,  over  the  grass.  It  was  the  maid  of 
^uarfed  wild!  she  raised  the  nightly  song;  she 
jnew  that  my  soul  was  a  stream,  that  flowed 
at  pleasant  sounds.  "Who  looks,"  she  said, 
' '  from  his  rock  on  ocean 's  closing  mist  ?  His 
long  locks,  like  the  raven's  wing,  are  wander- 
ing on  the  blast.  Stately  are  his  steps  in  grief! 
The  tears  are  in  his  eyes!  His  manly  breast  is 
heaving  over  his  bursting  soul!  Eetire,  I  am 
distant  far;  a  wanderer  in  lands  unknown. 
Though  the  race  of  kings  are  around  me,  yet 
my  soul  is  dark.  Why  have  our  fathers  been 
foes,  Ton-thormod,  love  of  maids?" 

"Soft  voice  of  the  streamy  isle,"  I  said, 
* '  why  dost  thou  mourn  by  night  ?  The  race 
of  daring  Trenmor  are  not  the  dark  in  soul. 
Thou  shalt  not  wander,  by  streams  unknown, 
blue-eyed  Oina-morul!  Within  this  bosom  is  a 
voice;  it  comes  not  to  other  ears:  it  bids  Ossian 
hear  the  hapless,  in  their  hour  of  woe.  Eetire, 
soft  singer  by  night!  Ton-thormod  shall  not 
mourn  on  his  rock!" 

With  morning  I  loosed  the  king.  I  gave  the 
long-haired  maid.  Mal-orchol  heard  my  words, 
in  the  midst  of  his  echoing  halls,  "King  of 
Fuarf ed  wild,  why  should  Ton-thormod  mourn  ? 
He  is  of  the  race  of  heroes,  and  a  flame  in  war. 
Your  fathers  have  been  foes,  but  now  their 
dim  ghosts  rejoice  in  death.  They  stretch 
their  hands  of  mist  to  the  same  shell  in  Loda.s 
Forget  their  rage,  ye  warriors!  it  was  the  cloud 
of  other  years. " 

Such  were  the  deeds  of  Ossian,  while  yet  his 
locks  Mere  young:  though  loveliness,  with  a 
robe  of  beams,  clothed  tlie  daughter  of  many 
isles.  We  call  back,  maid  of  Lutha,  the  years 
tli::t   have  rolled  away! 

From  CABTHON 

OssiAX  's  Address  to  the  Sun 

O  thou  that  rollest  above,  round  as  the  shield 
of  my  fathers!  Whence  are  thy  beams,  O  sun! 
thy  everlasting  light?  Thou  comest  forth,  in 
thy  awful  beauty;  the  stars  hide  themselves  in 
the  sky;  the  moon,  cold  and  pale,  sinks  in  the 
western  wave.  But  thou  thyself  movest  alone: 
who  can  be  a  companion  of  thy  course  ?  The 
oiiks  of  the  mountains  fall :  the  mountains 
themselves  decay  with  years;  the  ocean  shrinks 
and  grows  again:  the  moon  herself  is  lost  in 
heaven;  but  thou  art  for  ever  the  same;  re- 
joicing in  the  brightness  of  thy  course.  When 
the  world  is  dark  with  tempests;  when  thun<ler 
rolls,   an<l    lightning  flies;   thou   lookest   in   thy 

6  Tho  Hall  of  Odin, 


beauty  from  the  clouds,  and  laughest  at  the 
storm.  But  to  Ossian,  thou  lookest  in  vain ; 
for  he  beholds  thy  beams  no  more;  whetluT 
thy  yellow  hair  flows  on  the  eastern  clouds,  or 
tliou  tremblest  at  the  gates  of  the  west.  But 
thou  art,  perhaps,  like  me,  for  a  season;  thy 
years  will  have  an  end.  Thou  shalt  sleep  in 
thy  clouds,  careless  of  the  voice  of  the  morning. 
Exult  then,  0  sun!  in  the  strength  of  thy 
youth:  Age  is  dark  and  unlovely;  it  is  like  the 
glimmering  light  of  the  moon,  when  it  sliines 
through  broken  clouds,  and  the  mist  is  on  the 
hills;  the  bla.st  of  the  north  is  on  the  plain,  the 
traveler  shrinks  in  the  midst  of  his  journey. 


THOMAS  CHATTERTON* 
(1752-1770) 

EPITAPH  ON  ROBERT  CANYNGE 

Thys   Morneynge   Starre   of   Raddeves  rysynge 

Raie, 
A    True    Man,   Good   of    Mynde,    and   Canynge 

hyghte,! 
Benetlie  thys  Stone  lies  moltrynge  ynto  Claie, 
Untylle    the    darke    Tombe    sheene    an    aeterne 

I-,yghte. 
Thyrde   from   hys   Loyns   the   present   Canynge 

came;t 
Houton-  are  wordes  for  to  telle  his  doe;3 
For  aie  shall  lyve  hys  Heaven-recorded  Name, 
Ne  shalle   ytte   die  whanne   Tyme  .shall   be   ne 

moe ;  ^ 
Whan    Mychael  's   Trompe   shall  soimde   to   rize 

the  Soulle, 

1  named  3  deeds 

2  hollow  *  no   more 

♦  The  "Rowley  pooms"  of  Chatterton.  ascribed  liy 
him  to  a  tictitious  priest  called  Uowley.  of  ih-' 
fifteenth  century,  are  written  in  a  spurious 
archaic  dialect,  not  a  few  of  the  forms  bein^' 
pure  inventions,  sometimes  merely  for  eon 
venience  of  rhyme.  In  the  selections  here 
given  (except  the  Epitaph,  which  is  left  uii 
altered)  the  spoiling  and  some  words  are  mod- 
ernized, in  accordance  with  Professor  Skeafs 
edition,  the  better  to  show  what  genuine 
l)owers  the  youthful  poet  possessed.  Chatter 
ton  wrote  after  this  fashion  : 

"In  Virgyne  the  sweltrle  sun  gan  sheene. 
And  hotte  upon  the  mees  did  caste  his  rale  : 
Tlie  apple  rodded  from  its  pnlie  greene.  '  Pt<'. 

This  Spenserian  manner,  as  in  the  iwetry  of 
Thomson  a  generation  earlier,  is  In  marked 
contrast  to  the  prevailing  classicism  of  the 
age.     See  Kng.  Lit.,  p.  223.  ,„,,,, 

t  William  Canning,  an  actual  mayor  of  Rristol  in 
the  time  of  Kdward  IV..  who  with  his  grand- 
father rebuilt  the  beautiful  church  of  St. 
Marv  Redcliffe  ("Raddeves  rysynge  Rnie"). 
It  does  not  appear  that  the  great-grandfather, 
Robert,  had  any  share  in  it.  William  Can- 
ning was  asKi  rted  by  Chatterton  to  have  been 
Rowley's   patron. 


THOMAS  CHATTEKTON 


353 


He 'lie    wynge    toe    heaven    with    kynne,    ami 
happie  be  ther  doUe.s 

AX  EXCELENTE  BALADE  OF  CHARITIE 

(As   Written   by   the  CJood   Priest   Thomas 
BOWLEY,   1464) 


In  Virgo  now  the  sultry  sun  did  sheene, 
And  hot  upon  the  meads  did  cast  his  ray ; 
The  apple  reddened  from  its  paly  green, 
And  the  soft  pear  did  bend  the  leafy  spray; 
The  pied  chelandry"  sang  the  livelong  day; 
'Twas  now  the  pride,  the  manhood  of  the  year, 
And  eke  the  ground  was  decked  in  its  most 
deft  aumereJ 

2 
The  sun  was  gleaming  in  the  midst  of  day, 
Dead-still  the  air,  and  eke  the  welkin  blue. 
When  from  the  sea  arose  in  drear  array 
A  heap  of  clouds  of  sable  sullen  hue, 
The  which  full  fast  unto  the  woodland  drew, 
Hiding  at  once  the  sunnes  festive  face, 

And  the  black  tempest  swelled,  and  gathered 
up  apace. 

3 
Beneath  a  holm,8  fast  by  a  pathway-side. 
Which  did  unto  Saint  Godwin  's  convent  lead, 
A  hapless  pilgrim  moaning  did  abide, 
Poor  in  his  view,  ungentle  in  his  weed,* 
Long  brimful  of  the  miseries  of  need. 
Where  from  the  hailstorm  could  the  beggar  fly  ? 
He    had    no    houses   there,    nor    any    convent 
nigh. 

4 
Look  in  his  gloomed  face,  his  sprite  there  scan ; 
How  woebegone,  how  withered,  dwindled,  dead! 
Haste  to  thy  church-glebe-house,  accursed  man! 
Haste  to  thy  shroud,  thy  only  sleeping  bed. 
fold  as  the  clay  which  will  grow  on  thy  head 
Are  Charity  and  Love  among  high  elves ; 
For  knights  and  barons  live  for  pleasure  and 
themselves. 

5 
The  gathered  storm  is  ripe ;  the  big  drops  fall, 
The  sun-burnt  meadows  smoke,  and   drink  the 

rain; 
The  coming  ghastnessio  doth  the  cattle  'pall.ii 
And  the  full  flocks  are  driving  o  'er  the  plain ; 
Dashed  from  the  clouds,  the  waters  fly  again ; 
The  welkin  opes;  the  yellow  lightning  flies. 
And  the  hot  fiery  steam  in  the  wide  fla.shings 
dies. 


6 

List!  now  the  thunder's  rattling  noisy  sound 
.Moves  slowly  on,  and  then  full-swollen  claugs, 
Shakes    the    high    spire,    and    lost,    expended, 

drowned. 
Still  on  the  frighted  ear  of  terror  hangs; 
The  winds  are  up;  the  lofty  elm  tree  swangs; 
Again  the  lightning,  and  the  thunder  pours, 
And    the    full    clouds    are   burst    at    once   in 

stony  showers. 

7 
Spurring  his  palfrey  o  'er  the  watery  plain, 
The  Abbot  of  Saint  Godwin's  convent  came; 
His  ehapournettei2  was  drenched  with  the  rain. 
His  painted  girdle  met  with  mickle  shame; 
He  aynewarde  told  his  bederollis  at  the  same; 
The  storm  increases,  and  he  drew  aside. 

With  the  poor  alms-craver  near  to  the  holm 

to  bide. 

8 
His  cope  was  all  of  Lincoln  cloth  so  fine. 
With  a  gold  button  fastened  near  his  chin. 
His  autremetei*  was  edged  with  golden  twine, 
And  his  shoe's  peak  a  noble's  might  have  been; 
Full  well  it  shewed  he  thought  cost  no  sin. 
The  trammels  of  his  palfrey  pleased  his  sight. 
For    the    horse-milliner   his   head    with    roses 

dight.15 

9 
"An   alms,   sir  priest!"   the   drooping  pilgrim 

said, 
"Oh!  let  me  wait  within  your  convent -door. 
Till  the  sun  shineth  high  above  our  head, 
And  the  loud  tempest  of  the  air  is  o'er. 
Helpless  and  old  am  I,  alas!  and  poor. 
Xo  house,  no  friend,  nor  money  in  my  pouch, 
All    that    I    call    my    own   is    this    my   silver 

crouche. '  'i^ 

10 
"Varlet!"    replied    the    Abbot,    "cease   your 

din; 
Tliis  is  no  season  alms  and  prayers  to  give, 
My  porter  never  lets  a  beggar  in ; 
X'one  touch  my  ring  who  not  in  honour  live. ' ' 
And    now    the   sun   with   the   black   clouds   <lid 

strive. 
And  shot  upon  the  ground  his  glaring  ray; 
The   Abbot   spurred   his  steed,  and  eftsoous 

rode  away. 

11 
Once    more    the    sky    was    black,    the    thunder 

rolled, 
Fast  running  o'er  the  plain  a  priest  was  seen; 


5  their  dole  (lot) 
e  goldflndi 

7  Misused  for  "apparel"  ; 
properly  "a  purse." 


s  holm  oak 

-•  rustic  In  his  dress 

10  For  "ghastllness." 

11  appal 


12  small  round  hat 

1-!  backward      told      his 

beads,  i.  e..  cursed 

fChatterton^ 


!  4  loose  white  robe 
1 3  arrayed 
i«  cross 


354 


LATEE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTUEY 


Not  digbt  full  proud,  nor  buttoned  up  in  gold, 
His  cope  and  japci^  were  grey,  and  eke  were 

clean ; 
A  Liniitoris  he  was  of  order  seen; 
And  from  the  pathway-side  then  turned  he, 
Where  the  poor  beggar  lay  beneath  the  hol- 
'    man  tree. 

12 
"An  alms,  sir  priest!"  the  drooping  pilgrim 

said, 
"For    sweet    Saint    Mary    and     your     order's 

sake. ' ' 
The  Limitor  then  loosened  his  pouch-thread, 
And  did  thereout  a  groat  of  silver  take; 
The  needy  pilgrim  did  for  gladness  shake, 
"Here,  take  this  silver,  it  may  ease  thy  cue. 
"We  are  God 's   stewards  all,   naught   of  our 
own  we  bear. 

13 
"But  ah!  unhappy  pilgrim,  learn  of  me. 
Scarce  any  give  a  rentroll  to  their  lord; 
Here,  take  my  semicope,i9  thou  'rt  bare,  I  see, 
'Tis  thine;  the  saints  will  give  me  my  reward." 
He  left  the  pilgrim,  and  his  way  aborde.-" 
Virgin  and  holy  Saints,  who  sit  in  gloure,2i 
Or  give  the  mighty  will,  or  give  the  good  man 
power! 

From  THE  BATTLE  OF  HASTINGS* 

17 
And  now  Duke  William  mareshall'd  his  band. 
And  stretched  his  army  out,  a  goodly  row. 
First  did  a  rank  of  arcublastriesi  stand. 
Next   those   on   horseback   drew   th'   ascending 

flo;2 
Brave  champions,  each  well  learned  in  the  bow, 
Their  asenglaves  across  their  horses  tied ; 
Or*  with  the  loverdso  squires  behind  did  go. 
Or  waited,  squire-like,  at  the  horse's  side. 
When  thus  Duke  William  to  a  monk  did  say, 
"Prepare    thyself    with    speed,    to    Harold 

haste  away. 

18 
"Tell  him  from  me  one  of  these  three  to  take: 
That  he  to  me  do  homage  for  this  land. 
Or  me  his  heir,  when  he  deceaseth,  make, 
Or  to  the  ju<lgment  of  Christ 's  vicar8  stand. ' ' 


17  A  short  surplice   (?). 

18  licenKcd  begging  friar 
ii»  short   cape 


20  For  "pursued." 

21  For  "glory." 


1  rross-bowmen  •»  either 

2  arrow  f"  lords 
3lan<eV  (Skeat)  n  the  Pope 

•  There  are  two  versions  of  this  poem,  one  of 
which  riiatterton  admitted  to  be  his  own. 
The  other,  from  which  the  stanzas  above  are 
taken,  he  declared  to  l)e  Rowley's.  There  are 
seventy-two  stanzas  in  all,  but  the  battle  is 
not  brought  to  an  end. 


He  said;  the  monk  departed  out  of  hand. 
And  to  King  Harold  did  this  message  bear. 
Who  said,  '  *  Tell  thou  the  duke,  at  his  likand,^ 
If  he  can  get  the  crown,  he  may  it  wear." 
He  said,  and  drove  the  monk  out  of  his  sight, 
And   with  his  brothers  roused  each  man   to 
bloody  fight. 

19 
A  standard  made  of  silk  and  jewels  rare. 
Wherein  all  colours,  wrought  about  in  bighes,'' 
An  armed  knight  was  seen  death-doing  there, 
Under  this  motto — '  *  He  conquers  or  he  dies. '  'o 
This  standard  rich,  endazzling  mortal  eyes. 
Was  borne  near  Harold  at  the  Kenters'  hea<l. 
Who   charged   his  brothers  for  the   great   em- 
prise, 
That  straight  the  hestio  for  battle  should  be 

spread. 
To  every  carl  and  knight  the  word  is  given. 
And  cries  "a  guerre .'"^^  and  slogans  shake 
the  vaulted  heaven. 

20 
As  when  the  earth, 12  torn  by  convulsions  dire. 
In  realms  of  darkness  hid  from  human  sight ; 
The  warring  force  of  water,  air  and  fire. 
Bursts  from  the  regions  of  eternal  night, 
Through  the  dark  caverns  seeks  the  realms  of 

light; 
Some  lofty  mountain,  by  its  fury  torn, 
Dreadfully  moves,  and  causes  great  affright ; 
Now     here,     now     there,     majestic     nods     the 

bourne,!  3 
And    awful    shakes,   moved    by    th'     almighty 

force ; 
Whole    woods    and    forests    nod,    and    rivers 

change  their  course. 

21 
So  did  the  men  of  war  at  once  advance, 
Linked  man  to  man,  appeared  one  body  light; 
Above,  a  wood,  y-formed  of  bill  and  lance, 
That  nodded  in  the  air,  most  strange  to  sight ; 
Hard  as  the  iron  were  the  men  of  might. 
No  need  of  slogans  to  enrouse  their  mind; 
Each  shooting  spear  made  ready  for  the  fight. 
More  fierce  than  falling  rocks,  more  swift  thau 

wind ;  , 

With  .solemn  step,  by  echo  made  more  dire. 
One  single  body  all,  they  marched,  their  eyci 

on  fire. 

22 
And  now  the  grey-eyed  mom  with  violets  drest, 
Shaking  the  dewdrops  on  the  flowery  meads, 


7  pleasure 

K  Jewels 

n  See    i:it(i.    Lit.. 

!'i  ( onimand 


11  "To   bnttle  \" 

12  Sentenc"    j'rnmmalie 

nllv    I'l'TrtUvc 

Ki  For  •Vll.T." 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON 


355 


Fled  with  her  rosy  radiance  to  the  west. 
Forth  from  the  eastern  gate  the  fiery  steeds 
Of  the  bright  sun  awaiting  spirits  leads.  12 
The  sun,  in  fiery  pomp  enthroned  on  high, 
Swifter      than      thought     along     his     journey 

gledes,!* 
And  scatters  night 's  remains  from  out  the  sky. 
He  saw  the  armies  make  for  bloody  fray, 
And  stojjped  his  driving  steeds,  and  hid  his 

lightsome  ray. 

23 
King  Harold  high  in  air  majestic  raised 
His    mighty    arm,    decked    with    a    manchyni^ 

rare ; 
With  even  hand  a  mighty  javelin  peised,i8 
Then  furious  sent  it  whistling  through  the  air. 
It  struck  the  helmet  of  the  Sieur  de  Beer. 
In  vain  did  brass  or  iron  stop  its  way; 
Above  his  eyes  it  came,  the  bones  did  tear. 
Piercing  quite  through,  before  it  did  allay. i7 
He  tumbled,  screeching  with  his  horrid  pain. 
His  hollow  cuishesis  rang  upon  the  bloody 

plain. 

24 
This  William  saw,  and,  sounding  Koland  's  song, 
He  bent  his  iron  interwoven  bow. 
Making    both    ends    to    meet    with    might    full 

strong; 
From  out  of  mortal 's  sight  shot  up  the  flo. 
Then  swift  as  falling  stars  to  earth  below, 
It  slanted  down  on  Alfwold's  painted  shield. 
Quite  through  the  silver-bordured  cross  did  go, 
Nor  lost  its  force,  but  stuck  into  the  field; 
The  Normans,  like  their  sovereign,  did  prepare. 
And  shot  ten  thousand  floes  uprising  in  the 

air. 

25 
As  when  a  flight  of  cranes  that  take  their  way 
In  household  armies  through  the  arched  sky, 
Alikei»  the  cause,  or  company  or  prey. 
If  that  perchance  some  boggy  fen  is  nigh, 
Soon  as  the  muddy  nationso  they  espy. 
In  one  black  cloud  they  to  the  earth  descend; 
Fierce  as  the  falling  thunderbolt  they  fly, 
In  vain  do  reeds  the  speckled  folk  defend; 
So  prone  to  heavy  blow  the  arrows  fell, 
And  pierced   through  brass,   and  sent  many 

to  heaven  or  hell. 

26 
yElan  Adelfred,  of  the  stow-'i  of  Leigh, 
Felt  a   dire   arrow   burning  in  his  breast; 
Before  he  died,  he  sent  his  spear  away, 


14  For  "glides." 

15  sleeve 

16  poised 

1"  For  "stop." 

18  armour  for  the  thighs 


Then  sank  to  glory  and  eternal  rest. 
Neville,  a  Norman  of  all  Normans  best, 
Through  the  joint  cuishe  did  the  javelin  feel, 
As  he  on  horseback  for  the  fight  addressed. 
And  saw  his  blood  come  smoking  o'er  the  steel; 
He  sent  the  avenging  flo  into  the  air. 
And  turned  his  horse's  head,  and  did  to  leech 

repair. 

27 
And    now    the    javelins,    barbed    with    deathes 

wings, 
Hurled     from     the     English     hands     by     force 

aderne,22 

Whizz  drear  along,  and  songs  of  terror  sings. 
Such  songs  as  always  closed  in  life  eterne. 
Hurled    by   such   strength    along   the    air    they 

burn, 
Not  to  be  quenched  but  in  Normans'  blood. 
Where'er  they  came,  they  were  of  life  forlorn, 
And  always  followed  by  a  purple  flood. 
Like  clouds  the  Norman  arrows  did  descend. 
Like  clouds  of  carnage  full,  in  purple  drops 

did  end. 

SAMUEL  JOHNSON  (1709-1784) 

From  the  FLAN  OF  AN  ENGLISH 
DICTIONARY* 

To  the  Eight  Honourable  Philip  Dormer,  Earl 
of    Chesterfield,    One    of    His    Majesty's 
Principal    Secretaries    of    State. 
My  Lord, 

When  first  I  undertook  to  write  an  English 
Dictionary,  I  had  no  expectation  of  any  higher 
patronage  than  that  of  the  proprietors  of  the 
copy,  nor  prospect  of  any  other  advantage  than 
the  price  of  my  labour.  I  knew  that  the  work 
in  which  I  engaged  is  generally  considered  as 
drudgery  for  the  blind,  as  the  proper  toil  of 
artless  indastry;  a  task  that  requires  neither 
the  light  of  learning,  nor  the  activity  of  genius, 
but  may  be  successfully  performed  without  any 
higher  quality  than  that  of  bearing  burthens 
with  dull  patience,  and  beating  the  track  of  the 
alphabet  with  sluggish  resolution. 

Whether   this   opinion,   so   long  transmitted, 

22  cruel 


in  whatever 

20  frogs      (a      manifest 

18th  century  para- 
phrase) 

21  place 


*  Johnson's  ponderous  diction  may  have  been  in 
some  measure  due  to  his  labors  in  the  field 
of  lexicography,  though  doubtless  much  more 
to  his  habit  of  thinking  in  general  and  ab- 
stract terms.  It  was  jestingly  said  in  his 
time  that  he  used  hard  words  in  the  Rambler 
papers  on  purpose  to  make  his  forthcoming 
Dictionary  indispensable.  Yet  the  diction 
confers  a  not  unpleasing  dignity  upon  the 
wisdom  it  clothes :  and  it  grew  more  chast- 
ened with  time,  as  is  shown  by  the  admirabl  > 
style  of  his  Licea  of  the  Poets.  See  En<i.  Lil., 
208-209. 


356 


LATEK  EIGHTEENTH  CENtUEY 


and  so  Widely  propagated,  had  its  beginning 
ftom  truth  and  nature,  or  from  accident  and 
prejudice;  whether  it  be  decreed  by  the  author- 
ity of  reason,  or  the  tyranny  of  ignorance,  that 
of  all  the  candidates  for  literary  praise,  the 
unhappy  lexicograplier  holds  the  lowest  place, 
neither  vanity  nor  interest  incited  me  to  en- 
quire. It  appeared  that  the  province  allotted 
me  was,  of  all  the  regions  of  learning,  generally 
confessed  to  be  the  least  delightful,  that  it  was 
believed  to  produce  neither  fruit  nor  flowers; 
and  that,  after  a  long  and  laborious  cultivation. 
not  even  the  barren  laurelf  had  been  found 
upon  it. 

Yet  on  this  province,  my  Lord,  I  entere<l, 
with  the  pleasing  hope  that,  as  it  was  low,  it 
likewise  would  be  safe.  I  was  drawn  forward 
with  the  prospect  of  employment,  which, 
though  not  splendid,  would  be  useful ;  and 
which,  though  it  could  not  make  my  life  envied, 
would  keep  it  innocent;  which  would  awaken 
no  passion,  engage  me  in  no  contention,  nor 
throw  in  my  way  any  temptation  to  disturb  the 
quiet  of  others  by  censure,  or  my  own  by  flat- 
tery. 

I  had  read  indeed  of  times  in  which  princes 
and  statesmen  thought  it  part  of  their  honour 
to  promote  the  improvement  of  their  native 
tongues;  and  in  which  dictionaries  were  writ- 
ten under  the  protection  of  greatness.  To  the 
patrons  of  such  undertakings  I  willingly  paid 
the  homage  of  believing  that  they,  who  were 
thus  solicitous  for  the  perpetuity  of  their  lan- 
guage, had  reason  to  expect  that  their  actions 
would  be  celebrated  by  posterity,  and  that 
the  eloquence  which  they  promoted  would 
be  employed  in  their  praise.  But  I  con- 
sider such  acts  of  beneficence  as  prodigies, 
recorded  ratlier  to  raise  wonder  than  expecta- 
tion; and  content  with  the  terms  that  I  had 
stipulated,  had  not  suffered  my  imagination  to 
flatter  me  with  any  other  encouragement,  when 
I  found  thi't  my  design  had  been  thought  by 
your  Lordship  of  importance  sufficient  to  at- 
tract your  favour. 

How  far  this  unexpected  distinction  can  bo 
rated  among  the  hnjipy  incidents  of  life,  I  am 
not  yet  able  to  determine.  Its  first  effect  has 
been  to  make  me  anxious  lest  it  should  fix  the 
attention  of  the  public  too  much  upon  me,  and. 
as  it  once  happened  to  an  epic  poet  of  France.t 
by  raising  the  reputation  of  the  attempt,  ob- 
struct the  reception  of  the  work.  T  imagine 
what    the    world    will    expect    from    a    scheme 

I  The  actual  Inun-I  is  not  barren,  whatever  ho 
Ihonjtht   of  tlie  trliuni)hN  It   xymbolizcs. 

t  Chapcliilns  1,11  I'lucllr,  nernlded  for  miiny  years, 
Vu8   coldly    recnived   aftT   publl<ntlon. 


prosecuted  under  your  Lordship 's  influetlce  | 
and  I  know  that  expectation,  when  her  wings 
are  once  expanded,  easily  reaches  heights  which 
performance  never  Avill  attain;  and  when  she 
has  mounted  the  summit  of  perfection,  derides 
her  follower,  who  dies  in  the  pursuit. 

Not  therefore  to  raise  expectation,  but  to 
repress  it,  I  here  lay  before  your  Lordship  the 
Plan  of  my  undertaking,  that  more  may  not 
be  demanded  than  I  intend ;  and  that,  before  it 
is  too  far  advanced  to  be  thrown  iuto  a  new 
method,  I  may  be  advertised  of  its  defects  or 
superfluities.  Such  informations  I  may  justly 
hope,  from  the  emulation  with  which  those,  wlio 
desire  the  praise  of  elegance  or  discernment, 
must  contend  in  the  promotion  of  a  design  that 
you,  mj'  Lord,  have  not  thought  unworthy  tu 
share  your  attention  with  treaties  and  witii 
wars.     .     . 

[Then  follows  the  plan,  with  many  details 
of  vocabulary,  orthography,  pronunciation,  etc.] 

When  I  survey  the  Plan  which  I  have  laid 
before  you,  I  cannot,  my  Lord,  but  confess  that 
I  am  frighted  at  its  extent,  and,  like  the  sol- 
diers of  Caesar,  look  on  Britain  as  a  new  world, 
which  it  is  almost  madness  to  invade.  But  I 
hope  that  though  I  should  not  complete  the 
conquest,  I  shall  at  least  discover  the  coast, 
civilize  ]iart  of  the  inhabitants,  and  make  it 
easy  for  some  other  adventurer  to  proceed 
farther,  to  reduce  them  wholly  to  subjection, 
and  settle  them  under  laws. 

We  are  taught  by  the  great  Roman  ortftor, 
that  every  man  should  propose  to  himself  the 
highest  degree  of  excellence,  but  that  he  may 
stop  with  honour  at  the  second  or  third :  though 
therefore  my  performance  should  fall  below  tiie 
excellence  of  other  dictionaries,  I  may  obtain, 
at  least,  the  praise  of  having  endeavoured  well; 
nor  shall  I  think  it  any  reproach  to  my  dili- 
gence that  I  have  retired,  without  a  triumph, 
from  a  contest  with  united  academies  and  long 
successions  of  learned  compilers.  I  cannot 
hope,  in  the  warmest  moments,  to  preserve  so 
much  caution  through  so  long  a  Avork,  as  not 
often  to  sink  into  negligence,  or  to  obtain  so 
much  knowledge  of  all  its  parts  as  not  fre- 
quently to  fail  by  ignorance.  I  expect  that 
sometimes  the  desire  of  accuracy  will  urge  me 
to  superfluities,  and  sometimes  the  fear  of 
prolixity  betray  me  to  omissions:  that  in  the 
extent  of  such  variety,  I  shall  be  often  liewil- 
dered;  and  in  the  mnzes  of  such  intricacy,  1m> 
freqiiently  entangled:  th:it  in  one  part  refine 
ment  will  be  subtilized  be.vond  exactness,  and 
evidence  dilated  in  another  beyond  perspicuity. 
Yet  I  ilo  not  despair  of  approbation  from  those 


SAMfEL  J01iNt?0X 


357 


who,  knowing  the  uncertainty  of  conjecture,  the 
scantiness  of  knowle«Ige,  the  fallibility  of  mem- 
ory, and  the  unsteatliuess  oi"  attention,  can 
compare  the  causes  of  error  with  the  means  of 
:i voiding  it,  and  the  extent  of  art  with  the 
capacity  of  man ;  and  w  hatever  lie  the  event  of 
my  endeavours,  I  shall  not  easily  regret  an 
attempt  which  has  procured  me  the  honour  of 
:i{)pearing  thus  publicly, 

My  Lord, 
Vour  Lordship 's  most  obedient, 
and  most  humble  servant, 

Sam.  Johnson. 

LETTEK  TO  LORD  CHESTERFIELD* 

(Feb.  7,  1755) 

To  the  Eight  Honourable  the  Earl  of  Chester- 
field. 
Mv  Lord: 

I  have  been  lately  informed  by  the  proprietor 
of  the  World,  that  two  papers,  in  which  my 
Dictionary  is  recommended  to  the  public,  were 
written  by  your  Lordship.  To  be  so  distin- 
guished is  an  honour  Avhich,  being  very  little 
accustomed  to  favours  from  the  great,  I  know- 
not  well  how  to  receive,  or  in  what  terms  to 
acknowledge. 

When,  upon  some  slight  encouragement,  I 
first  visited  your  Lordship,  I  was  overpowered, 
like  the  rest  of  mankind,  by  the  enchantment  of 
your  address,  and  could  not  forbear  to  wish 
that  I  might  boast  mjself  Le  vainqueur  du 
vainqueiir  de  la  terre;^ — that  I  might  obtain 
that  regard  for  which  I  saw  the  world  contend- 
ing; but  I  found  my  attendance  so  little  en- 
couraged that  neither  pride  nor  modesty  would 
suffer  me  to  continue  it.  When  I  had  once  ad- 
dressed   your    Lordship    in    public,    I    had    ex- 

1  "The  conqneror  of  the  conqueror  of  the  world" 
(Boileau). 

y''Johnson  told  me."  !<a.vs  Boswell.  ''that  there 
never  was  any  particular  incident  which  pro- 
duced a  quarrel  between  Lord  Chesterfield 
and  him  :  but  that  his  Lordship's  continued 
neglect  was  the  reason  why  he  resolved  to 
have  no  connection  with  him.  When  the 
Dictionary  was  upon  the  eve  of  publication, 
Lord  Chesterfield,  who.  it  is  said,  had  flat- 
tered himself  with  expectations  that  .Johnson 
would  dedicMte  the  work  to  him.  attempted 
.  .  .  fo  conciliate  him.  by  writing  two 
papers  in  "The  World.'  in  recommendation  of 
the  work."  "Upon  which,"  commented  .John- 
son, "I  wrote  him  a  letter  expressed  in  civil 
terms,  but  such  as  might  show  him  that  I 
did  not  mind  what  he  said  or  wrote,  and 
that  I  had  done  with  him."  Boswell  later 
obtained  :i  copy  of  this  celebrated  letter, 
and  gave  it  to"  the  world.  Carlyle.  In  his 
essay  on  Bostrell's  Life  of  Johnson,  speaks  of 
it  as  "that  far-famed  Blast  of  Doom,  pro- 
claimin;?  into  the  ear  of  I..ord  Chesterfield, 
and,  through  him.  of  the  listening  world,  that 
patronage  should  be  no  more."  See  Eniy.  Lit., 
p.   208. 


haustcd  all  the  art  of  pleasing  which  a  retired 
and  uucourtly  scholar  can  possess.     I  had  done 
all  that  [  could;  and  no  man  is  well  pleased  to 
have  his  all  neglected,  be  it  ever  so  little. 
Seven  j-ears,  my  Lord,  have  now  passed  since 

1  waited  in  your  outward  rooms,  or  was  re- 
pulsed from  your  door;  during  which  time  I 
I'.ave  been  pushing  on  my  work  through  diffi- 
culties, of  which  it  is  useless  to  complain,  and 
have  brought  it,  at  last,  to  the  verge  of  publi- 
cation without  one  act  of  assistance,  one  word 
of  encouragement,  or  one  smile  of  favour.  Such 
treatment  I  did  not  expect,  for  I  never  had  a 
Patron  before. 

The  shepherd  in  Virgil  grew  at  last  ac- 
quainted with  Love,  and  found  him  a  native  of 
the  rocks.2 

Is  not  a  Patron,  my  Lord,  one  who  looks  with 
unconcern  on  a  man  struggling  for  life  in  the 
water,  and  when  he  has  reached  ground,  en- 
cumbers him  with  help?  The  notice  which  you 
have  been  pleased  to  take  of  my  labours,  had 
it  been  early,  had  been  kind;  but  it  has  been 
delayed  till  I  am  indifferent,  and  cannot  enjoy 
it ;  till  I  am  solitary,  and  cannot  impart  it ; 
till  I  am  known,  and  do  not  want  it.  I  hope 
it  is  no  very  cynical  asperity  not  to  confess 
obligations  where  no  benefit  has  been  received, 
or  to  be  unwilling  that  the  Public  should  con- 
.sider  me  as  owing  that  to  a  Patron,  which 
Providence  has  enabled  me  to  do  for  my.«elf. 

Having  carried  on  my  work  thus  far  with  so 
little  obligation  to  any  favourer  of  learning,  I 
shall  not  be  disappointed  though  T  should  con- 
clude it,  if  less  be  possible,  with  less;  for  T 
have  been  long  wakened  from  that  dream  of 
hope,  in  which  I  once  boasted  myself  with  so 
much  exultation,  '_ 

"Sly  Lord, 
Your  Lordship  's  most  humble. 
Most  obedient  servant. 

Sam.  Johnson. 

From  the  PREFACE  TO  THE  ENGLISH 
DICTIONARY,  17.-)5 

In  hope  of  giving  longevity  to  that  Avhich 
its  own  nature  forbids  to  be  immortal,  I  have 
devoted  this  book,  the  labour  of  years,  to  the 
honour  of  my  country,  that  we  may  no  longer 
yield  the  p.alm  of  philology,  without  a  contest, 
to  the  nations  of  the  continent.  The  chief  glory 
of  every  people  arises  from  its  authors: 
whether  I  shall  add  anything  by  my  own  writ- 
ings to  the  reputation  of  English  literature, 
must   be   left    to    time:    much   of   my   life   has 

2  Eclogue  A'lII,  43. 


358 


LATEK  EIGHTEENTH  CEXTURY 


been  lost  under  the  pressure  of  disease;  much 
has  been  trifled  away;*  and  much  has  always 
been  spent  in  provision  for  the  day  that  was 
passing  over  me;  but  I  shall  not  think  my  em- 
ployment useless  or  ignoble,  if  by  my  assistance 
foreign  nations  and  distant  ages  gain  access 
to  the  propagators  of  knowledge,  and  under- 
stand the  teachers  of  truth;  if  my  labours  af- 
ford light  to  the  repositories  of  science,  and 
add  celebrity  to  Bacon,  to  Hooker,  to  Milton, 
and  to  Boyle.3 

When  I  am  animated  by  this  wish,  I  look 
with  pleasure  on  my  book,  however  defective, 
and  deliver  it  to  the  world  with  the  spirit  of 
a  man  that  has  endeavoured  well.  That  it  will 
immediately  become  popular  I  have  not  prom- 
ised to  myself:  a  few  wild  blunders  and  risible 
absurdities,  from  which  no  work  of  such  multi- 
plicity was  ever  free,  may  for  a  time  furnish 
folly  with  laughter  and  harden  ignorance  into 
contempt;!  but  useful  diligence  will  at  last  pre- 
vail, and  there  never  can  be  wanting  some  who 
distinguish  desert;  who  will  consider  that  no 
dictionary  of  a  living  tongue  ever  can  be  per- 
fect, since,  while  it  is  hastening  to  publication, 
some  words  are  budding,  and  some  falling 
away;  that  a  whole  life  cannot  be  spent  upon 
syntax  and  etymology,  and  that  even  a  whole 
life  would  not  be  sufficient;  that  he,  whose  de- 
sign includes  whatever  language  can  express, 
must  often  speak  of  what  he  does  not  under- 
stand; that  a  writer  will  sometimes  be  hurried 
by  eagerness  to  the  end,  and  sometimes  faint 
with  weariness  under  a  task  which  Scaliger* 
compares  to  the  labours  of  the  anvil  and  the 
mine ;  that  what  is  obvious  is  not  always  known, 
and  what  is  known  is  not  always  present;  that 
sudden  fits  of  inadvertency  will  surprise  vigi- 
lance, slight  avocations  will  seduce  attention, 
and  casual  eclipses  of  the  mind  will  darken 
learning;  and  that  the  writer  shall  often  in 
vain  trace  his  memory,  at  the  moment  of  need, 
for  that  which  yesterday  he  knew  with  intuitive 

3  Ro1>ert  Boyle,  the  natural  philosopher,  1627-1691. 

4  A  European  scholar  of  the  16th  century. 

•  Boswell  reports  Johnson  as  saying :  "I  have  been 
trying  to  cure  my  laziness  all  my  life,  and 
could  not  do  it." 
t  Johnson  spoke  prophetically.  Among  amusing 
entries,  Home  of  course  intentional,  Boswell 
has  noted  the  following  : 
Lexicographer.      A    writer    of    dictionaries,    a 

harmless  drudge. 
Pension.      An    allowance    made    to    any    one 

without   an   equivalent.      In    England   it    is 

generally  understood  to  mean  pay  given  to  a 

state  hireling  for  treason  to  his  country. 
Oatn.     A  grain  which  In  England  is  generally 

given   to    horses,    hiit    in    Scot  land    supports 

the  people. 
Network.     Anything  reticulated  or  decussated 

at  eaual  distances,  with  interstices  between 

tbc  interHcctloDs. 


readiness,   and   which   will  come   uncalled   into 
his  thoughts  to-morrow. 

In  this  work,  when  it  shall  be  found  that 
much  is  omitted,  let  it  not  be  forgotten  that 
nmch  likewise  is  performed;  and  though  no 
book  was  ever  spared  out  of  tenderness  to  the 
author,  and  the  world  is  little  solicitous  to 
know  whence  proceed  the  faults  of  that  which 
it  condemns,  yet  it  may  gratify  curiosity  to  in- 
form it  that  the  "English  Dictionary"  was 
written  with  little  assistance  of  the  learned, 
and  without  any  patronage  of  the  great;  not  in 
the  soft  obscurities  of  retirement,  or  under  the 
shelter  of  academic  bowers,  but  amidst  incon- 
venience and  distraction,  in  sickness  and  in 
sorrow. t  It  may  repress  the  triumph  of  malig- 
nant criticism  to  observe,  that  if  our  language 
is  not  here  fully  displayed,  I  have  only  failed 
in  an  attempt  which  no  human  powers  have 
hitherto  completed.  If  the  lexicons  of  ancient 
tongues,  now  immutably  fixed,  and  comprised 
in  a  few  volumes,  be  yet,  after  the  toil  of  suc- 
cessive ages,  inadequate  and  delusive;  if  the 
aggregated  knowledge  and  co-operating  dili- 
gence of  the  Italian  academicians  did  not  se- 
cure them  from  the  censure  of  Beni;§  if  the 
embodied  critics  of  France,  when  fifty  years 
had  been  spent  upon  their  work,  were  obliged  to 
change  its  economy,^  and  give  their  second  edi- 
tion another  form,  I  may  surely  be  contented 
without  the  praise  of  perfection,  Avhich,  if  1 
could  obtain,  in  this  gloom  of  solitude,  what 
would  it  avail  me?  I  have  protracted  my  work 
till  most  of  those  whom  I  wished  to  please 
have  sunk  into  the  grave,  and  success  and  mis- 
carriage are  empty  sounds:  I  therefore  dismiss 
it  with  frigid  tranquillity,  having  little  to  fear 
or  hope  from  censure  or  from  praise. 

From  the  PREFACE  TO  AN  EDITION  OF 
SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS,  1765-1768 

The  poet,  of  whose  works  T  have  undertaken 
the  revision,  may  now  begin  to  assume  the  dig- 
nity of  an  ancient,  and  claim  the  privilege  of 
established  fame  and  prescriptive  veneration. 
He  has  long  outlived  his  century,  the  term 
commonly  fixed  as  the  test  of  literary  merit. 
Whatever  advantages  he  might  once  derive 
from  personal  allusions,  local  customs,  or  tem- 
porary opinions,  have  for  many  years  been 
lost;  and  every  topic  of  merriment,  or  motive 
of  sorrow,  which   the  modes  of  artificial  life 

5  system 

t  Johnson's    wif.«    died    March    17,    17.'2.    and    the 

anniversary  of  her  death  he  spent  "in  prayer 

and  self-examination." 
I  He    objected    to    their   basing   their    lexicon    on 

Tuscan  usage. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON 


359 


afforded  him,  now  only  obscure  the  scenes 
which  they  once  illuminated.  The  effects  of 
favour  and  competition  are  at  an  end ;  the  tra- 
dition of  his  friendships  and  his  enmities  has 
perished;  his  works  support  no  opinion  with 
arguments,  nor  supply  any  faction  with  invec- 
tives; they  can  neither  indulge  vanity,  nor 
gratify  malignity;  but  are  read  without  any 
other  reason  than  the  desire  of  pleasure,  and 
are  therefore  praLsed  only  as  pleasure  is  ob- 
tained; yet,  thus  unassisted  by  interest  or  pas- 
sion, they  have  passed  through  variations  of 
taste  and  changes  of  manners,  and,  as  they  de- 
volved from  one  generation  to  another,  have 
received  new  honours  at  every  transmission. 

But  because  human  judgment,  though  it  be 
gradually  gaining  upon  certainty,  never  be- 
conres  infallible,  and  approbation,  though  long 
continued,  may  yet  be  only  the  approbation  of 
prejudice  or  fashion,  it  is  proper  to  inquire  by 
what  peculiarities  of  excellence  Shakespeare  has 
gained  and  kept  the  favour  of  his  countrymen. 
Nothing  can  plea.se  many,  and  please  long, 
but  just  representations  of  general  nature.  Par- 
ticular manners  can  be  known  to  few,  and 
therefore  few  only  can  judge  how  nearly  they 
are  copied.  The  irregular  combinations  of 
fanciful  invention  may  delight  awhile,  by  that 
novelty  of  which  the  common  satiety  of  life 
sends  us  all  in  quest;  but  the  pleasures  of  sud- 
den wonder  are  soon  exhausted,  and  the  mind 
can  only  repose  on  the  stability  of  truth. 

Shakespeare  is,  above  all  writers,  at  least 
above  all  modern  writers,  the  poet  of  nature; 
the  poet  that  holds  up  to  his  readers  a  faithful 
mirror  of  manners  and  of  life.  His  characters 
are  not  modified  by  the  customs  of  particular 
places,  unpractised  by  the  rest  of  the  world; 
by  the  peculiarities  of  studies  or  professions 
which  can  operate  but  upon  small  numbers;  or 
by  the  accidents  of  transient  fa.shions  or  tem- 
porary opinions:  they  are  the  genuine  progeny 
of  common  humanity,  such  as  the  world  will 
always  supply  and  observation  will  always  find. 
His  persons  act  and  speak  by  the  influence  of 
those  general  passions  and  principles  by  which 
all  minds  are  agitated,  and  the  whole  system 
of  life  is  continued  in  motion.  In  the  writings 
.  of  other  poets  a  character  is  too  often  an  indi- 
vidual: in  those  of  Shakespeare  it  is  commonly 
a  species. 

It  is  from  this  wide  extension  of  design  that 
so  much  instruction  is  derived.  It  is  this 
which  fills  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  with  prac- 
tical axioms  and  domestic  wisdom.  It  was  said 
of  Euripides  that  every  verse  was  a  precept; 
and  it  may  be  said  of  Shakespeare,  that  from 


his  works  may  be  collected  a  system  of  civil  and 
economical  prudence.  Yet  his  real  power  is 
not  shown  in  the  splendour  of  particular  pas- 
sages, but  by  the  progress  of  his  fable,^  and  the 
tenor  of  his  dialogue:  and  he  that  tries  to 
recommend  him  by  select  quotations,  will  suc- 
ceed like  the  pedant  in  Hierocles,''  who,  when 
he  offered  his  house  to  sale,  carried  a  brick  in 
his  pocket  as  a  specimen. 

It  will  not  easily  be  imagined  how  much 
Shakespeare  excels  in  accommodating  his  senti- 
ments to  real  life,  but  by  comparing  him  with 
other  authors.  It  was  observed  of  the  ancient 
schools  of  declamation,  that  the  more  diligently 
they  were  frequented,  the  more  was  the  student 
disqualified  for  the  world,  because  he  found 
nothing  there  which  he  should  ever  meet  in  any 
other  place.  The  same  remark  may  be  applied 
to  every  stage  but  that  of  Shakespeare.  The 
theatre,  when  it  is  under  any  other  direction, 
is  peopled  by  such  characters  as  were  never 
seen,  conversing  in  a  language  which  was  never 
heard,  upon  topics  which  will  never  arise  in 
the  commerce  of  mankind.  But  the  dialogue  of 
this  author  is  often  so  evidently  determined 
bj'  the  incident  which  produces  it,  and  is  pur- 
sued with  so  much  ease  and  simplicity,  that  it 
seems  scarcely  to  claim  the  merit  of  fiction,  but 
to  have  been  gleaned  by  diligent  selection  out 
of  common  conversation  and  common  occur- 
rences. 

Upon  every  other  stage  the  universal  agent 
is  love,  by  whose  power  all  good  and  evil  is 
distributed,  and  every  action  quickened  or  re- 
tarded. To  bring  a  lover,  a  lady,  and  a  rival 
into  a  fable;  to  entangle  them  in  contradictory 
obligations,  perplex  them  with  oppositions  of 
interest,  and  harass  them  with  violence  of  de- 
sires inconsistent  with  each  other;  to  make 
them  meet  in  rapture,  and  part  in  agony;  to 
fill  their  mouths  with  hyperbolical  joy  and  out- 
rageous sorrow;  to  distress  them  as  nothing 
human  ever  was  distressed;  to  deliver  them  as 
nothing  human  ever  was  delivered, — is  the  busi- 
ness of  a  modern  dramatist.  For  this,  proba- 
bility is  violated,  life  is  misrepresented,  and 
language  is  depraved.  But  love  is  only  one  of 
many  passions;  and  as  it  has  no  great  influence 
upon  the  sum  of  life,  it  has  little  operation  in 
the  dramas  of  a  poet  who  caught  his  ideas  from 
the  living  world  and  exhibited  only  what  he 
saw  before  him.  He  knew  that  any  other  pas- 
sion, as  it  was  regular  or  exorbitant,  was  a 
cause   of  happiness  or  calamity. 

0  story,  plot 

7  An  Alexandrian  philosopher  to  whom  were  attrib- 
uted certain  jests  which  Johnson  once  trans- 
lated. 


360 


LATEB  EIGHTEENTH  CENTUKY 


Characters  thus  ample  and  general  were  not 
easily  discriminated  and  preserved,  yet  perhaps 
no  poet  ever  kept  his  personages  more  distinct 
from  each  other.  I  w.ill  not  say  with  Pope  that 
every  speech  may  be  assigned  to  the  proper 
speaker,  because  many  speeches  there  are  which 
have  nothing  characteristical ;  but,  perhaps, 
liiough  some  may  be  equally  adapted  to  every 
person,  it  will  be  difficult  to  find  that  any  can 
be  properly  transferred  from  the  present  pos- 
sessor to  any  other  claimant.  The  choice  is 
right,  when  there  is  reason  for  choice. 

Other  dramatists  can  only  gain  attention  by 
hyperbolical  or  aggravated  characters,  by  fabu- 
lous and  unexampled  excellence  or  depravity,  as 
the  writers  of  barbarous  romances  invigorated 
the  reader  by  a  giant  and  a  dwarf;  and  he  that 
should  form  his  expectations  of  human  affairs 
from  the  play,  or  from  the  tale,  would  be 
equally  deceived.  Shakespeare  has  no  heroes; 
his  scenes  are  occupied  only  by  men,  who  act 
and  speak  as  the  reader  thinks  that  he  should 
himself  have  spoken  or  acted  on  the  same  occa- 
sion :  even  where  the  agency  is  supernatural, 
the  dialogue  is  level  with  life.  Other  writers 
disguise  the  most  natural  passions  and  most 
frequent  incidents;  so  that  he  who  contemplates 
them  in  the  book  will  not  know  them  in  the 
world :  Shakespeare  approximates  the  remote, 
and  familiarizes  the  wonderful ;  the  event  which 
he  represents  will  not  happen,  but,  if  it  were 
possible,  its  effects  would  probably  be  such  as 
he  has  assigned;  and  it  may  be  said  that  he 
has  not  only  shown  human  nature  as  it  acts  in 
real  exigencies,  but  as  it  would  be  found  in 
trials  to  which  it  cannot  be  exposed. 

This  therefore  is  the  praise  of  Shakespeare, 
that  his  drama  is  the  mirror  of  life;  that  he 
who  has  mazed  his  imagination  in  following 
the  phantoms  which  other  writers  raise  up  be- 
fore him,  may  here  be  cured  of  his  delirious 
ecstacies  by  reading  human  sentiments  in 
human  language,  by  scenes  from  which  a  her- 
mit may  estimate  the  transactions  of  the  world, 
and  a  confessor  predict  the  progress  of  the 
passions. 

From  the  LIVES  OF  THE  EXOLISII  POETS 
The  Character  of  Addison 

The  end  of  this  useful  life  was  now  ap- 
proaching. Addison  had  for  some  time  been 
oppressed  by  shortness  of  breath,  which  was 
now  aggravated  by  a  dropsy;  and,  finding  his 
danger  pressing,  he  prepared  to  die  conform 
ably  to  his  own  precepts  and  professions. 

Dnrinjj  this  lingering  do<'ay,  he  sent,  as  Pope 


relates,  a  message  by  the  Earl  >ji  Warwick^  to 
Mr.  Gay,'»  desiring  to  see  him.  G  ly,  who  had  not 
visited  him  for  some  time  bef<.ire,  obeyed  the 
summons,  and  found  himself  rece.ved  with  great 
kindness.  The  purpose  for  which  the  interview 
had  been  solicited  was  then  discovered:  Addi- 
son told  him  that  he  had  injured  him ;  but 
that,  if  he  recovered,  he  would  recompeiist  him. 
What  the  injury  was  he  did  not  explain,  nor 
did  Gay  ever  know;  but  supposed  that  some 
preferment  designed  for  him,  had,  by  Addi- 
son's intervention,  been  withheld. 

Lord  Warwick  was  a  young  man  of  very 
irregular  life,  and  perhaps  of  loose  opinions. 
Addison,  for  whom  he  did  not  want  respect, 
had  very  diligently  endeavoured  to  reclaim  him ; 
but  his  arguments  and  expostulations  had  no 
effect.  One  experiment,  however,  remained  to 
be  tried:  when  he  found  his  life  near  its  end. 
he  directed  the  young  lord  to  be  calie<l;  and 
when  he  desired,  with  great  tenderness,  to  hear 
his  last  injunctions,  told  him,  "I  have  sent  for 
you  that  you  may  see  how  a  Christian  can  die." 
What  effect  this  awful  scene  had  on  the  carl 
I  know  not;  he  likewise  died  himself  in  a  short 
time. 

In  Tickell  'sio  excellent  elegy  on  his  friend 
are  these  lines: 

He  taught  us  how  to  live  ;  and.  oh  I  too  high 
The  price  of  knowledge,  taught  us  how  to  die. 

In  which  he  alludes,  as  he  told  Dr.  Young,' i 
to  this  moving  interview. 

Having  given  directions  to  Mr.  Tickell  for 
the  publication  of  his  works,  and  dedicated 
them  on  his  death-bed  to  his  friend  Mr.  Craggs, 
he  died  June  17,  1719,  at  Holland  House,  leav- 
ing no  child  but  a  daughter. 

Of  his  virtue  it  is  a  sufficient  testimony 
that  the  resentment  of  party  has  transmitted 
no  charge  of  any  crime.  He  was  not  one  of 
those  who  are  praised  only  after  death ;  for  his 
merit  was  so  generally  acknowledged,  that 
Swift,  having  observed  that  his  election  ])assoil 
without  a  contest,  adds,  that  if  he  had  proposed 
him.sclf  for  king,  he  would  hardly  have  been 
refused.is 

His  zeal  for  his  party  did  not  extinguish  his 
kindness  for  the  merit  of  his  opponents:  when 
he  was  Secretary  in  Ireland  he  refused  to  in- 
termit his  acquaintance  with  Swift.* 

s  Addison's  step-Bon.  n  Edwnrd   Young,   t  h  »• 

w  John     (iav,     the    poet  port       (t'»ij/.      Lit., 

(Enu.   Lit..  182).  182). 

10  Thomas     Tickell,      a       12  A(l«lison    was   elected 

contrihiitor    to    the  lo     I'urliainent     in 

Sfiertafor.  1708. 

•  Addison,  a   Whig,  and   Swift,   a   T<tr.v.   took  oppo- 

ijlte  sides  in  political  controversy. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON 


3G1 


Of  his  habits,  or  external  manners,  nothing 
is  so  often  mentioned  as  that  timorous  or  sul- 
len taciturnity,  which  his  friends  called  mod- 
esty by  too  mild  a  name.  Steele  mentions  with 
great  tenderness  "that  remarkable  bashfulness, 
which  is  a  cloak  that  hides  and  muffles  merit ; ' ' 
and  tells  us,  that  ' '  his  abilities  were  covered 
only  by  modesty,  which  doubles  the  beauties 
which  are  seen,  and  gives  credit  and  esteem  to 
all  that  are  concealed. ' '  Chesterfield  affirms, 
that  "Addison  was  the  most  timorous  and  awk- 
ward man  that  he  ever  saw."  And  Addison, 
speaking  of  his  own  deficiency  in  conversation, 
used  to  say  of  himself,  that,  with  respect  to 
intellectual  wealth,  ' '  he  could  draw  bills  for 
a  thousand  pounds,  though  he  had  not  a  guinea 
in  his  pocket." 

That  he  wanted  current  coin  for  ready  pay- 
ment, and  by  that  want  was  often  obstructed 
and  distressed;  that  he  was  oppressed  by  an 
improper  and  ungraceful  timidity,  every  testi- 
mony concurs  to  prove;  but  Chesterfield's  rep- 
resentation is  doubtless  hyperbolical.  That 
man  cannot  be  supposed  very  unexpert  in  the 
arts  of  conversation  and  practice  of  life,  who, 
without  fortune  or  alliance,  by  his  usefulness 
and  dexterity,  became  Secretary  of  State;  and 
who  died  at  forty-seven,  after  having  not  only 
stood  long  in  the  highest  rank  of  wit  and  liter- 
ature, but  filled  one  of  the  most  important 
offices  of  State. 

The  time  in  which  he  lived  had  reason  to 
lament  his  obstinacy  of  silence ;  for  '  *  he  was, ' ' 
says  Steele,  "above  all  men  in  that  talent 
called  humour,  and  enjoyed  it  in  such  perfec- 
tion, that  I  have  often  reflected,  after  a  night 
spent  with  him  apart  from  all  the  world,  that 
I  had  had  the  pleasure  of  conversing  with  an 
intimate  acquaintance  of  Terence  and  Catullus, 
who  had  all  their  wit  and  nature,  heightened 
with  humour  more  exquisite  and  delightful  than 
any  other  man  ever  possessed. ' '  This  is  the 
fondness  of  a  friend ;  let  us  hear  what  is  told 
us  by  a  rival.  "Addison's  conversation,"  says 
Pope,  "had  something  in  it  more  charming 
than  I  have  found  in  any  other  man.  But  this 
was  only  when  familiar:  before  strangers,  or 
perhaps  a  single  stranger,  he  preserved  his  dig- 
nity by  a  stiff  silence. ' ' 

This  modesty  wa.s  by  no  means  inconsistent 
with  a  very  high  opinion  of  his  own  merit.  He 
demanded  to  be  the  first  name  in  modern  wit ;  i3 
and,  with  Steele  to  echo  him.  used  to  depre- 
ciate Dryden,  whom  Pope  and  Congreve  de- 
fended against  them.  There  is  no  reason  to 
doubt  that  he  suffered  too  much  pain  from  the 

13  Used  in  the  ISth  century  sense  of  "polite  learn- 
ing." 


prevalence  of  Pope 's  jwetical  reputation ;  nor 
is  it  without  strong  reason  suspected,  that  by 
some  disingenuous  acts  he  endeavoured  to  ob- 
struct it ;  Pope  was  not  the  only  man  whom  he 
insidiously  injured,  though  the  only  man  of 
whom  he  could  be  afraid. 

His  own  powers  were  such  as  might  have 
satisfied  him  with  conscious  excellence.  Of  very 
extensive  learning  he  has  indeeil  given  no 
proofs.  He  seems  to  have  had  small  acquaint- 
ance with  the  sciences,  and  to  have  read  little 
except  Latin  and  French ;  but  of  the  Latin 
poets  his  Dialogue  on  Medals  show  that  he  had 
perused  the  works  with  great  diligence  am! 
skill.  The  abundance  of  his  own  mind  left 
him  little  need  of  adventitious  sentiments;  his 
wit  always  could  suggest  what  the  occasion  de- 
manded. He  had  read  witli  critical  eyes  the 
important  volume  of  human  life,  and  knew  the 
heart  of  man  from  the  depths  of  stratagem  to 
the  surface  of  affectation. 

What  he  knew  he  could  easily  communicate. 
* '  This, ' '   says  Steele,   ' '  was  particular  in  this 
writer,  that,  when  he  had  taken  his  resolution, 
or  made  his  plan  for  what  he  designed  to  write, 
he  would  walk  about  a  room,  and  dictate  it  into 
language   with   as   much   freedom   and   ease   as 
any  one  could  write  it  down,  and  attend  to  the 
coherence  and  grammar  of  what  he  tUctated. ' ' 
j      Pope,  who  can  be  less  suspected  of  favouring 
I  his     memorj',     tleclares     that     he     wrote     very 
1  fluently,   but  was  slow   and   scrupulous  in  cor- 
j  reeting;  that  many  of  his  Spectators  were  writ- 
ten   very    fast,    and    sent    immediately    to    the 
press;  and  that  it  seemed  to  be  for  his  advan- 
tage not  to  have  time  for  much  revisal. 

"He  would  alter,"  says  Pope,  "anything  to 

I  please    his     friends,    before    publication;     but 

1  would   not   retouch  his  pieces  afterwards:    and 

I  believe  not  one  word  in  Cato,  to  which  I  made 

an  objection,  was  suffered  to  stand." 

The  last  line  of  Cato  is  Pope's,  having  been 
originally  written 

And.  oh  I  'twas  this  that  ended  Gate's  life. 

Pope  might  have  made  more  objections  to  the 
six  concluding  linos.t  In  the  first  couplet  the 
words  from  hence  are  improper;  and  the  sec- 
ond line  is  taken  from  Dryden 's  Virgil.  Of 
the  next  couplet,  the  first  verse  being  incUuled 
in  the  second,  is  therefore  useless;  and  in  the 
third  Discord  is  made  to  produce  Strife. 

t  "From  hence  let  fierce  contending  nations  know 
What  dire  effects  from  civil  discord  flow. 
'Tls  this  that  shakes  our  country  with  alarms. 
And  gives  up  Rome  a  prey  to  Roman  arms, 
Produces  fraud,  and  cruelty,  and  strife. 
And  robs  the  guilty  world  of  Cato's  life." 
The  rather  trivial  verbal  criticism  is  characteris- 
tic of  the  time. 


362 


LATER  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


Of  the  course  of  Addison's  familiar  day, 
before  his  marriage,  Pope  has  given  a  detail. 
He  had  in  the  house  with  liim  Budgell,  and 
perhaps  Philips.  His  chief  companions  were 
Steele,  Budgell,  Philips,  Carey,  Davenant,  and 
Colonel  Brett.  With  one  or  other  of  these  he 
always  breakfasted.  He  studied  all  morning; 
then  dined  at  a  tavern,  and  went  afterwards  to 
Button 's. 

Button  had  been  a  servant  in  the  Countess 
of  Warwick 's  family,  who,  under  the  patronage 
of  Addison,  kept  a  coffee-house  on  the  south 
side  of  Russell  Street,  about  two  doors  from 
Covent  Garden.  Here  it  was  that  the  wits  of 
that  time  used  to  assemble.  It  is  said  that  when 
Addison  suffered  any  vexation  from  the 
countess,  he  withdrew  the  company  from  But- 
ton's house.t 

From  the  coffee-house  he  went  again  to  a 
tavern,  where  he  often  sat  late,  and  drank  too 
much  wine.  In  the  bottle,  discontent  seeks  for 
comfort,  cowardice  for  courage,  and  bashfulness 
for  confidence.  It  is  not  unlikely  that  Addison 
was  first  seduced  to  excess  by  the  manumission 
which  he  obtained  from  the  servile  timidity  of 
his  sober  hours.  He  that  feels  oppression 
from  the  presence  of  those  to  whom  he  knows 
himself  superior,  will  desire  to  set  loose  his 
powers  of  conversation;  and  who,  that  ever 
asked  succour  from  Bacchus,  was  able  to  pre- 
serve himself  from  being  enslaved  by  his  auxil- 
iary! 

Among  those  friends  it  was  that  Addison  dis- 
played the  elegance  of  his  colloquial  accom- 
plishments, which  may  easily  be  supposed  such 
as  Pope  represents  them.  The  remark  of  Mande- 
ville,J*  who,  when  he  had  passed  an  evening  in 
his  company,  declared  that  he  was  a  parson  in 
a  tie-wig,i5  can  detract  little  from  his  charac- 
ter; he  was  always  reserved  to  strangers,  and 
was  not  incited  to  uncommon  freedom  by  a 
character  like  that  of  Mandeville. 

From  any  minute  knowledge  of  his  familiar 
manners,  the  intervention  of  sixty  years  has 
now  debarred  us.  Steele  once  promised  Con- 
greve  and  the  public  a  complete  description  of 
his  character;  but  the  promises  of  authors  are 
like  the  vows  of  lovers.  Steele  thought  no  more 
on  his  design,  or  thought  on  it  with  anxiety 
that  at  last  disgusted  him,  and  left  his  friend 
in  the  han<i8  of  Tickell. 

One  slight  lineament  of  his  character  Swift 
has  preserved.     It  was  his  practice,  when  he 

14  Bernard  ManJevlIlp,  n  popt  and  somewhat  of  a 

cynic. 

15  I.  p..  In  the  latest  <ourt-fa8hion   (tle-wlps  linvinR 

juHt    i'ome    in  :    moreover,    the    learned    profes- 
Klonn  affected  the  Imwe.  flowlnK  wIrs) 
t  Addison  married  the  <<tunteHH  in  1716. 


found  any  man  invincibly  wrong,  to  flatter  his 
ojnnions  by  acquiescence,  and  sink  him  yet 
deei)er  in  absurdity.  This  artifice  of  mischief 
was  admired  by  Stella  ;i«  and  Swift  seems  to 
approve  her  admiration. 

His  works  will  supply  some  information.  It 
appears  from  his  various  pictures  of  the  world, 
that,  with  all  his  bashfulness,  he  had  conversed 
with  many  distinct  classes  of  men,  had  surveyed 
their  ways  with  very  diligent  observation,  and 
marked  with  great  acuteness  the  effects  of 
different  modes  of  life.  He  was  a  man  in  whose 
presence  nothing  reprehensible  was  out  of  dan- 
ger; quick  in  discerning  whatever  was  wrong 
or  ridiculous,  and  not  unwilling  to  expose  it. 
There  are,  says  Steele,  in  his  writings  many 
oblique  strokes  upon  some  of  the  wittiest  men 
of  the  age.  His  delight  was  more  to  excite 
merriment  than  detestation,  and  he  detects  fol- 
lies rather  than  crimes. 

If  any  judgment  be  made,  from  his  books,  of 
his  moral  character,  nothing  will  be  found  but 
purity  and  excellence.  Knowledge  of  mankind, 
indeed,  less  extensive  than  that  of  Addison, 
will  show  that  to  write,  and  to  live,  are  very 
different.  Many  who  praise  virtue,  do  no  more 
than  praise  it.  Yet  it  is  reasonable  to  believe 
that  Addison's  professions  and  practice  were  at 
no  great  variance,  since,  amidst  that  storm  of 
faction  in  which  most  of  his  life  was  passed, 
though  his  station  made  him  conspicuous,  and 
his  activity  made  him  formidable,  the  character 
given  him  by  his  friends  was  never  contradicted 
by  his  enemies:  of  those  with  whom  interest 
or  opinion  united  him,  he  had  not  only  the 
esteem,  but  the  kindness;  and  of  others,  whom 
the  violence  of  opposition  drove  against  him, 
though  he  might  lose  the  love,  he  retained  the 
reverence. 

It  is  justly  observed  by  Tickell  that  he  em- 
ployed wit  on  the  side  of  virtue  and  religion. 
He  not  only  made  the  proper  use  of  wit  him- 
self, but  taught  it  to  others;  and  from  his  time 
it  has  been  generally  subservient  to  the  cause 
of  reason  and  of  truth.  He  has  dissipated  the 
prejudice  that  had  long  connected  gaiety  with 
vice,  and  easiness  of  manners  with  laxity  of 
principles.  He  has  restored  virtue  to  its  dig- 
nity, and  taught  innocence  not  to  be  ashamed. 
This  is  an  elevation  of  literary  character, 
above  all  Greek,  above  all  lioman  fame.^''  No 
greater  felicity  can  genius  attain  than  that  of 
having  purified  intellectual  pleasure,  separated 
mirth  from  indecency,  and  wit  from  licentious- 
ness; of  having  taught  a  succession  of  writers 


1 A  Swift's  Inamorata. 

IT  Quoted  from  Pope,  To  Auguatua. 


JAMES  BOSWELL 


363 


to  bring  elegance  and  gaiety  to  the  aid  of 
goodness ;.  and,  if  I  may  use  expressions  yet 
more  awful,  of  having  lurncd  many  to  right- 
eousness.^s 

JAMES  BOSWELL  (1740-1795) 

From  THE  LIFE  OF  SA:MUEL  JOHNSON, 
LL.D. 

Johnson  at  School 

He  was  first  taught  to  read  English  by  Dame 
Oliver,  a  widow,  who  kept  a  school  for  young 
children  in  Ldehfield.  He  told  me  she  could  read 
the  black  letter,  and  asked  him  to  borrow  for 
her,  from  his  father,  a  Bible  in  that  character. 
When  he  was  going  to  Oxford,  she  came  to  take 
leave  of  him,  brought  him,  in  the  simplicity  of 
her  kindness,  a  present  of  gingerbread,  and  said 
he  was  the  best  scholar  she  ever  had.  He  de- 
lighted in  mentioning  this  early  compliment: 
adding,  with  a  smile,  that  "this  was  as  high 
a  proof  of  his  merit  as  he  could  conceive." 
His  next  instructor  in  English  was  a  master 
whom,  when  he  spoke  of  him  to  me,  he  famil- 
iarly called  Tom  Brown,  who,  said  he,  "pub- 
lished a  spelling-book,  and  dedicated  it  to  the 
Universe;  but  I  fear  no  copy  of  it  can  now  be 
had." 

He  began  to  learn  Latin  with  Mr.  Hawkins, 
usher,  or  undermaster,  of  Lichfield  school — "a 
man"  (said  he)  "very  skilful  in  his  little 
way."  With  him  he  continued  two  years,  and 
then  rose  to  be  under  the  care  of  Mr.  Hunter, 
the  head  master,  who,  according  to  his  account, 
"was  very  severe  and  wrongheadedly  severe. 
He  used"  (said  he)  "to  beat  us  unmerci- 
fully; and  he  did  not  distinguish  between 
ignorance  and  negligence;  for  he  would  beat  a 
boy  equally  for  not  knowing  a  thing,  as  for 
neglecting  to  know  it.  He  would  ask  a  boy  a 
question,  and  if  he  did  not  answer  it,  he  would 
beat  him,  without  considering  whether  he  had 
an  opportunity  of  knowing  how  to  answer  it. 
For  instance,  he  would  call  up  a  boy  and  ask 
him  Latin  for  a  candlestick,  which  the  boy 
could  not  expect  to  be  asked.  Now,  Sir,  if  a 
boy  could  answer  every  question,  there  would 
be  no  need  of  a  master  to  teach  him." 

However,  .  .  .  Johnson  was  very  sensible 
how  much  he  owed  to  Mr.  Hunter.  Mr.  Langton 
one  day  asked  him  how  he  had  acquired  so  accu- 
rate a  knowledge  of  Latin,  in  which  I  believe  he 
was  exceeded  by  no  man  of  his  time;  he  said, 
■"My  master  whipt  me  very  well.  Without 
that,  sir,  I  should  have  done  nothing."  He 
i»  Daniel,  xii,  3. 


told  Mr.  Langton  that  while  Hunter  was  flog- 
ging his  boys  unmercifully,  he  used  to  say, 
"And  this  I  do  to  save  you  from  the  gallows." 
Johnson,  upon  all  occasions,  expressed  his  ap- 
probation of  enforcing  instruction  by  means  of 
the  rod.  "I  would  rather"  (said  he)  "have 
the  rod  to  be  the  general  terror  to  all,  to  make 
them  learn,  than  tell  a  child,  if  you  do  thus,  or 
thus,  you  will  be  more  esteemed  than  your 
brothers  or  sisters.  The  rod  produces  an  effect 
which  terminates  in  itself.  A  child  is  afraid 
of  being  whipped,  and  gets  his  task,  and  there 's 
an  end  on't:  whereas,  by  exciting  emulation 
and  comparisons  of  superiority,  you  lay  the 
foundation  of  lasting  mischief;  you  make 
brothers  and  sisters  hate  each  other,"  .  .  . 
That  superiority  over  his  fellows,  which  he 
maintained  with  so  much  dignity  in  his  march 
through  life,  was  not  assumed  from  vanity  and 
ostentation,  but  was  the  natural  and  constant 
effect  of  those  extraordinary  powers  of  mind, 
of  which  he  could  not  but  be  conscious  by  com- 
parison; the  intellectual  difference,  which  in 
other  cases  of  comparison  of  characters,  is 
often  a  matter  of  undecided  contest,  being  as 
clear  in  his  case  as  the  superiority  of  stature 
in  some  men  above  others.  Johnson  did  not 
strut  or  stand  on  tiptoe;  he  only  did  not  stoop. 
From  his  earliest  years,  his  superiority  was 
perceived  and  acknowledged.  He  was  from  the 
beginning  anaa;  andron,  a  king  of  men.  His 
schoolfellow,  Mr,  Hector,  has  obligingly  fur- 
nished me  with  many  particulars  of  his  boyish 
days;  and  assured  me  that  he  never  knew  him 
corrected  at  school  but  for  talking  and  divert- 
ing other  boys  from  their  business.  He  seemed 
to  learn  by  intuition;  for  though  indolence  and 
procrastination  were  inherent  in  his  constitu- 
tion, whenever  he  made  an  exertion  he  did  more 
than  any  one  else.  In  short,  he  is  a  memorable 
instance  of  what  has  been  often  observed,  that 
the  boy  is  the  man  in  miniature;  and  that  the 
distinguishing  characteristics  of  each  individual 
are  the  same  through  the  whole  course  of  life. 
His  favourites  used  to  receive  very  liberal 
assistance  from  him;  and  such  was  the  sub- 
mission and  deference  with  which  he  was 
treated,  such  the  desire  to  obtain  his  regard, 
that  three  of  the  boys,  of  whom  Mr.  Hector  was 
sometimes  one,  used  to  come  in  the  morning 
as  his  humble  attendants,  and  carry  him  to 
school.  One  in  the  middle  stooped  while  he  sat 
upon  his  back,  and  one  on  each  side  supported 
him,  and  thus  he  was  borne  triumphant.  Such 
a  proof  of  the  early  predominance  of  intellec- 
tual vigour  is  very  remarkable,  and  does  honour 
to  human  nature. 


304 


LATER   KIGHTKKXTII   (  KNTURY 


Johnson's  Friends,  1752-53* 

His  acquaintance  with  Bennet  Langton,  Esq., 
of  Langton,  iu  Lincolnshire,  another  much  val- 
ued friend,  commenced  soon  after  the  conclu- 
sion of  his  Bambler;  which  that  gentleman, 
then  a  youth,  had  read  with  so  much  admira- 
tion, that  he  came  to  London  chiefly  with  the 
view  of  endeavouring  to  be  introduced  to  its 
author.  By  a  fortunate  chance  he  happened  to 
take  lodgings  in  a  house  where  Mr.  Leveti  fre- 
quently visited;  and  having  mentioned  his  w-ish 
to  his  landlady,  she  introduced  him  to  ^Ir. 
Levet,  who  readily  obtained  Johnson 's  permis- 
sion to  bring  Mr,  Langton  to  him;  as,  indeed, 
Johnson,  during  the  whole  course  of  his  life, 
had  no  shyness,  real  or  affected,  but  was  easy 
of  access  to  all  who  were  properly  recommended, 
and  even  wished  to  see  numbers  at  his  levee,  as 
his  morning  circle  of  company  might,  with 
strict  propriety,  be  called.  INIr.  Langton  was 
exceedingly  surprised  when  the  sage  first  ap- 
peared. He  had  not  received  tlie  smallest  inti- 
mation of  his  figure,  dress,  or  manner.  From 
perusing  his  writings,  he  fancied  he  should  see 
a  decent,  well-drest,  in  short,  a  remarkably 
decorous  philosopher.  Instead  of  which,  down 
from  his  bed-chamber,  about  noon,  came,  as 
newly  risen,  a  huge  uncouth  figure,  with  a  little 
dark  wig  which  scarcely  covered  his  head,  and 
his  clothes  hanging  loose  about  him.  But  his 
conversation  was  so  rich,  so  animated,  and  so 
forcible,  and  his  religious  and  political  notions 
so  congenial  with  those  in  which  Langton  had 
been  educated,  that  he  conceived  for  him  that 
veneration  and  attachment  which  he  ever  pre- 
served.    ... 

One  night  when  Beauclerks  and  Langton  had 
supped  at  a  tuvern  in  London,  and  sat  till 
about  three  in  the  morning,  it  came  into  their 
heads  to  go  and  knock  up  Johnson,  and  see  if 
they  could  prevail  on  him  to  join  them  in  a 
ramble.  They  rapped  violently  at  the  door  of 
his  chambers  in  the  Temple,  till  at  last  he 
appeared  in  bis  sliirt,  with  his  little  black  wig 
on  the  top  of  his  head,  instead  of  a  nightcap, 
and  a  poker  in  his  hand,  imagining,  probably, 
that  some  ruffians  were  coming  to  attack  him. 
When  he  di.scovered  who  they  were,  and  was 
told  their  errand,  he  smiled,  and  with  great 
good  humour  agreed  to  their  proposal:  "What, 
is  it  you,  you  dogs!  I'll  have  a  frisk  with 
you."     He  was  soon  dressed,  and  they  sallied 

I  A  KurReon,  andodd  2A  Rcntlcnian  of  pIp- 
oharacfpr.      inmatp  Kant    taHtPs    1)  u  t 

of     Dr.     .JobaKon's  rather   f  r  p  e    mun- 

lionsp.  nors   and   opinions. 

•  Thp«<p  ilatPH  IndicfltP  tho  pprlod  of  .Tohnson'K 
llfo  undpr  which  the  particular  records  are 
made.     See  nny  edition  of  Boswell's  Johnnnn. 


forth  together  into  Covent-Garden,  where  the 
greengrocers  and  fruiterers  were  begiuiiiug  to 
arrange  their  hampers,  just  come  in  from  the 
country.  Johnson  made  some  attempts  to  help 
them;  but  the  honest  gardeners  stared  so  at  his 
figure  and  manner,  and  odd  interference,  that 
he  soon  saw  his  services  were  not  relished. 
They  then  repaired  to  one  of  the  neighbouring 
taverns,  and  made  a  bowl  of  that  liquor  called 
Bishop,-'  which  Johnson  had  always  liked : 
while,  in  joyous  contempt  of  sleep,  from  which 
he  had  been  roused,  he  repeated  the  festive 
lines, 

"Short,  o  short,  then  be  thy  reign. 
And  give  us  to  the  world  again !" 

They  did  not  «tay  long,  but  walked  down  to 
the  Thames,  took  a  boat,  and  rowed  to  Billings- 
gate. Beauclerk  and  Johnson  were  so  well 
pleased  with  their  amusement  that  they  resolved 
to  persevere  in  dissipation  for  the  rest  of  the 
day:  but  Langton  deserted  them,  being  engaged 
to  breakfast  with  some  young  ladies.  Johnson 
scolded  him  for  "leaving  his  social  friends,  to 
go  and  sit  with  a  set  of  wretched  un-idea'd 
girls."  Garrick  being  told  of  this  ramble,  said 
to  him  smartly,  "I  heard  of  your  frolic  t'other 
night.  You'll  be  in  the  Chronicle."  Upon 
which  Johnson  afterwards  observed,  "He  durst 
not  do  such  a  thing.  His  wife  would  not  let 
him!" 

He  entered  upon  this  year,  1753,  with  his 
usual  piety,  as  appears  from  the  following 
prayer,  which  I  transcribetl  from  that  part  of 
his  diary  which  he  burned  a  few  days  before 
his  death: 

"Jan.  1,  1753,  N.  S.,*  which  I  shall  use  for 
the  future. 

"Almighty  God,  mIio  hast  continued  my  life 
to  this  day,  grant  that,  by  the  assistance  of 
thy  Holy  Spirit,  I  may  im])rove  the  time  which 
thou  shalt  grant  me,  to  my  eternal  salvation. 
Make  me  to  remember,  to  thy  glory,  thy  judg- 
ments and  thy  mercies.  Make  me  so  to  consider 
the  loss  of  my  wife,  whom  thou  hast  taken  from 
me,  that  it  may  dispose  me  by  thy  grace,  to  lead 
the  residue  of  my  life  in  thy  fear.  Grant  this. 
O  I>ORi).  for  .Tesus  Christ  '.s  sake.     Amen. ' ' 

.TOHNSON   AND  Goi.nsMiTH,    1773 

He  and  Mr.  T.augton  :ind  I  went  together  to 
The   Cl.rn.^    vhere   we    found    Mr.    Burke.    Mr. 

"  Mulled  wine,  ornni^cs  4  The  Literary  Cluh.  See 
and  siiRar  Knu-  Ut..  p.  -'07 

•  New  style:  rel'erring  to  the  change  to  the  Cri*- 
Koriiin  ciilfiKliir.  which  was  adopted  In  Knsr- 
ImihI  111  ITTiL'.  when  the  dates  hetween  Septeiii- 
lier  I'lid  and   14th  were  omitted. 


JAMES  BOSXV'ELL 


3Gr) 


(Janick,  aud  some  other  members,  ami  amongst 
thoin  our  friend  Goldsmith,  who  sat  silently 
brooding  over  Johnson 's  reprimand  to  him 
after  dinner.!  Johnson  perceived  this,  and  said 
aside  to  some  of  us,  "I'll  make  Goldsmith 
forgive  me ;  "  and  then  called  to  him  in  a  loud 
voice,  ' '  Dr.  Goldsmith — something  passed  to- 
day where  you  and  I  dined:  I  ask  your 
pardon. ' '  Goldsmith  answered  placidly,  * '  It 
must  be  much  from  you,  Sir,  that  I  take  ill. ' ' 
And  so  at  once  the  difference  was  over,  and 
they  were  on  as  easy  terms  as  ever,  and  Gold- 
smith rattled  away  as  usual. 

In  our  way  to  the  club  to-night,  when  I 
regretted  that  Goldsmith  would,  upon  every 
occasion,  endeavour  to  shine,  by  which  he  often 
exposed  himself,  Mr.  Langton  observed  that  he 
was  not  like  Addison,  who  was  content  with  the 
fame  of  his  writings,  and  did  not  aim  also  at 
excellency  in  conversation,  for  which  he  found 
hiaiself  unfit :  and  that  he  said  to  a  lady  who 
complained  of  his  having  talked  little  in  com- 
pany, "Madam,  I  have  but  nine-pence  in  ready 
money,  but  I  can  draw  for  a  thousand  pounds. ' ' 
I  observed  Ihat  Goldsmith  had  a  great  deal  of 
gold  in  his  cabinet,  but  not  content  with  that, 
was  always  taking  out  his  purse.  Johnson. 
"  Yes,  Sir,  and  that  so  often  an  empty  purse!  " 

(ioldsmith's  incessant  desire  of  being  con- 
spicuous in  company  was  the  occasion  of  his 
sometimes  appearing  to  such  disadvantage  as 
one  should  hardly  have  supposed  possible  in  a 
man  of  his  genius.  When  his  literary  reputa- 
tion had  risen  deservedly  high,  and  his  society 
was  much  courted,  he  became  very  jealous  of 
the  extraordinary  attention  which  was  every- 
where paid  to  Johnson.  One  evening,  in  a 
circle  of  wits,  he  found  fault  with  me  for 
talking  of  Johnson  as  entitled  to  the  honour 
of  unquestionable  superiority.  "Sir,  (said  he,) 
you  are  for  making  a  monarchy  of  what  should 
be  a  republic." 

He  was  still  more  mortified,  when  talking  in 
a  company  with  fluent  vivacity,  and,  as  he 
flattered  himself,  to  the  admiration  of  all  who 
were  present;  a  German  who  sat  next  him, 
and  perceived  Johnson  rolling  himself  as  if 
about  to  speak,  suddenly  stopped  him,  saying, 
' '  Stay,  stay — Toctor  Shonson  is  going  to  say 
something."  This  was,  no  doubt,  very  pro- 
voking, especially  to  one  so  irritable  as  Gold- 
smith, who  frequently  mentioned  it  with  strong 
expressions  of  indignation. 

It  mav  also  be  observed  that  Goldsmith  was 


sometimes  content  to  be  treated  with  an  easy 
familiarity,  but  upon  occasions  would  be  con- 
sequential and  important.  An  instance  of  this 
occurred  in  a  small  particular.  Johnson  had  a 
way  of  contracting  the  names  of  his  friends: 
as  Beauclerk,  Beau;  Boswell,  Bozzy;  Langton, 
Lanky;  Murphy,  Mur;  Sheridan,5  Sherry.  1 
remember  one  day,  when  Tom  Daviess  was 
telling  that  Dr.  Johnson  said,  "We  are  all  in 
labour  for  a  name  to  Goldy's  play,"  Goldsmith 
seemed  displeased  that  such  a  liberty  should 
be  taken  with  his  name,  and  said,  "I  have 
often  desired  him  not  to  call  me  Goldy."  Tom 
was  remarkably  attentive  to  the  most  minute 
circumstance  about  Johnson.  I  recollect  his 
telling  me  once,  on  my  arrival  in  London,  ' '  Sir, 
our  great  friend  has  made  an  improvement  on 
his  appellation  of  old  Mr.  Sheridan.  He  calls 
him  now  Sherry  derry." 

Critical  Opinions 

1775.  Johnson  was  in  high  spirits  tills 
evening  at  the  club,  and  talked  with  great 
animation  and  success.  He  attacked  Swift,  as 
he  used  to  do  upon  all  occasions.  "The  'Tale 
of  a  Tub'  is  so  much  superior  to  his  other 
writings,  that  one  can  hardly  believe  he  was 
the  author  of  it:  there  is  in  it  such  a  vigour 
of  mind,  such  a  swarm  of  thoughts,  so  much  of 
nature,  and  art,  and  life."  ,  I  wondered  to 
hear  him  say  of  ' '  Gulliver 's  Travels,  "  "  When 
once  you  have  thought  of  big  men  and  little 
men,  it  is  very  easy  to  do  all  the  rest."  I 
endeavoured  to  make  a  stand  for  Swift,  and 
tried  to  rouse  those  who  were  much  more  able 
to  defend  him;  but  in  vain.  Johnson  at  last, 
of  his  own  accord,  allowed  very  great  merit  to 
the  inventory  of  articles  found  in  the  pocket  of 
' '  the  Man  Mountain, ' '  particularly  the  descrip- 
tion of  his  watch,  which  it  was  conjectured  was 
his  God,  as  he  consulted  it  upon  all  occasions. 
He  ob.served,  that  "Swift  put  his  name  to  but 
two  things  (after  he  had  a  name  to  put),  'The 
Plan  for  the  Improvement  of  the  English  Lan- 
guage,' and  the  last  'Drapier's  Letter.'  " 

1775.  Next  day  I  dined  Avith  Johnson  at 
Mr.  Thrale's.  He  attacked  Gray,  calling  liim 
"a  dull  fellow."  Boswell.  "I  understand 
he  was  reserved,  and  might  appear  dull  in  com- 
pany ;  but  surely  he  was  not  dull  in  poetry. ' ' 
Johnson.  "Sir,  he  was  dull  in  company,  dull 
in  his  closet,  dull  everywhere.  He  was  dull  in  a 
new  way,  and  that  made  many  people  think  him 
GRE.vr.     He  was  a  mechanical  poet. ' '     He  then 


t  Xftoi-    one    of    Tohnscn's    lonj?    dlscourse.s.    Gold-    •'•  Thomas  Sheridan,  father  of  the  dramatist. 

smith    had    Ix'^sed   that    somebodv   else   might  |  6  A  bookseller  and  publisher  who  published  a  pir- 
hc  hoard :   whereupon  Johnson  called  him  im- 1  ated   edition    of    .Tohnson'.s    writings    but    was 

pertinent.  I  forgiven   by   him. 


366 


LATER  EIGHTEENTH  (  ENTURY 


repeated  some  ludicrous  lines,  which  have 
escaped  my  memory,  and  said,  "Is  not  that 
GREAT,  like  liis  Odes?"  Mrs.  Thrale  maintained 
that  his  Odes  were  melodious;  upon  which  he 
exclaimed, 

(t  'Weave  the  warp,  and  weave  the  woof;'  " 

I  added,  in  a  solemn  tone, 

"  'The  winding-sheet  of  Edward's  race.' 

There  is  a  good  line."— "Ay,  (said  he,)  and 
the  next  line  is  a  good  one  (pronouncing  it 
contemptuously), 

"  'Give  ample  verge  and  room  enough.' 

No,  Sir,  there  are  but  two  good  stanzas  in 
Gray 's  poetry,  which  are  in  his  '  Elegy  in  a 
Country  Churchyard.'  "  He  then  repeated  the 
stanza, 

"For  who  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey,"  &c., 

mistaking  one  word;  for  instead  of  precincts 
he  said  confines.  He  added,  ' '  The  other  stanza 
I  forget." 

1776.  Talking  of  The  Spectator,  he  said, 
"It  is  wonderful  that  there  is  such  a  propor- 
tion of  bad  papers  in  the  half  of  the  work 
which  was  not  written  by  Addison;  for  there 
was  all  the  world  to  write  that  half,  yet  not  a 
half  of  that  half  is  good. ' ' 

Talk  at  the  Club,  1778 

On  Friday,  April  3,  I  dined  with  him  in 
London,  in  a  company  where  were  present 
several  eminent  men,  whom  1  shall  not  name, 
but  distinguish  their  parts  in  the  conversation 
by  different  letters.* 

F.  "I  have  been  looking  at  this  famous 
antique  marble  dog  of  Mr.  Jenning8,t  value<l 
at  a  thousand  guineas,  said  to  be  Alcibiades's 
dog."     Johnson.     "His    tail    then   must   be 

•  "It  appears,  by  the  books  of  the  Club,  that  the 
company  ou  that  oveninR  consisted  of  Dr. 
.lohnson.  president,  Mr.  Burke,  Mr.  Boswell, 
Dr.  George  Fordyce,  Mr.  Gibbon,  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds,  Lord  I'npor  Ossorv,  and  Mr.  R.  B. 
Sheridan.  In  Mr.  Boswell's  account  the  letter  K 
no  doubt  stands  for  Kdinund  Burke ;  h\,  in 
allusion  to  his  family  name  of  Fltzpatrick. 
probably  means  Lord  Upper  Ossory ;  but  the 
appropriation  of  the  other  letters  Is  very 
dlfflcnlt."— Croker. 

t  Henry  ('.  Jennings,  a  collector  of  antiques.  The 
marble  dog  was  at  this  date  an  objeet  of  gient 
curiosity  In  London.  Johnson  hiid  In  mind 
the  story  in  Plutarch's  Uvea:  "Ahlbiades 
ui  u*  *^  "'  uncommon  size  and  lK»auty, 
which  eoHt  him  seventy  minae,  and  vet  h'ls 
tall,  which  was  his  principal  orDament.  he 
caused  to  be  cut  off." 


docked.  That  was  the  mark  of  Alcibiades's 
dog."  E.  "A  thousand  guineas!  The  repre- 
sentation of  no  animal  whatever  is  worth  so 
much.  At  this  rate  a  dead  dog  would  indeed 
be  better  than  a  living  lion. "  Johnson.  "Sir 
it  is  not  the  worth  of  the  thing,  but  of  the' 
Hkill  in  forming  it,  which  is  so  highly  esti- 
mated. Everything  that  enlarges  the  sphere  of 
liuman  powers,  that  shows  man  he  can  do  what 
he  thought  he  could  not  do,  is  valuable.  The 
first  man  who  balanced  a  straw  upon  his  nose; 
Johnson  who  rode  upon  three  horses  at  a  time; 
in  short,  all  such  men  deserved  the  applause  of 
mankind,  not  on  account  of  the  use  of  what 
they  did,  but  of  the  dexterity  which  they  exhib- 
ited." Boswell.  "Yet  a  misapplication  of 
time  and  assiduity  is  not  to  be  encouraged. 
Addison,  in  one  of  his  Spectators,  commends 
the  judgment  of  a  King,  who  as  a  suitable 
reward  to  a  man  that  by  long  perseverance  had 
attained  to  the  art  of  tlirowing  a  barley-corn 
through  the  eye  of  a  needle,  gave  him  a  bushel 
of  barley."  Johnson.  "He  must  have  been 
a  King  of  Scotland,  where  barley  is  scarce." 
F.  "One  of  the  most  remarkable  antique 
figures  of  an  animal  is  the  boar  at  Florence. 
Johnson.  "The  first  boar  that  is  well  made 
in  marble,  should  be  preserved  as  a  wonder. 
When  men  arrive  at  a  facility  of  making  boars 
well,  then  the  workmanship  is  not  of  such 
value,  but  they  should  however  be  preserved  as 
examples,  and  as  a  greater  security  for  the 
restoration  of  the  art,  should  it  be  lost."  .  . 
E.  "From  the  experience  Avhich  I  have  had 
—and  I  have  had  a  great  deal — I  have  learnt 
to  think  better  of  mankind."  Johnson. 
' '  From  my  experience  I  have  found  them  worse 
in  commercial  dealings,  more  disposed  to  cheat 
than  T  had  any  notion  of;  but  more  disposed  to 
do  one  another  good  than  I  had  conceived." 
J.  "Less  just  and  more  beneficent."  John- 
son. "And  really  it  is  wonderful,  considering 
how  much  attention  is  necessary  for  men  to 
take  care  of  themselves,  and  ward  off  imme- 
diate evils  which  press  upon  them,  it  is  wonder- 
ful how  much  they  do  for  others.  As  it  is  said 
of  the  greatest  liar,  that  he  tells  more  truth 
than  falsehood;  so  it  may  be  said  of  the  worst 
man,  that  he  does  more  good  than  evil. ' '  Bos- 
well. "Perhaps  from  experience  men  may  be 
found  happier  than  we  supjioae. ' '  Johnson. 
"No,  Sir;  the  more  we  enquire  we  shall  find 
men  the  less  happy."  P.  "As  to  thinking 
better  or  worse  of  mankind  from  experience, 
some  cunning  people  will  not  be  satisfied  unless 
they  have  put  men  to  the  test,  as  they  think. 
There  is  a  very  good  Rtory  told  of  Sir  Godfrey 


JAMES  BOSWELL 


367 


Kneller,"  in  his  character  of  a  justice  of  the 
peace.  A  gentlcjuan  brought  his  servant  before 
liiin,  upon  an  accusation  of  having  stolen  some 
money  from  him;  but  it  having  come  out  that 
he  had  laid  it  purposely  in  the  servant's  way 
in  order  to  try  his  honesty,  Sir  Godfrey  sent 
the  master  to  prison."  Johxson.  "To  resist 
temptation  once  is  not  a  sufficient  proof  of 
honesty.  If  a  servant,  indeed,  were  to  resist 
the  continued  temptation  of  silver  lying  in  a 
window,  as  some  people  let  it  lie,  when  he  is 
sure  his  master  does  not  know  how  much  there 
is  of  it,  he  would  give  a  strong  proof  of 
honesty.  But  this  is  a  proof  to  which  you  have 
no  right  to  put  a  man.  You  know,  humanly 
speaking,  there  is  a  certain  degree  of  tempta- 
tion which  will  overcome  any  virtue.  Now,  in 
BO  far  as  you  approach  temptation  to  a  man, 
you  do  him  an  injury;  and,  if  he  is  overcome, 
you  share  his  guilt." 

Johnson's  Character 

The  character  of  Samuel  Johnson  has,  I 
trust,  been  so  developed  in  the  course  of  this 
work,  that  they  who  have  honoured-  it  with  a 
perusal  may  be  considered  as  well  acquainted 
with  him.  As,  however,  it  may  be  expected 
that  I  should  collect  into  one  view  the  capital 
and  distinguishing  features  of  this  extraor- 
dinary man,  I  shall  endeavour  to  acquit  myself 
of  that  part  of  my  biographical  undertaking, 
however  difficult  it  may  be  to  do  that  which 
many  of  my  readers  will  do  better  for  them- 
selves. 

His  figure  was  large  and  well  formed,  and 
his  countenance  of  the  cast  of  an  ancient 
statue ;  yet  his  appearance  was  rendered  strange 
and  somewhat  uncouth,  by  convulsive  cramps, 
by  the  scars  of  that  distempers  which  it  was 
once  imagined  the  royal  touch  could  cure,  and 
by  a  slovenly  mode  of  dress.  He  had  the  use 
only  of  one  eye ;  yet  so  much  does  mind  govern, 
and  even  supply  the  deficiency  of  organs,  that 
his  visual  perceptions,  as  far  as  they  extended, 
were  uncommonly  quick  and  accurate.  So  mor- 
bid was  his  temperament,^  that  he  never  knew 
the  natural  joy  of  a  free  and  vigorous  use  of 
his  limbs:  when  he  walked,  it  was  like  the 
struggling  gait  of  one  in  fetters;  when  he 
rode,  he  had  no  command  or  direction  of  his 
horse,  but  was  carried  as  if  in  a  balloon.  That 
with  his  constitution  and  habits  of  life  he 
should  have  lived  seventy-five  years,  is  a  proof 

7  rortrnit  painter  to  Charles  II.  and  William  III. 

8  Scrofula,  or  King's  Evil.     On  the  "royal  touch," 

SCO   Evelyn's  Diani,  July  6,   1660    (p.   274). 
0  so  slclvlv  was  Ills  constitution 


that   an   inherent   vivida  visio   ig   a   powerful 
preservative  of  the  human  frame. 

Man  is,  in  general,  made  up  of  contradictory 
qualities;   and  these  will  ever  show  themselves 
in   strange   succession  where   a   consistency,  in 
appearance  at  least,  if  not  in  reality,  has  not 
been  attained  by  long  habits  of  philosophical 
discipline.      In  proportion  to  the  native  vigour  of 
the   mind,   the   contradictory   qualities   will   be 
the  more  prominent,  and  more  difficult  to  be 
adjusted;  and,  therefore,  we  are  not  to  wonder 
that  Johnson  exhibited  an  eminent  example  of 
this  remark  which   I  have  made  upon  human 
nature.     At   different  times  he  seemed  a   dif- 
ferent man,  in  some  respects;  not,  however,  in 
any  great   or  essential  article  upon  which  he 
had  fully  employed  his  mind  and  settled  cer- 
tain principles  of  duty,  but  only  in  his  manners, 
and  in  the  display  of  argument  and  fancy  in 
his  talk.     He  was  prone  to  superstition,  but  not 
to    credulity.      Though   his   imagination   might 
incline  him  to  a  belief  of  the  marvellous  and 
the   mysterious,   his   vigorous  reason   examined 
the  evidence  with  jealousy.     He  was  a  sincere 
and  zealous  Christian,  of  high   Church-of-Eng- 
land     and    monarchical    principles,    which     he 
would  not  tamely  suffer  to  be  questioned;  and 
had,  perhaps,  at  an  early  period,  narrowed  his 
mind  somewhat  too  much,  both  as  to  religion 
and    politics.      His    being   impressed   with   the 
danger  of  extreme  latitude  in  either,  though  he 
was  of  a  very  independent  spirit,  occasioned  his 
appearing  somewhat  unfavourable  to  the  prev- 
alence   of    that    noble    freedom    of    sentiment 
which  is  the  best  possession  of  man.     Nor  can 
it    be    denied    that    he    had    many   prejudices; 
which,  however,  frequently  suggested  many  of 
his  pointed  sayings,  that  rather  show  a  playful- 
ness of  fancy  than  any  settled  malignity.     He 
was   steady   and   inflexible   in   maintaining  the 
obligations  of  religion  and  morality;  both  from 
a  regard  for  the  order  of  society,  and  from  a 
veneration  for  the  Great  Source  of  all  order; 
correct,  nay,  stern  in  his  taste;  hard  to  please 
and  easily  offended ;  impetuous  and  irritable  in 
his  temper,  but  of  a  most  humane  and  benevo- 
lent heart,  which   showed  itself  not  only  in   a 
most  liberal  charity,  as  far  as  his  circumstances 
would   allow,   but   in  a   thousand   instances   of 
active   benevolence.      He   was   afflicted   with    a 
bodily  disease,  which  made  him  often  restless 
and   fretful;   and  with   a  constitutional  melan- 
choly, the  clouds  of  which  darkened  the  bright- 
ness of  his  fancy,  and  gave  a  gloomy  east  to 
his    whole    course    of    thinking:    we,   therefore, 
ought  not  to  wonder  at  his  sallies  of  impatience 

10  living  force,  spiritual  energy 


3G8 


LATER  ElGUTEiuNTlI  CEJiTUEY 


and  passion  at  any  time;  especially  when  pro-t 
voked  by  obtrusive  ignorance,  or  presuming  ! 
petulance;  and  allowance  must  be  made  for  his 
uttering  hasty  and  satirical  sallies  even  against 
his  best  friends.  And,  surely,  when  it  is  con- 
sidered that  ' '  amidst  sickness  and  sorrow  ' '  he 
exerted  his  faculties  in  so  many  works  for  the 
benefit  of  mankind,  and  particularly  that  he 
achieved  the  great  and  admirable  Dictionary 
of  our  language,  we  must  be  astonished  at  his 
resolution.  The  solemn  text,  ' '  Of  him  to  whom 
much  is  given  much  will  be  required,"  seems  to 
have  been  ever  present  to  his  mind,  in  a  rigor- 
ous sense,  and  to  have  made  him  dissatisfied 
with  his  labours  and  acts  of  goodness,  however 
comparatively  great ;  so  that  the  unavoidable 
consciousness  of  his  superiority  was,  in  that 
respect,  a  cause  of  disquiet.  He  suffered  so 
much  from  this,  and  from  the  gloom  which 
perpetually  haunted  him  and  made  solitude 
frightful,  that  it  may  be  said  of  him,  "If  in 
this  life  only  he  had  hope,  he  was  of  all  men 
most  miserable. ' ' 

He  loved  praise,  when  it  was  brought  to  him ; 
but  was  too  proud  to  seek  for  it.  He  was  some- 
what susceptible  of  flattery.  As  he  was  general 
and  unconfined  in  his  studies,  he  cannot  be  con- 
sidered as  master  of  any  one  particular  science; 
but  he  had  accumulated  a  vast  and  various  col- 
lection of  learning  and  knowledge,  which  was 
so  arranged  in  his  mind  as  to  be  ever  in  readi- 
ness to  be  brought  forth.  But  his  superiority 
over  other  learned  men  consisted  chiefly  in  what 
may  be  called  the  art  of  thinking,  the  art  of 
using  his  mind;  a  certain  continual  power  of 
seizing  the  useful  substance  of  all  that  he  knew, 
and  exhibiting  it  in  a  clear  and  forcible  man- 
ner; so  that  knowledge,  which  we  often  see  to 
be  no  better  than  lumber  in  men  of  dull  under- 
standing, was,  in  him,  true,  evident,  and  actual 
wisdom.  His  moral  precepts  are  practical ;  for 
they  are  drawn  from  an  intimate  acquaintance 
with  human  nature.  His  maxims  carry  convic- 
tion: for  they  are  founded  on  the  basis  of  com- 
mon sense  and  a  very  attentive  and  minute  sur- 
vey of  real  life.  His  mind  was  so  full  of 
imagery,  that  he  might  have  been  i)erpetually 
a  poet;  yet  it  is  remarkable  that  however  rich 
his  prose  is  in  this  respect,  his  poetical  pieces, 
in  general,  have  not  much  of  that  splendour, 
but  are  rather  distinguished  by  strong  senti- 
ment, and  acute  observation,  conveyed  in  har- 
monious and  energetic  verse,  particularly  in 
heroic  couplets. 

Though  usually  grave,  and  even  awful  in  his 
ileportnient,  he  po88eM8e<l  uncommon  and  pecu- 
liar powers  of  wit  ami  humour;  he  frequently 
indulged  himself  in  colloquial  pleasantry;   and 


the  heartiest  merriment  was  often  enjoyed  in 
his  company;  with  this  great  advantage,  tliat, 
as  it  was  entirely  free  from  any  poisonous  tinc- 
ture of  vice  or  impiety,  it  was  salutary  to  those 
who  shared  in  it.  He  ha<l  accustomed  himself 
to  such  accuracy  in  his  common  conversation, 
that  he  at  all  times  expressed  his  thoughts  with 
great  force  and  an  elegant  choice  of  language, 
the  eff"ect  of  which  was  aided  by  his  having  a 
loud  voice,  and  a  slow,  deliberate  utterance. 
In  him  were  united  a  most  logical  head  with  a 
most  fertile  imagination,  which  gave  him  an 
extraordinary  advantage  in  arguing:  for  he 
could  reason  close  or  wide,  as  he  saw  best  for 
the  moment.  Exulting  in  his  intellectual 
strength  and  dexterity,  he  could,  when  he 
pleased,  be  the  greatest  sophist  that  ever  con- 
tended in  the  lists  of  declamation ;  and,  from  a 
spirit  of  contradiction,  and  a  delight  in  show- 
ing his  powers,  he  would  often  maintain  the 
wrong  side  with  equal  warmth  and  ingenuity; 
so  that,  when  there  was  an  audience,  his  real 
opinions  could  seldom  be  gathered  from  bis 
talk ;  though  when  he  was  in  company  w  ith  a 
single  friend,  he  would  discuss  a  subject  with 
genuine  fairness ;  but  he  was  too  conscientious 
to  make  error  permanent  and  pernicious  by 
deliberately  writing  it;  and,  in  all  his  numerous 
works,  he  earnestly  inculcated  what  appeared 
to  liim  to  be  the  truth ;  his  piety  being  constant, 
and  the  ruling  principle  of  all  his  conduct. 

Stich  was  Sami'el  Johxsox,  a  man  whose 
talents,  acquirements,  and  virtues  were  so 
extraordinary,  that  the  more  his  character  is 
considered,  the  more  he  will  be  regarded  by  the 
present  age,  and  by  posterity,  with  admiration 
and  reverence. 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH   (1728-1774) 

From  THE  CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD* 


Letter  I 


To  Mr. 


-,  Merchant  in  London. 

Amsterdam. 
Sir, — Yours  of  the  13th  in.stant,  covering  two 
bills,  one  on  Messrs.  R.  and  D.,  value  £478  10s., 
and  the  other  on  Mr.  — ,  value  £28;),  duly  came 
to  hand,  the  former  of  which  met  with  honour, 
but  the  other  has  been  trifled  with,  and  I  am 
afraid  will  be  returned  protested. 

•  These  "Chinese  Letters,"  as  they  were  rommonly 
called.  123  in  number,  wen>  written  lor  Tlir 
I'ubliv  l.edijcf  In  17«0  and  1T01.  Tho  source 
of  thoir  popularity  lay  In  the  amusing  social 
satire  obtained  by  viewhiK  the  cuslomw  of  one 
countrv  throuKh  the  eyes  of  n  citl/en  of 
another.  Men  <'hl  .Mtanni  U  of  course  llcti 
tious.  as  are  the  other  Chinese  characters 
mentioned. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


369 


The  bearer  of  this  is  my  frietitl,  therefore  let 
him  be  yours.  He  is  a  native  of  Honan  in 
China,  and  one  who  did  me  signal  services, 
when  he  was  a  mandarin,  and  I  a  factor,  at 
Canton.  By  frequently  conversing  with  the 
English  there,  he  has  learned  the  language, 
though  entirely  a  stranger  to  their  manners  and 
customs.  I  am  told  he  is  a  philosopher;  I  am 
sure  he  is  an  honest  man :  that  to  you  will  be 
his  best  recommendation,  next  to  the  considera- 
tion of  his  being  the  friend  of,  Sir, 

Yours,  etc. 


Letter  II 


Me  reliant  in 


Frovi  Lien  Chi  Altangi  to  - 
Amsterdam. 

London. 
Friend  ok  my  Heart,— May  the  wings  of 
peace  rest  upon  thy  dwelling,  and  the  shield  of 
conscience  preserve  thee  from  vice  and  misery  I 
For  all  thy  favours  accept  my  gratitude  and 
esteem,  the  only  tributes  a  poor  philosophic 
wanderer  can  return.  Sure,  fortune  is  resolved 
to  make  me  unhappy,  when  she  gives  others  a 
power  of  testifying  their  friendship  by  actions, 
and  leaves  me  only  words  to  express  the  sin- 
cerity of  mine. 

I  am  perfectly  sensible  of  the  delicacy  with 
Avhich  you  endeavour  to  lessen  your  own  merit 
and  my  obligations.  By  calling  your  late  in- 
stances of  friendship  only  a  return  for  former 
favours,  j'ou  would  induce  me  to  impute  to  your 
justice  what  I  owe  to  your  generosity. 

The  services  I  did  you  at  Canton,  justice, 
humanity,  and  my  office  bade  me  perform ; 
those  you  have  done  me  since  my  arrival  at 
Amsterdam,  no  laws  obliged  you  to,  no  justice 
required.  Even  half  your  favours  would  have 
been  greater  than  my  most  sanguine  expecta- 
tions. 

The  sum  of  money,  therefore,  which  you  pri- 
vately conveyed  into  my  baggage  when  I  was 
leaving  Holland,  and  which  I  was  ignorant  of 
till  my  arrival  in  London,  I  must  beg  leave  to 
return.  You  have  been  bred  a  merchant,  and 
T  a  scholar ;  you  consequently  love  money  better 
than  I.  You  can  find  pleasure  in  superfluity; 
1  am  perfectly  content  with  what  is  sufficient. 
Take  therefore  Avhat  is  yours:  it  may  give  you 
some  pleasure,  even  though  you  have  no  occa- 
sion to  use  it ;  my  happiness  it  cannot  improve, 
for  I  have  already  all  that  I  want. 

My  passage  by  sea  from  Rotterdam  to  Eng- 
land was  more  painful  to  me  than  all  the 
journeys  I  ever  made  on  land.  I  have  traversed 
the  immeasurable  wilds  of  Mogul  Tartary;  felt 
all  the  rigours  of  Siberian  skies:    I  have  had 


my  repose  a  hundred  times  disturbed  by  invad- 
ing savages,  and  have  seen,  without  shrinking, 
the  desert  sands  rise  like  a  troubled  ocean  all 
around  me.  Against  these  calamities  I  was 
armed  with  resolution;  but  in  my  passage  to 
England,  though  nothing  occurred  that  gave 
the  mariners  any  uneasiness,  to  one  who  was 
never  at  sea  before  all  was  a  subject  of  aston- 
ishment and  terror.  To  find  the  land  disappear 
— to  see  our  ship  mount  the  waves,  swift  as  an 
arrow^  from  the  Tartar  bow — to  hear  the  wind 
howling  through  the  cordage — to  feel  a  sickness 
which  depresses  even  the  spirits  of  the  brave, — 
these  were  unexpected  distresses,  and  conse- 
quently assaulted  me,  unprepared  to  receive 
them. 

You  men  of  P^urope  think  nothing  of  a  voy- 
age by  sea.  With  us  of  China  a  man  who  has 
been  from  sight  of  laud  is  regarded  upon  his 
return  with  admiration.  I  have  known  some 
provinces  where  there  is  not  even  a  name  for 
the  ocean.  What  a  strange  people,  therefore, 
am  I  got  amongst,  who  have  founded  an  empire 
on  this  unstable  element,  who  build  cities  upon 
billows  that  rise  higher  than  the  mountains  of 
Tipartala,!  and  make  the  deep  more  formidable 
than  the  wildest  tempest! 

Such  accounts  as  these,  I  must  confess,  were 
my  first  motives  for  seeing  England.  These 
induced  me  to  undertake  a  journey  of  seven 
hundred  painful  days,  in  order  to  examine  its 
opulence,  buildings,  sciences,  arts,  and  manu- 
factures, on  the  spot.  .Judge,  then,  my  disap- 
pointment on  entering  London,  to  see  no  signs 
of  that  opulence  so  much  talked  of  abroad: 
wherever  I  turn  I  am  presented  with  a  gloomy 
solemnity  in  the  houses,  the  streets,  and  the 
inhabitants;  none  of  that  beautiful  gilding 
which  makes  a  principal  ornament  in  Chinese 
anhitecture.  The  streets  of  Nankin  are  some- 
times strewed  with  gold  leaf;  very  different  are 
those  of  London:  in  the  midst  of  their  pave- 
ment a  great  lazy  puddle  moves  muddily  along; 
heavy-laden  machines,  with  wheels  of  unwieldy 
thickness,  crowd  up  every  passage:  so  that  a 
stranger,  instead  of  finding  time  for  observa- 
tion, is  often  happy  if  he  has  time  to  escape 
from  being  crushed  to  pieces. 

The  houses  borrow  very  few  ornaments  from 
architecture;  their  chief  decoration  seems  to  be 
a  paltry  piece  of  painting  hung  out  at  their 
doors  or  windows,2  at  once  a  proof  of  their 
indigence  and  vanity:  their  vanity,  in  each 
having  one  of  those  pictures  exposed  to  public 
view;  and  their  indigence,  in  being  unable  to 

1  Unidentified. 

2  House    or    door    signs    wi<re   formerly   extensively 

used  in  London  in  place  of  numbers. 


370 


LATER  EIGHTEENTH  CENTUBY 


get  them  better  painted.  In  this  respect  the 
fancy  of  their  painters  is  also  deplorable. 
Could  you  believe  it?  I  have  seen  five  black 
lions  and  three  blue  boars  in  less  than  the 
circuit  of  half  a  mile;  and  yet  you  know  that 
animals  of  these  colours  are  nowhere  to  be 
found,  except  in  the  wild  imaginations  of 
Europe. 

From  these  circumstances  in  their  buildings, 
and  from  the  dismal  looks  of  the  inhabitants,  I 
am  induced  to  conclude  that  the  nation  is  actu- 
ally poor;  and  that,  like  the  Persians,  they 
make  a  splendid  figure  everywhere  but  at  home. 
The  proverb  of  Xixofou  is,  that  a  man 's  riches 
may  be  seen  in  his  eyes:  if  we  judge  of  the 
English  by  this  rule,  there  is  not  a  poorer 
nation  under  the  sun. 

I  have  been  here  but  two  days,  so  will  not 
be  hasty  in  my  decisions.  Such  letters  as  1 
shall  write  to  Fipsihi  in  Moscow  I  beg  you  will 
endeavor  to  forward  with  all  diligence;  I  shall 
send  them  open,  in  order  that  you  may  take 
copies  or  translations,  as  you  are  equally  versed 
in  the  Dutch  and  Chinese  languages.  Dear 
friend,  think  of  my  absence  with  regret,  as  I 
sincerely  regret  yours;  even  while  I  write,  I 
lament  our  separation.    Farewell. 

Letter  III 

From  Lien  Chi  Altangi  to  the  care  of  Fipsihi, 
resident  in  Moscoiv ;  to  he  forwarded  hy  the 
Russian  caravan  to  Fum  Roam,  First  President 
of  the  Ceremonial  Academy  at  PeJcin,  in  China. 

Think  not,  O  thou  guide  of  my  youth,  that 
absence  can  impair  my  respect,  or  interposing 
trackless  deserts  blot  your  reverend  figure  from 
my  memory.  The  farther  I  travel  I  feel  the 
pain  of  separation  with  stronger  force;  those 
ties  that  bind  me  to  my  native  country  and  you 
are  still  unbroken.  By  every  remove  I  only 
drag  a  greater  length  of  chain. 

Could  I  find  aught  worth  transmitting  from 
80  remote  a  region  as  this  to  which  I  have  wan- 
dered, I  ihould  gladly  send  it;  but,  instead  of 
this,  you  must  be  contented  with  a  renewal  of 
my  former  professions,  and  an  imperfect 
account  of  a  people  with  whom  I  am  as  yet  but 
superficially  acquainted.  The  remarks  of  a  man 
who  has  been  but  three  days  in  the  country  can 
only  be  those  obvious  circumstances  which  force 
themselves  upon  the  imagination.  I  consider 
myself  here  as  a  newly  created  being  introduced 
into  .a  new  world.  Every  object  strikes  with 
wonder  and  surprise.  The  imagination,  still 
ungated,  seems  the  only  active  principle  of  the 
miml.       The    most    trifling    occurrences    give 


pleasure  till  the  gloss  of  novelty  is  worn  away. 
When  I  have  ceased  to  wonder,  I  may  possibly 
grow  wise;  1  may  then  call  the  reasoning 
principle  to  my  aid,  and  compare  those  objects 
with  each  other,  which  were  before  examined 
without  reflection. 

Behold  me,  then,  in  London,  gazing  at  the 
strangers,  and  they  at  me.  It  seems  they  find 
somewhat  absurd  in  my  figure;  and  had  I  never 
been  from  home,  it  is  possible  I  might  find  an 
infinite  fund  of  ridicule  in  theirs:  but  by  long 
travelling  I  am  taught  to  laugh  at  folly  alone, 
and  to  find  nothing  truly  ridiculous  but  villainy 
and  vice. 

When  I  had  just  quitted  my  native  country, 
and  crossed  the  Chinese  wall,  I  fancied  every 
deviation  from  the  customs  and  manners  of 
China  was  a  departing  from  nature.  I  smiled 
at  the  blue  lips  and  red  foreheads  of  the 
Tonguese;3  and  could  hardly  contain  when  I 
saw  the  Daures*  dress  their  heads  with  horns. 
The  Ostiacss  powdered  with  red  earth,  and  the 
Calmucks  beauties,  tricked  out  in  all  the  finery 
of  sheepskin,  appeared  highly  ridiculous.  But 
I  soon  perceived  that  the  ridicule  lay  not  in 
them  but  in  me;  that  I  falsely  condemned 
others  for  absurdity,  because  they  happened  to 
differ  from  a  standard  originally  founded  in 
prejudice  or  partiality. 

I  find  no  pleasure,  therefore,  in  taxing  the 
English  with  departing  from  nature  in  their 
external  appearance,  which  is  all  I  yet  know  of 
their  character:  it  is  possible  they  only  en- 
deavour to  improve  her  simple  plan,  since  every 
extravagance  in  dress  proceeds  from  a  desire  of 
becoming  more  beautiful  than  nature  made  us; 
and  this  is  so  harmless  a  vanity,  that  I  not  only 
pardon,  but  approve  it.  A  desire  to  be  more 
excellent  than  others  is  what  actually  makes  us 
so;  and  as  thousands  find  a  livelihood  in  society 
by  such  appetites,  none  but  the  ignorant  inveigh 
against  them. 

You  are  not  insensible,  most  reverend  Fum 
Hoam,  what  numberless  trades,  even  among  the 
Chinese,  subsist  by  the  harmless  pride  of  each 
other.  Your  nose-borers,  feet-swathers,  teeth- 
stainers,  eyebrow-pluckers,  would  all  want 
bread,  should  their  neighbours  want  vanity. 
These  vanities,  however,  employ  much  fewer 
hands  in  China  than  in  England;  and  a  fine 
gentleman  or  a  fine  lady  here,  dressed  up  to  the 
fashion,  seems  scarcely  to  have  a  single  limb 
that  does  not  suffer  some  distortions  from  art. 

To  make  a  fine  gentleman  several  trades  are 

n  Thp  TnnRiisos.  Monffollnns  of  oastcrn  Siberia. 
4  The   Oaurians,   in  Manchuria. 
.".  A    trl'x'   of  wostern    Siberia. 
0  Western  Mongols. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


371 


required,  but  chiefly  a  barber.  You  have  un- 
doubtedly heard  of  the  Jewish  champion^  whose 
strength  lay  in  his  hair.  One  would  think  that 
the  English  were  for  placing  all  wisdom  there. 
To  appear  wise,  nothing  more  is  requisite  here 
than  for  a  man  to  borrow  hair  from  the  heads 
of  all  his  neighbours,  and  clap  it  like  a  bush  on 
his  own.  The  distributors  of  law  and  physic 
stick  on  such  quantities,  that  it  is  almost  impos- 
sible, even  in  idea,  to  distinguish  between  the 
head  and  the  hair. 

Those  whom  I  have  now  been  describing 
affect  the  gravity  of  the  lion;  those  I  am  going 
to  describe  more  resemble  the  pert  vivacity  of 
smaller  animals.  The  barber,  who  is  still  mas- 
ter of  the  ceremonies,  cuts  their  hair  close  to 
the  crown;  and  then,  with  a  composition  of 
meal  and  hog's-lard,  plasters  the  whole  in  such 
a  manner  as  to  make  it  impossible  to  distin- 
guish whether  the  patient  wears  a  cap  or  a 
])hister;  but,  to  make  the  picture  more  perfectly 
striking,  conceive  the  tail  of  some  beast,  a 
greyhound's  tail,  or  a  pig's  tail,  for  instance, 
appended  to  the  back  of  the  head,  and  reaching 
down  to  the  place  where  tails  in  other  animals 
are  generally  seen  to  begin;  thus  betailed  and 
bepowdered,  the  man  of  taste  fancies  he  im- 
proves in  beauty,  dresses  up  his  hard-featured 
face  in  smiles,  and  attempts  to  look  hideously 
tender.  Thus  equipped,  he  is  qualified  to  make 
love,  and  hopes  for  success  more  from  the 
powder  on  the  outside  of  his  head  than  the 
sentiments  within. 

Yet  when  I  consider  what  sort  of  a  creature 
the  fine  lady  is  to  whom  he  is  supposed  to  pay 
his  addresses,  it  is  not  strange  to  find  him  thus 
equipped  in  order  to  please.  She  is  herself 
every  whit  as  fond  of  powder,  and  tails,  and 
hog's  lard,  as  he.  To  speak  my  secret  senti- 
ments, most  reverend  Fum,  the  ladies  here  are 
horridly  ugly;  I  can  hardly  endure  the  sight  of 
them ;  they  no  way  resemble  the  beauties  of 
China:  the  Europeans  have  a  quite  different 
idea  of  beauty  from  us.  When  I  reflect  on  the 
small-footed  perfections  of  an  Eastern  beauty, 
how  is  it  possible  I  should  have  eyes  for  a 
woman  whose  feet  are  ten  inches  long?  I  shall 
never  forget  the  beauties  of  my  native  city  of 
Xangfew,  How  very  broad  their  faces!  how 
very  short  their  noses!  how  very  little  their 
eyes!  how  very  thin  their  lips!  how  very  black 
their  teeth!  the  snow  on  the  tops  of  Baos  is 
not  fairer  than  their  cheeks;  and  their  eyebrows 
are  small  as  the  line  by  the  pencil  of  Quamsi. 
Here  a  lady  with  such  perfections  would  be 
frightful.     Dutch  and  Chinese  beauties,  indeed, 

7  Samson  {.Judges  xvi,  17) 


have  some  resemblance,  but  English  women  are 
entirely  different;  red  cheeks,  big  eyes,  and 
teeth  of  a  most  odious  whiteness,  are  not  only 
seen  here,  but  wished  for;  and  then  they  have 
9uch  masculine  feet,  as  actually  serve  some  for 
walking! 

Yet,  uncivil  as  nature  has  been,  they  seem 
resolved  to  outdo  her  in  unkindness:  they  use 
white  powder,  blue  powder,  and  black  powder 
for  their  hair,  and  a  red  powder  for  the  face 
on  some  particular  occasions. 

They  like  to  have  the  face  of  various  colours, 
as  among  the  Tartars  of  Koreki,*  frequently 
sticking  on,  with  spittle,  little  black  patches  on 
every  part  of  it,  except  on  the  tij)  of  the  nose, 
which  I  have  never  seen  with  a  patch.  You'll 
have  a  better  idea  of  their  manner  of  placing 
these  spots  when  I  have  finished  a  map  of  an 
English  face  patched  up  to  the  fashion,  which 
shall  shortly  be  sent  to  increase  your  curious 
collection  of  paintings,   medals,  and   monsters. 

But  what  surprises  more  than  all  the  rest  is 
what  I  have  just  now  been  credibly  informed 
of  by  one  of  this  country.  ' '  Most  ladies  here,' ' 
says  he,  ' '  have  two  faces ;  one  face  to  sleep  in, 
and  another  to  show  in  company.  The  first  is 
generally  reserved  for  the  husband  and  family 
at  home;  the  other  put  on  to  please  strangers 
abroad.  The  family  face  is  often  indifferent 
enough,  but  the  out-door  one  looks  something 
better;  this  is  always  made  at  the  toilet,  where 
the  looking-glass  and  toad-eater^  sit  in  council, 
and  settle  the  complexion  of  the  day." 

I  cannot  ascertain  the  truth  of  this  remark: 
however,  it  is  actually  certain  that  they  wear 
more  clothes  within  doors  than  without ;  and  I 
have  seen  a  lady,  who  seemed  to  shudder  at  a 
breeze  in  her  own  apartment,  appear  half  naked 
in  the  streets.     Farewell. 

Letter  IV 

To  the  Same 

The  English  seem  as  silent  as  the  Japanese, 
yet  vainer  than  the  inhabitants  of  Siam.  Upon 
my  arrival  I  attributed  that  reserve  to  modesty, 
which,  I  now  find,  has  its  origin  in  pride.  Con- 
descend to  address  them  first,  and  you  are  sure 
of  their  acquaintance;  stoop  to  flattery,  and 
you  conciliate  their  friendship  and  esteem. 
They  bear  hunger,  cold,  fatigue,  and  all  the 
miseries  of  life,  without  shrinking;  danger  only 
calls  forth  their  fortitude ;  they  even  exult  in 
calamity:  but  contempt  is  what  they  cannot 
bear.      An    Englishman    fears    contempt    more 

s  rnidentified  :    possibly   invented. 
y  flattering  attendant 


'372 


LATEE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


than  death;  he  often  flies  to  death  as  a  refuge 
from  its  pressure,  and  dies  when  he  fancies  the 
world  has  ceased  to  esteem  him. 

Pride  seems  the  source  not  only  of  their 
national  vices,  but  of  their  national  virtues 
also.  An  Englishman  is  taught  to  love  his  king 
as  his  friend,  but  to  acknowledge  no  other 
master  than  the  laws  which  himself  has  con- 
tributed to  enact.  He  despises  those  nations 
who,  that  one  may  be  free,  are  all  content  to 
be  slaves;  who  first  lift  a  tyrant  into  terror, 
and  then  shrink  under  his  power  as  if  delegated 
from  Heaven.  Liberty  is  echoed  in  all  then- 
assemblies:  and  thousands  might  be  found 
ready  to  offer  up  their  lives  for  the  sound, 
though  perhaps  not  one  of  all  the  number 
undenstands  its  meaning.  The  lowest  mechanic, 
however,  looks  upon  it  as  his  duty  to  be  a 
watchful  guardian  of  his  country's  freedom, 
and  often  uses  a  language  that  might  seem 
haughty  even  in  the  mouth  of  the  great  emperor 
who  traces  his  ancestry  to  the  Moon. 

A  few  days  ago,  passing  by  one  of  their 
prisons,  I  could  not  avoid  stopping,  in  order  to 
listen  to  a  dialogue  which  I  thought  might 
afford  me  some  entertainment.  The  conversa- 
tion was  carried  on  between  a  debtor  through 
the  grate  of  his  prison,  a  porter  who  had 
stopped  to  rest  his  burden,  and  a  soldier  at  the 
window.  The  subject  was  upon  a  threatened 
invasion  from  France,  and  each  seemed  ex- 
tremely anxious  to  rescue  his  country  from  the 
impending  danger.  "For  my  part,"  cries  the 
j)risoner,  "the  greatest  of  my  apprehensions  is 
for  our  freedom ;  if  the  French  should  conquer, 
what  would  become  of  English  liberty?  My 
dear  friends,  liberty  is  the  Englishman's  pre- 
rogative; we  must  preserve  that  at  the  expense 
of  our  lives;  of  that  the  French  shall  never 
deprive  us.  It  is  not  to  be  expected  that  men 
who  are  slaves  themselves  would  preserve  our 
freedom  should  they  happen  to  conquer."  "Ay. 
slaves,"  cries  the  porter,  "they  are  all  slaves, 
fit  only  to  carry  burdens,  every  one  of  them. 
Before  I  would  stoop  to  slavery  may  this  be  my 
poison  (and  he  held  the  goblet  in  his  hand), 
may  this  be  my  poison — but  I  would  sooner  list 
for  a  soldier." 

The  soldier,  taking  the  goblet  from  his 
friend,  with  much  awe  fervently  cried  out,  ' '  It 
is  not  HO  much  our  liberties,  as  our  religion, 
that  would  suffer  by  such  a  change:  ay,  our 
religion,  my  lads.  May  the  devil  sink  me  into 
flames  (such  was  the  solemnity  of  his  adjura- 
tion), if  the  French  should  come  over,  but  our 
religion  would  be  utterly  undone!"  So  saying, 
in'^tcad  of  a  libation,  he  apjdicd  the  goblet  to 


his   lips,   and   confirmed  his  sentiments  Avith   a 
ceremony  of  the  most  persevering  devotion. 

In  short,  every  man  here  pretends  to  be  a 
politician;  even  the  fair  sex  are  sometimes 
found  to  mix  the  severity  of  national  alterca- 
tion with  the  blandishments  of  love,  and  often 
become  conquerors  by  more  weapons  of  destruc- 
tion than  their  eyes. 

This  universal  passion  for  politics  is  gratified 
by  daily  gazettes,  as  with  us  in  China.  But  as 
in  ours  the  emperor  endeavours  to  instruct  his 
])eople,  in  theirs  the  people  endeavour  to  in- 
struct the  administration.  You  must  not,  how- 
ever, imagine  that  they  who  compile  these 
pai)ers  have  any  actual  knowledge  of  the  poli- 
tics or  the  government  of  a  state;  they  only 
collect  their  materials  from  the  oracle  of  sonic 
coffee-house,  which  oracle  has  himself  gathered 
them  the  night  before  from  a  beau  at  a  gam- 
ing-table, who  has  pillaged  his  knowledge  from 
.1  great  man's  porter,  who  has  had  his  informa- 
tion from  the  great  man's  gentleman,io  who  has 
invented  the  whole  story  for  his  own  amusement 
the  night  preceding. 

The  English,  in  general,  seem  fonder  of 
gaining  the  esteem  than  the  love  of  those  they 
converse  with.  This  gives  a  formality  to  their 
amusements:  their  gayest  conversations  have 
something  too  wise  for  innocent  relaxation: 
though  in  company  you  are  seldom  disgusted 
with  the  absurdity  of  a  fool,  you  are  seMom 
lifted  into  rapture  by  those  strokes  of  vivacity 
which  give  instant  though  not  permanent 
pleasure. 

What  they  want,  however,  in  gaiety,  they 
make  up  in  politeness.  You  smile  at  hearing 
me  praise  the  English  for  their  politeness;  you 
who  have  heard  very  different  accounts  from 
the  missionaries  at  Pekin,  who  have  seen  such 
a  different  behaviour  in  their  merchants  and 
seamen  at  home.  But  I  must  still  repeat  it,  the 
English  seem  more  polite  than  any  of  their 
neighbours;  their  great  art  in  this  respect  lies 
in  endeavouring,  while  they  oblige,  to  lessen  the 
force  of  the  favour.  Other  countries  are  fond 
of  obliging  a  stranger;  but  seem  desirous  that 
he  should  be  sen.sible  of  the  obligation.  The 
Knglish  confer  their  kindness  with  an  appear- 
ance of  imlifference,  and  give  away  benefits 
with  an  air  as  if  they  despised  them. 

Walking,  a  few  days  ago,  between  an  English 
and  a  French  man,  into  the  suburbs  of  the  city, 
we  were  overtaken  by  a  heavy  shower  of  rain. 
I  was  unprepareil;  but  they  had  each  large 
coats,  which  defended  them  from  what  seemed 

10  valet 


OUVER  GOLDSMITH 


373 


to  me  a  perfect  inuntlation.  The  Englishman, 
seeing  me  shrink  from  the  weather,  accosted  me 
thus:  "Pshaw,  man,  what  dost  shrink  at? 
Here,  take  this  coat;  I  don't  want  it;  I  find  it 
no  way  useful  to  me;  I  had  as  lief  be  without 
it. ' '  The  Frenchman  began  to  show  his  polite- 
ness in  turn.  ' '  My  dear  friend, ' '  cries  he, 
' '  why  won 't  you  oblige  me  by  making  use  of 
my  coat?  You  see  how  well  it  defends  me  from 
the  rain ;  I  should  not  choose  to  part  with  it  to 
others,  but  to  such  a  friend  as  you  I  could  even 
})art  with  my  skin  to  do  him  service." 

From  such  minute  instances  as  these,  most 
reverend  Fum  Hoam,  I  am  sensible  your  sagac- 
ity will  collect  instruction.  The  volume  of 
nature  is  the  book  of  knowledge;  and  he  be- 
comes most  wise  who  makes  the  most  judicious 
selection.     Farewell. 

THP]    DESERTED    VILLAGE  * 

Sweet    AubckxIi    loveliest    village    of    the 
plain, 
Where  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  labouring 

swain, 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid. 
And    parting    summer 's    lingering    blooms    de- 
layed : 
Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease. 
Seats    of    my    youth,    when    every    sport    could 

please, 
How  often  have  I  loitered  o  'er  thy  green, 
AVhere  humble  happiness  endeared  each  scene! 
IIow  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm. 
The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm,  10 

The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill. 
The  decent  church  that  topt  the  neighbouring 

hill, 
The    hawthorn    bush,    with    seats    beneath    the 

shade, 
I'or  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made! 
How  often  have  I  blest  the  coming  day, 
AVhen  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play. 
And  all  the  village  train,  from  labour  free. 
Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  .spreading  tree, 
Wliile  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 

1  I'rcbably     I.issoy,     where     Goldsmith     spent     his 
childhood. 

*  This   poem    was   inspired   by   Goldsmith's   convic- 
tion   of    the    steady    depopulation    of    Ireland. 
In  the  letter  in  which  he  inscribed  the  poem 
to    Sir    Joshua    Reynolds,     he    wrote :      "In 
regretting    the    depopulation    of    the    country, 
I  Inveigh  against  the  Increase  of  our  luxuries ; 
and   here    also   I    expect   a   shout   of    modern 
politicians  against  me.     For  twenty  or  thirty 
years  past,  it  has  been  the  fashion  to  consider 
luxury  as  one  of  the  greatest  national  advan-  ] 
tages.     Still,  I  must  continue  to  think  those  i 
luxuries    prejudicial    to    states    by    which    so  ] 
many    vices    are    Introduced,    and    so    many  I 
kingdoms  have  been  undone."  I 


The  young  contending  as  the  old  surveyed;  20 
And  many  a  gambol  frolicked  o  'er  the  ground, 
And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went 

round! 
And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired. 
Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired; 
The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown 
By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down; 
The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face. 
While  secret  laughter  tittered  round  the  place; 
The  bashful  virgin's  sidelong  looks  of  love. 
The    matron's    glance   that    would    those    looks 

reprove.  30 

These  were   thy   charms,   sweet  village!    sports 

like  these, 
A^'ith    sweet    succession,    taught    even    toil    to 

please ; 
These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence 

shed ; 
These  were   thy   charms — but   all   these  charms 

are  fled. 
Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest   of  the  lawn. 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  with- 
drawn ; 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant 's2  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green: 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain. 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain.     40 
No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day. 
But  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way; 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 
The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest; 
Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies, 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries. 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all. 
And    the   long   grass    o'ertops   the   mouldering 

wall ; 
And,   trembling,   shrinking    from    the   spoiler's 

hand. 
Far,  far  away,  thy  children  leave  the  land.     50 

111  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey. 
Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay: 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade — 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made: 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride, 
When  once  destroyed,  can  never  be  supplied. 
A    time    there    was,    ere    England 's    griefs 

began, 
When    every    rood    of    ground    maintained    its 

man; 
For    him    light    labour    spread    her    wholesome 

store. 
Just  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no  more: 
His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health,      61 
And  his  best  riches  ignorance  of  wealth. 

2  A    certain    English    landlord    who    evicted    many 
tenants. 


374 


LATER  EIGHTEENTH  CENTUKY 


But  times  are  altered ;  trade 's  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain: 
Along  the  lawn,  where  scattered  hamlets  rose. 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose; 
And  every  want  to  luxury  allied, 
And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 
Those  calm  desires  that  asked  but  little  room, 
Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peaceful 

scene,  71 

Lived  in  each  look,  and  brightened  all  the  green 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore, 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

Sweet  Auburn!  parent  of  the  blissful  hour. 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant 's  power. 
Here,  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds, 
Amidst  thy  tangling  walks  and  ruined  grounds, 
And,  many  a  year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where   once   the   cottage   stood,   the   hawthorn 

grew,  80 

Kemembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train. 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain. 
In   all   my   wand 'rings   round   this  world   of 

care. 
In    all    my    griefs — and    God    has    given    my 

share — 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown. 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close. 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose. 
I  still  had  hopes,  for  pride  attends  us  still, 
Amidst   the   swains   to   show   my   book-learned 

skill,  90 

Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw. 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw; 
And,  as  a  hare,  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  he  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past, 
Here  to  return — and  die  at  home  at  last. 

O  blest  retirement,  friend  to  life 's  decline, 
Eetreats  from  care,  that  never  must  be  mine. 
How  blest  is  he  who  crowns,  in  shades  like 

these, 
A  youth  of  labour  with  an  age  of  ease;       100 
Who  quits   a  world  where  strong  temptations 

try. 
And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly! 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep, 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep ; 
Nor  surly  porter  stands,  in  guilty  state. 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate; 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end. 
Angels  around  befriending  virtue 's  friend ; 
Sinks  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay. 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way;       HO 
And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last. 
His  heaven  commences,  ere  the  world  be  past! 


Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft  at  evening 's 
close 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose; 
There,  as  I  passed  with  careless  steps  and  slow, 
The  mingling  notes  came  softened  from  below; 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milk-maid  sung. 
The  sober  herd  that  lowed  to  meet  their  young; 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o  'er  the  pool, 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school ; 
The  watch-dog's  voice  that  bayed  the  whisper- 
ing wind,  121 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind ; 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade, 
And    filled    each    pause    the    nightingale    had 

made; 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail. 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale. 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  footway  tread. 
For  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled. 
All  but  yon  widowed,  solitary  thing. 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring ;  130 
She,  wretched  matron — forced  in  age,  for  bread, 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread. 
To  pick  her  wintry  faggot  from  the  thorn, 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn — 
She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train, 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain! 

Near  yonder   copse,   where   once  the   garden 
smiled. 
And  still  where  many  a  garden  flower  grows 

wild ; 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  dis- 
close. 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose.    HO 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear,3     , 
And  passing*  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e  'er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change  his 

place; 
Unpractised  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power, 
By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour; 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize. 
More  skilled  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train. 
He   chid   their  wanderings,   but   relieved    their 
pain ;  150 

Tlie  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest. 
Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast ; 
The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud. 
Claimed    kindred    there,    and    had    his    claims 

allowed ; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 
Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away. 
Wept  0  'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done, 

3  A   description   drawn   from   the   poet's  father  or 

brother. 
*  surpassingly 


OUVEK  GOLDSMITH 


375 


Shouldered  his  crutch   and   showed   how   fields 

were  wou. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned 

to  glow, 
And  quite  i'orgot  their  vices  in  their  woe;     160 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  e  'en  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue 's  side ; 
But  in  his  duty,  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt  for 

all; 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay. 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way.  170 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid. 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain,  by  turns  dismayed, 
The  reverend  champion  stood.s    At  his  control 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul; 
Comfort  came   down   the  trembling  wretch  to 

raise, 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway, 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remained  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man,       181 
With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran; 
E  'en  children  followed,  with  endearing  wile. 
And  plucked  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's 

smile : 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  expressed. 
Their    welfare    pleased    him,    and    their    cares 

distressed ; 
To    them   his   heart,   his   love,   his   griefs   were 

given. 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 
As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the 

storm,  190 

Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are 

spread. 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the 

way 
With  blossomed  furze  unprofitably  gay — 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skilled  to  rule, 
The  village  master^  taught  his  little  school; 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view, 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew; 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face;       200 
Full  well  they  laughed  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he ; 

5  A  striking  metaphor,  taken  from  tho  tourney. 

6  Probably    Thomas    Byrne.     Goldsmith's    teacher. 

was  the  mod.^i  for  this  portrait. 


Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 
Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frowned; 
Yet  he  was  kind,  or  if  severe  in  aught. 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault. 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew; 
'Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too: 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  pre- 
sage, 209 
And  even  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge.^ 
In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill. 
For   e'en    though    vanquished,   he   could    argue 

still; 
While  words  of  learned  length  and  thund'ring 

sound 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around. 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  tlie  wonder  grew 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 
But  past  is  all  his  fame.     Tlie  very  spot. 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumphed,  is  forgot. 

Near  yonder  thorn  that  lifts  its  head  on  high. 

Where  once   the  sign-post   caught   the  passing 

eye,  220 

Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts 

inspired. 
Where   gray-beard   mirth   and   smiling   toil   re- 
tired. 
Where  village  statesmen  talked  with  looks  pro- 
found. 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlour  splendours  of  that  festive  place; 
The  white-washed  wall,  the  nicely  sanded  floor, 
The    varnished    clock    that    clicked    behind    the 

door; 
The  chest  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day;    230 
The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use, 
The    twelve    good    rules,8    the    royal    game    of 

goose ; 
The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chilled  the  day, 
With    aspen    boughs,    and    flowers    and    fennel 

gay; 

While  broken  tea-cups,  wisely  kept  for  show, 
Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glistened  in  a  row. 

Vain  transitory  splendours!   could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall? 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour 's  importance  to  the  poor  man 's  heart ; 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair      241 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale, 
No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  prevail; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear. 


estimate  the  capacity  of  casks 

■  "Urge  no  healths."  "Pick  no  quarrels."  etc. 
Commonlv  hung  in  oublic  houses,  and  attrib- 
uted to  Charles  I.  The  game  mentioned  in  this 
line  was  played  with  counters  and  dice. 


376 


LATEK  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


Eclax  his  ponderous  strength  and  lean  to  hear; 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half -willing  to  be  pressed, 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest.        250 

Yes!  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train, 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art ; 
Spontaneous  joys,  where  nature  has  its  play, 
The    soul    adopts,    and    owns    their    first-born 

sway : 
Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 
Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfined. 
But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade. 
With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  arrayed, 
In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain,    261 
The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain; 
And,  even  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy, 
The  heart  distrusting  asks,  if  this  be  joy? 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen  who  survey 
The  rich  man's  joys  increase,  the  poor's  decay, 
'Tis  yours  to  judge  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted 
ore,  269 

And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her  shore; 
Hoards  even  beyond  the  miser's  wish  abound, 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around. 
Yet  count  our  gains.    This  wealth  is  but  a  name 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 
Not  so  the  loss.     The  man  of  wealth  and  pride 
Takes  up  a  place  that  many  poor  supplied; 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park  's  extended  bounds. 
Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds; 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth 
Has  robbed  the  neighbouring  fields  of  half  their 
growth ;  280 

His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen, 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green; 
Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies, 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies: 
While  thus  the  land,  adorned  for  pleasure,  all 
In  barren  splendour  feebly  waits  the  fall. 

As  some  fair  female,  unadorned  and  plain. 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 
Slights  every  borrowed  charm  that  dress  sup- 
plies, 
Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes; 
But  when  those  charms  are  past,  for  charms  are 
frail,  291 

When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail, 
She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 
In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress; 
Thus  fares  the  land,  by  luxury  betrayed: 
In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  arrayed, 
But  %'ergiQg  to  decline,  its  splendours  rise, 


Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise; 

While,   scourged   by   famine,   from   the   smiling 

land  299 

The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band; 
And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save. 
The  country  blooms — a  garden  and  a  grave. 

Where  then,   ah  I   where  shall  poverty  reside. 
To   'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride? 
If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  strayed 
He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade. 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide, 
And  e'en  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 

If  to  the  city  sped — what  waits  him  there? 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share;       310 
To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 
To  pamper  luxury  and  thin  mankind; 
To  see  each  joy  the  sons  of  pleasure  know, 
Extorted  from  his  fellow-creature's  woe; 
Here,  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade. 
There,  the  pale  artist^  plies  the  sickly  trade; 
Here,  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps 

display. 
There,  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way. 
The   dome   where  pleasure  holds  her  midnight 

reign,  319 

Here,  richly  decked,  admits  the  gorgeous  train ; 
Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing  square. 
The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 
Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy; 
Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy! 
Are  those  thy  serious  thoughts? — Ah!  turn  thine 

eyes 
Where  the  poor  houseless  shivering  female  lies. 
She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blessed, 
Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distressed ; 
Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn,     329 
Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  tljorn ; 
Now  lost  to  all;  her  friends,  her  virtue  fled. 
Near  her  betrayer's  ctoor  she  lays  her  head — 
And,  pinched  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from  the 

shower. 
With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour. 
When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town. 
She  left  her  wheel  and  robes  of  country  brown. 
Do   thine,  sweet  Auburn!  thine  the  loveliest 

train, 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain? 
E  'en  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led,   3r,9 
At  proud  men  's  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread. 

Ah.  no!  To  distant  (dimes,  a  dreary  scene. 
Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  between, 
Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they 

go-  ,    . 

Where  wild  Altama'"  murmurs  to  their  woe. 


n  artisan 

10  The  AltnmabH,  a  river  of  Oeorgla. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


377 


Far  different  there  from  all   that  charmed  be- 
fore, 
The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore; 
Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward  ray, 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day; 
Those  matted  woods  where  birds  forget  to  sing; 
But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling;       350 
Those    poisonous    fields    with    rank    luxuriance 

crowned, 
"Where  the  ilark  scorpion  gathers  death  around; 
Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 
The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake; 
Where    crouching    tigersn    wait    their    hapless 

prey, 
And    savage    men    more    murderous    still    than 

they; 
While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 
Mingling  the  ravaged  landscape  with  the  skies. 
Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene. 
The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy-vested  green,    360 
The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove. 
That  only  sheltered  thefts  of  harmless  love. 
(!ood    Heaven!    what    sorrows    gloomed    that 

parting  day, 
That  called  them  from  their  native  Avalks  away; 
"When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past, 
Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly  looked  their 

last — 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wished  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main — 
And,  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant  deep. 
Eeturned  and  wept,  and  still  returned  to  weep. 
The  good  old  sire  the  first  prepared  to  go  371 
To    new-found    worlds,    and    wept    for    others' 

woe; 
But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave. 
He  only  wished  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears, 
The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years, 
Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms. 
And  left  a  lover's  for  a  father's  arms. 
With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 
And  blessed  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose. 
And  kissed  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a 

tear,  381 

And  clasped  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear; 
Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

O  luxury!  thou  curst  by  Heaven's  decree, 
How   ill   exchanged   are   things   like  these   for 

thee! 
How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy, 
Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy! 
Kingdoms,  by  thee  to  sickly  greatness  grown. 
Boast  of  a  florid  vigour  not  their  own:         390 


1 1  Ilprp  Ooldsnillh's  imagination  playpd  him  false. 
uuleMs  tigers  may  stand  for  panthers. 


At   every    draught   more   large   and   large   they 

grow, 
A  bloated  mass  of  rank  unwieldy  woe; 
Till,  sapped  their  strength,  and  every  part  un- 
sound, 
Down,  down  they  sink,  and  fspread  a  ruin  round. 

Even  now  the  devastation  is  begun 
And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done; 
Even  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  I  stand, 
I  see  the  rural  virtues  leave  the  land. 
Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the 

sail 
That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  every  gale,         •*00 
Downward  they  move,  a  melancholy  band. 
Pass  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the  strand. 
Contented  toil,  and  hospitable  care. 
And  kind  connubial  tenderness  are  there, 
And  piety  with  wishes  placed  above. 
And  steady  loyalty,  and  faithful  love. 
And  thou,  sweet  Poetry,  thou  loveliest  mai<l, 
Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade; 
Unfit,  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame,      409 
To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  fame: 
Dear  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried. 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride ; 
Thou  found  'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep  'st  me 
Thou  found  'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep  'st  me 

so; 
Thou  guide,  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel, 
Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue,  fare  thee  well! 
Farewell;  and  oh!  where'er  thy  voice  be  tried. 
On  Torno'si2  cliffs,  or  Pambamarca 'si3  side, 
W^hether  where  equinoctial  fervours  glow. 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow,      420 
Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time. 
Redress  the  rigours  of  the  inclement  clime; 
Aid  slighted  truth  with  thy  persuasive  strain; 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain ; 
Teach  him,  that  states  of  native  strength  pos- 
sessed. 
Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blest ; 
That    trade's    proud    empire    hastes    to    swift 

decay. 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  laboured  mole  away; 
While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy. 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky.         430 

THE  HAUNCH  OF  VEXISOX 

A  Poetical  Epistle  to  Lord  Clare 

Thanks,  my  Lord,  for  your  venison,  for  finer 
or  fatter 
Never    ranged    in    a    forest,    or    smoked    in    a 
platter; 


ThP   Tornea.    a   river 
in  Sweden. 


13  A  mountain  peak  In 
Ecuador, 


378 


LATER  EIGHTEENTH  CENTUBY 


The    haunch    was    a    picture    for    painters    to 

study, — 
The   fat   was   so   white,   and   the   lean   was  so 

ruddy ; 
Though  my  stomach  was  sharp,  I  could  S(  arce 

help  regretting 
To  spoil  such  a  delicate  picture  by  eating; 
I  had  thoughts  in  my  chambers  to  place  it  in 

view, 
To  be  shown  to  my  friends  as  a  piece  of  virtii; 
As  in  some  Irish  houses,  where  things  are  so-so. 
One  gammon  of  bacon  hangs  up  for  a  show; — 
But,   for   eating   a   rasher   of   what   they   take 

pride  in,  H 

They'd   as  soon  think  of  eating  the  pan  it  is 

fried  in. 
But  hold — let  me  pause — don't  I  hear  you  pro- 
nounce 
This  tale  of  the  bacon  a  damnable  bounce  ?i 
Well,  suppose  it  a  bounce;  sure  a  poet  may  try. 
By  a  bounce  now  and  then,  to  get  courage  to 

fly. 

But,  my  Lord,  it 's  no  bounce :    I  protest  in  my 
turn 

It's  a  truth — and  your  Lordship  may  ask  Mr. 
Byrne.2 
To  go  on  with  my  tale:   as  I  gazed  on  the 
haunch, 

I    thought    of    a    friend    that   was    trusty    and 
staunch;  21 

So  I  cut  it,  and  sent  it  to  Eeynoldss  undrest. 

To  paint  it  or  eat  it,  just  as  he  liked  best. 

Of  the  neck  and  the  breast  I  had  next  to  dis- 
pose; 

'Twas   a   neck  and   a   breast  that  might   rival 
Monroe 's :  * 

But  in  parting  with  these  I  was  puzzled  again, 

With  the  how,  and  the  who,  and  the  where,  and 
the  when. 

There's  Howard,  and  Coley,  and  H — rth,  and 
HiflP, 

I  think  they  love  venison, — I  know  they  love 
beef. 

There's  my  countryman  Higgins — oh!  let  him 
alone, 

For  making  a  blunder,  or  picking  a  bone.       30 

But  hang  it! — to  poets  who  seldom  can  eat, 

Your  very  good  mutton  's  a  very  good  treat ; 

Such   dainties   to   them,   their  health   it   might 
hurt; 

It's  like  sending  them  ruffles  when  wanting  n 
f'    shirt. 

While  thus  T   debated,  in   reverie  centered. 

An   acquaintance,   n    friend   a.s   he   called    him- 
self, entered; 


1  Impudent  falsehood 

2  TjOt6  Clare's  n«»phow. 

3  Sir  JuKbua  Rc.vnoldH. 


4  Dorothy     Monroe,     a 
cclebrati'd  beauty. 


An  under-bred,  fine-spoken  fellow  was  he. 

And  he  smiled  as  he  looked  at  the  venison  and 
me. 
' '  What    have    we    got    here  ? — Why    this    is 
good  eating! 

Your  own,  I  suppose — or  is  it  in  waiting?"    40 

"Why,   whose   should  it   be?"   cried   I   with   a 
flounce; 

"I  get   these  things  often" — but  that   was  a 
bounce: 

' '  8ome  lords,  my  acquaintance,  that  settle  the 
nation. 

Are   pleased   to    be   kind — but   I   hate   ostenta- 
tion. ' ' 
' '  If  that  be  the  case,  then, ' '  cried  he,  very 
gay, 

"  I  'm  glad  I  have  taken  this  house  in  my  way. 

To-morrow  you  take  a  poor  dinner  with  me; 

Xo    words — I    insist    on't — precisely   at    three; 

We'll   have  Johnson,   and  Burke;   all  the  wits 
will  be  there; 

My  acquaintance  is  slight,  or  I'd  ask  my  Lord 
Clare.  51 

And  now  that  I  think  on't,  as  I  am  a  sinner! 

We  wanted  this  venison  to  make  out  the  dinner. 

What  say  you — a  pasty?     It  shall,  and  it  must. 

And  my  wife,  little  Kitty,  is  famous  for  crust. 

Here,   porter!    this    venison   with    me   to    Mile- 
end;  5 

No  stirring — I  beg — my  dear  friend — my  dear 
friend!  " 

Thus,    snatching   his   hat,   he    brushed   off   like 
the  wind, 

And  the  porter  and  eatables  followed  behind. 
Left    alone    to    reflect,    having    emptied    my 
shelf. 

And  "nobody  with  me  at  sea  but  myself,"    60 

Though   I   could   not   help  tliinking  my   gentle- 
man hasty. 

Yet  Johnson,  and  Burke,  and  a  good  venison 
pasty. 

Were  things  that  I  never  disliked  in  my  life. 

Though    clogged    with    a    coxcomb,    and    Kitty 
his  wife. 

So  next  day,  in  due  splendour  to  make  my  ap- 
proach, 

I  drove  to  his  door  in  my  own  hackney-coach. 
When  come  to  the  place  where  we  all  were 
to  dine 

(A   chair-lumbered   closet,  just  twelve  feet  by 
nine), 

My    friend   bade    me    welcome,    but    struck   me 
quite  dumb 

With    tidings   that   Johnson   and   Burke   would 
not  come:  'l 

r.  In  East  London,  where  the  poorer  classes  llvi'd. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


379 


"For  I  knew  it,"  he  cried:  "both  eternally 
fail, 

The  one  with  his  speeches,  and  t  'other  witli 
Thrale.6 

But  no  matter,  I'll  warrant  we'll  make  up  the 
party 

With  two  full  aa  clever  and  ten  times  as  hearty. 

The  one  is  a  Scotchman,  the  other  a  Jew ; 

They're  both  of  them  merry,  and  authors  like 
you; 

The  one  writes  the  'Snarler, '  the  other  the 
'  Scourge ; ' 

Some  think  he  writes  '  Cinna ' — he  owns  to 
'Panurge. '  "* 

While  thus  he  described  them  by  trade  and  hy 
name, 

They  entered,  an<l   dinner  was  served   as  they 

came.  80 

At  the  top  a  fried  liver  and  bacon  were  seen ; 

At  the  bottom  was  tripe,  in  a  swingeing' 
tureen ; 

At  the  sides  there  was  spinach  and  pudding 
made  hot; 

In  the  middle  a  place  where  the  pasty — was 
not. 

Now  my  lord,  as  for  tripe,  it 's  my  utter  aver- 
sion, 

And  your  bacon  I  hate  like  a  Turk  or  a  Per- 
sian; 

So  there  I  sat  stuck,  like  a  horse  in  a  pound, 

AVkile  the  bacon  and  liver  went  merrily  round : 

But  what  vexed  me  most  was  that  d — d  Scot- 
tish rogue. 

With  his  long-winded  siieeches,  his  smiles,  and 
his  brogue,  90 

And,  "Matlam,"  quoth  he,  "may  this  bit  be 
my  poison, 

A  prettier  dinner  I  never  set  eyes  on ; 

Pray  a  slice  of  your  liver,  though  may  I  be 
curst. 

But  I've  eat  of  your  tripe  till  I'm  ready  to 
burst. ' ' 

"The  tripe!"  quoth  the  Jew,  with  his  choco- 
late cheek ; 

"I  could  dine  on  this  tripe  seven  days  in  a 
week: 

I  like  these  here  dinners  so  pretty  and  small ; 

But  your  friend  there,  the  doctor,  eats  nothing 
at   all." 

"Oho!"  quoth  my  friend,  "he'll  come  on  in 
a  trice; 

He's  keeping  a  corner  for  something  that's 
nice:  100 


e  Mrs.  Thrale.  Dr.  .Tohnson's  friend. 

7  immense 

*  These  were  signatures  to  contemporary  letters 
addressed  to  the  Public  Adrerliner  In  sup- 
port  of  the  government. 


There 's  a  pasty. ' ' — ' '  A  pasty ! ' '  repeated  the 
Jew ; 

'  *  I  don 't  care  if  I  keep  a  corner  for 't  too. ' ' 

"What  the  de'il,  mon,  a  pasty!  "  re-echoed  the 
Scot; 

' '  Though  splitting,  I  '11  still  keep  a  corner  for 
that." 

"We'll  all  keep  a  corner,"  the  lady  cried  out; 

' '  We  '11  all  keep  a  corner, ' '  was  echoed  about. 

While  thus  we  resolved,  and  the  pasty  delayed. 

With  looks  that  quite  petrified,  entered  the 
maid : 

A  visage  so  sad,  and  so  pale  with  affright. 

Waked  Priam  in  drawing  his  curtains  by 
night.s  110 

But  we  quickly  found  out — for  who  could  mis- 
take her? — 

That  she  came  with  some  terrible  news  from 
the   baker : 

And  so  it  fell  out,  for  that  negligent  sloven 

Had  shut  out  the  pasty  on  shutting  his  oven. 

Sad  Philomel  thus — but  let  similes  drop; 

And  now  that  I  think  on't,  the  story  may  stop. 

To  be  plain,  my  good  Lord,  it's  but  labour 
misplaced 

To  send  such  good  verses  to  one  of  your  taste; 

You  've  got  an  odd  something — a  kind  of  dis- 
cerning, 

A  relish,  a  taste — sickened  over  by  learning ;» 

At  least,  it's  your  temper,  as  very  well  known. 

That  you  think  very  slightly  of  all  that's  your 
own.  122 

So,  perhaps,  in  your  habits  of  thinking  amiss. 

You  may  make  a  mistake,  and  think  slightly 
of  this. 

From  RETALIATION* 

Of    old,    when    Scarroni    his    companions   in- 
vited. 
Each  guest  brought  his  dish,  and  the  feast  was 
united; 


8  See    2    Henry   IV.,    I, 
1.    72. 


0  See  Hamlet,     III.,     i. 
85. 


1  A  French  burlesque  poet. 

*  Goldsmith,  because  of  his  vanity  and  frequently 
empty  talk,  was  the  occasion  of  much  diver- 
sion among  his  friends,  and  sometimes  a  butt 
of  ridicule.  At  a  gathering  at  St.  James's 
coflfee-house,  he  desired  to  try  with  David  Gar- 
rick,  the  actor,  his  skill  at  epigram,  and 
each  was  to  write  the  other's  epitaph.  Gar- 
rick  immediately  composed  the  well-known 
couplet : 

"Here    lies    Nolly    Goldsmith,    for    shortness 

called  Noll, 
Who  wrote  like  an  angel,  but  talked  like  poor 

roll." 

Goldsmith    took    his    time    to    reply,    and   the 


380 


LATER  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


Jf  our  landlord  supplies  us  with  beef  and  with 

fish, 
Let   each   guest   bring   hiniself — and   he   brings 

the  best  dish. 
Our   Dean    shall    be   venison,   just   fresh   from 

the  plains; 
Our  Burke  shall  be  tongue,  with  the  garnish  of 

brains; 
Our  Will  shall  be  wild-fowl  of  excellent  flavour, 
And   Difk   with   his  pepper   shall   heighten  the 

savour; 
Our  Cumberland's  sweet-bread  its  place  shall 

obtain. 
And  Douglas  is  pudding,  substantial  and  plain ; 
Our  Garrick's  a  salad;  for  in  him  we  see       H 
Oil,  vinegar,  sugar,  and  saltness  agree: 
To  make  out  the  dinner,  full  certain  I  am 
That  Kidge  is  anchovy,  and  Reynolds  is  lamb; 
That  Hicicey's  a  capon,  and,  by  the  same  rule. 
Magnanimous  Goldsmith  a   gooseberry  fool.2 
At  a  dinner  so  various,  at  such  a  repast. 
Who'd  not  be  a  glutton,  and  stick  to  the  last? 
Here,  waiter,  more  wine!  let  me  sit  while  I'm 

able. 
Till  all  my  companions  sink  under  the  table;  20 
Then,   with   chaos  and   blunders  encircling  my 

head. 
Let  me  ponder,  and  tell  what  I  think  of  the 

dead. 
Here  lies  the  good  Dean,  reunited  to  earth, 
Who  mixed  reason  with  pleasure,  and  wisdom 

with  mirth: 
If  he  had  any  faults,  he  has  left  us  in  doubt — 
At  least,  in  six  weeks  I  could  not  find   'em  out; 
Yet  some  have  declared,  and  it  can't  be  denied 

'em. 
That   sly-boots   wag   cursedly   cunning   to   hide 
'em. 
Here   lies   our   good   Edmund,   whose   genius 
was  such, 
W^e    scarcely    can    praise    it,    or    blame    it    too 
much;  30 

Who,  born  for  the  universe,  narrowed  his  mind. 
And    to    party    gave    u[)    what    was   meant   for 

mankind. 
Though   fraught  with  all  learning,  yet  strain- 
ing his  throat 


result  WHH  Retaliation,  a  poom  which  he  Ipft 
unflnisbed.  and  which  was  publlshod  after  his 
death.  The  characters  whom  he  imagines 
gathered  about  the  table  are  Thomas  Barnard. 
Dean  of  Deiry  :  Kdmund  lUirke.  with  William 
Burke,  a  kinsman,  and  Uiohard,  a  younger 
brother;  Richard  PumlMM-land.  the  dramatist: 
John  DouglaH,  a  Scotch  cHnon  ;  David  Oar- 
rlck  :  John  KIdge  and  Tom  lllrkey  two  Irish 
lawyers :  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  the  painter : 
and"  himself.  A  kindlier  satire — If  satire  It 
may  he  called  has  sonreely  been  written, 
2  A   dish   of  crushed  gooseberries. 


To  persuade  Tommy  Townshenda  to  lend  him 
a  vote; 

Who,  too  deep  for  his  hearers,  still  went  ou 
refining, 

And  thought  of  convincing  while  they  thought 
of  dining: 

Though  equal  to  all  things,  for  all  things  unfit, 

Too  nice  for  a  statesman,  too  proud  for  a  wit ; 

For  a  patriot  too  cool;  for  a  drudge,  disobe- 
dient, 

And  too  fond  of  the  right  to  pursue  the  expe- 
dient. 40 

In  short,  'twas  his  fate,  unemployed  or  in 
place,  sir, 

To  eat  mutton  cold,  and  cut  blocks  with  a 
razor. 

Here  Cumberland  lies,  having  acted  his  parts. 
The    Terence*    of    England,    the    mender    of 

hearts ; 
A  flattering  painter,  who  made  it  his  care 
To  draw  men  as  they  ought  to  be,  not  as  they 

are. 
His  gallants  are  all  faultless,  his  women  divine, 
And  comedy  wonders  at  being  so  fine; 
Like  a  tragedy  queen  he  has  dizened  her  out. 
Or  rather  like  tragedy  giving  a  rout.^ 
His  fools  have  their  follies  so  lost  in  a  crowd 
Of  virtues  and  feelings  that  folly  grows  proud; 
And  coxcombs,  alike  in  their  failings  alone,  71 
Adopting  his  portraits,  are  pleased  with  their 

own. 
Say,  where  has  our  poet  this  malady  caught, 
Or  wherefore  his  characters  thus  without  fault  ? 
Say,  was  it  that,  vainly  directing  his  view- 
To   find   out   men's   virtues,   and   finding   them 

few. 
Quite   sick   of   pursuing  each  troublesome  elf, 
He  grew  lazy  at  last,  and  drew  from  himself. 

Here   lies   David    Garrick,    describe   me   who 

can 
An    abridgment    of    all    that    was    pleasant    in 

man; 
.\s  an  actor,  confessed  without  rival  to  shine; 
As  a  wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  Hue: 
Yet,  with  talents  like  these,  and  an  excellent 

heart, 
The  man  had  his  failings,  a  dupe  to  his  art. 
Like    an    ill- judging    beauty,    his    colours    he 

spread. 
And    beplastered   with   rouge   his   own   natur:il 

red.  .  l"" 

On  the  stage  he  was  natural,  simple,  affecting; 


8  An   M.   P..  afterwards       4  A  Roman  comic  writer. 
Lord  Sydney.  •  gay   party 


EDWARD  GI15ROX 


381 


'Twas  only  that  when  he  was  oflf  he  was  actiug. 
With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his  way, 
He  turned  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a  day: 
Though  secure  of  our  hearts,  yet  confoundedly 

sick, 
If    they   were    not    his    own    by   finessing   and 

trick : 
He  cast  oflf  his  friends,  as  a  huntsman  his  pack, 
For  he  knew  when  he  pleased  he  could  whistle 

them  back. 
Of  praise  a  mere  glutton,   he  swallowed  what 

came, 
And    the   puflf   of   a   dunce,   he   mistook   it   for 

fame;  HO 

'Till  his  relish  grown  callous,  almost  to  dis- 
ease, 
Who  peppered  the  highest  was  surest  to  please. 
But  let  us  be  candid,  and  speak  out  our  mind : 
If  dunces  applauded,  he  paid  them  in  kind. 
Ye    Kenricks,    ye    Kelly s,    and    Woodfalls   -so 
i         grave,* 
What  a  commerce  was  yours,  while  you  got  and 

you  gave! 
How  did  Grub  Street'   re-echo  the  shouts  that 

you  raised. 
While  he  Mas  be-Eosciuseds  and  you  were  be- 

praised! 
But  peace  to  his  spirit,  wherever  it  flies. 
To  act  as  an  angel  and  mix  with  the  skies:  120 
Those  poets  who  owe  their  best   fame  to  his 

skill 
Shall  still  be  his  flatterers,  go  where  he  will. 
Old   Shakespeare   receive   him   with  praise   and 

with  love. 
And  Beaumonts  and  Benss  be  his  Kellys  above. 

Here  Reynolds  is  laid,  and,  to  tell  you  my 

mind. 
He  has  not  left  a  wiser  or  better  behind; 
His  pencil  was  striking,  resistless,  and  grand; 
His     manners     were     gentle,     complying,     and 

bland ;  140 

Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part. 
His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart: 
To  coxcombs  averse,  yet  most  civilly  steering; 
When   they  judged   without   skill,  he  was   still 

hard   of  hearing; 
When   they   talked   of   their  Raphaels,   Correg- 

gios,  and  stuff. 
He  shifted  his  trumpet,  and  only  took  snuff. 
By  flattery  unspoiled — * 


6  Dramatists  and  critics       s  Roscius  was  the  great- 

of  the  time.  est     Roman     comic 

7  Ilackwriterdom.  actor. 

«  "Rare   Ben"  .Tonson. 
•  Here   Death   toolc   the   pen   from   the   poet's   hand 
before  he  could  write  Ills  own  epitaph. 


EDWARD  GIBBON  (1737-1794) 

THE    FALL    OF    CONSTANTINOPLEf 

After  a  siege  of  forty  days,  the  fate  of  Con- 
stantinople could  no  longer  be  averted.  The 
diminutive  garrison  was  exhausted  by  a  double 
attack;  the  fortifications,  which  had  stood  for 
ages  against  hostile  violence,  were  dismantled 
on  all  sides  by  the  Ottoman  cannon;  many 
breaches  were  opened;  and  near  the  gate  of 
St.  Romanus  four  towers  had  been  leveled  with 
the  ground.  For  the  payment  of  his  feeble 
and  mutinous  troops,  Constantine  was  com- 
pelled to  despoil  the  churches,  with  the  promise 
of  a  fourfold  restitution;  and  his  sacrilege  of- 
fered a  new  reproach  to  the  enemies  of  the 
union.  A  spirit  of  discord  impaired  the  rem- 
nant of  the  Christian  strength;  the  Genoese 
and  Venetian  auxiliaries  asserted  the  pre- 
eminence of  their  respective  service;  and  Jus- 
tiniani  and  the  great  Duke,  whose  ambition 
was  not  extinguished  by  the  common  danger, 
accused  each  other  of  treachery  and  cowardice. 

During  the  siege  of  Constantinople,  the  words 
of  peace  and  capitulation  had  been  sometimes 
pronounced;  and  several  embassies  had  passed 
between  the  camp  and  the  city.  The  Greek 
emperor  was  humbled  by  adversity,  and  would 
have  yielded  to  any  terms  compatible  with  re- 
ligion and  royalty.  The  Turkish  sultan  was 
desirous  of  sparing  the  blood  of  his  soldiers; 
still  more  desirous  of  securing  for  his  own 
use  the  Byzantine  treasures;  and  he  accom- 
plished a  sacred  duty  in  presenting  to  the 
Gabours^  the  choice  of  circumcision,  of  tribute, 
or  of  death.  The  avarice  of  Mahomet  might 
have  been  satisfied  with  an  annual  sum  of  one 
hundred  thousand  ducats;  but  his  ambition 
grasped  the  capital  of  the  East;  to  the  prince 
he  offered  a  rich  equivalent,  to  the  peoj)le  a 
free  toleration  or  a  safe  departure;  but,  after 
some   fruitless   treaty,   he   declared   his  resolu- 


1  Giaours,  "infidels" 

t  From  The  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire, 
chapter  LXVIII.  Lonp  after  Rome  had  fallen 
before  the  incursions  of  the  barbarians,  Con- 
stantinople, the  capital  of  the  Eastern  Em- 
pire, "the  decrepit  daughter  of  ancient  Rome, 
alone  remained  standing,  and  for  ten  cen- 
turies, like  a  rocky  island,  defied  the  fury  of 
the  waves."  (Victor  Duruy.)  The  last  Chris- 
tian emperor  was  a  Greek.  Constantine 
Palaeol'ogus ;  and  when  the  city  was  finally 
besieged,  in  14.5".  by  the  Ottoman  Turks  under 
Mahomet  II.,  the  defence  was  conducted  by 
an  alliance  of  Greeks.  A'enetlans,  and  Geno- 
ese, sadly  divided  by  their  own  religious 
difference's.  Their  foremost  general  was 
Justin ianl.  a  Genoese  nobleman.  On  the  sig- 
nificance of  this  event  to  western  literature, 
see  Enfi.  Lit.,  p.  77,  and  on  Gibbon,  see  the 
same.  p.  213. 


383 


LATER  EIGHTEENTH  CENTUKY 


tion  of  finding  either  a  throne  or  a  grave  un- 
der the  walls  of  Constantinople.  A  sense  of 
honour  and  the  fear  of  universal  reproach 
forbade  Palx^ologus  to  resign  the  city  into  the 
hands  of  the  Ottomans;  and  he  determined  to 
abide  the  last  extremities  of  war.  Several 
days  were  employed  by  the  sultan  in  the 
preparations  of  the  assault ;  and  a  respite  was 
granted  by  his  favourite  science  of  astrology, 
which  had  fixed  on  the  twenty-ninth  of  May 
as  the  fortunate  and  fatal  hour.  On  the  even- 
ing of  the  twenty-seventh,  he  issued  his  final 
orders;  assembled  in  his  presence  the  military 
chiefs;  and  dispersed  his  heralds  through  the 
camp  to  proclaim  the  duty  and  the  motives  of 
the  perilous  enterprise.  Fear  is  the  first  prin- 
ciple of  a  despotic  government;  and  his 
menaces  were  expressed  in  the  Oriental  style, 
that  the  fugitives  and  deserters,  had  they  the 
wings  of  a  bird,  should  not  escape  from  his 
inexorable  justice.  The  greatest  part  of  his 
bashaws2  and  Janizaries^  were  the  offspring  of 
Christian  parents;  but  the  glories  of  the  Turk- 
ish name  were  perpetuated  by  successive  adop- 
tion; and,  in  the  gradual  change  of  individ- 
uals, the  spirit  of  a  legion,  a  regiment,  or  an 
oda*  is  kept  alive  by  imitation  and  discipline. 
In  this  holy  warfare,  the  Moslems  were  ex- 
horted to  purify  their  minds  with  prayer,  their 
bodies  with  seven  ablutions;  and  to  abstain 
from  food  till  the  close  of  the  ensuing  day,  A 
crowd  of  dervishes  visited  the  tents,  to  instil 
the  desire  of  martyrdom,  and  the  assurance 
of  spending  an  immortal  youth  amidst  the 
rivers  and  gardens  of  paradise  and  in  the 
embraces  of  the  black-eyed  virgins.!*  Yet  Ma- 
homet principally  trusted  to  the  efficacy  of 
temporal  and  visible  rewards.  A  double  pay 
was  promised  to  the  victorious  troops :  ' '  The 
city  and  the  buildings,"  said  Mahomet,  "are 
mine;  but  I  resign  to  your  valour  the  captives 
and  the  spoil,  the  treasures  of  gold  and 
beauty;  be  rich  and  be  happy.  Many  are  the 
provinces  of  my  empire:  the  intrepid  soldier 
who  first  ascends  the  walls  of  Constantinople 
shall  be  rewarded  with  the  government  of  the 
fairest  and  most  wealthy;  and  my  grati- 
tude shall  accumulate  his  honours  and  fortunes 
above  the  measure  of  his  own  hopes."  Such 
various  and  potent  motives  diffused  among  the 
Turks  a  general  ardour,  regardless  of  life  and 
impatient  for  action;  the  camp  re-echoed  with 
the  Moslem  shouts  of  "God  is  God,  there  is 
but  one  God,  and  Mahomet  is  the  apostle  of 

2  ministers  and  eenprals 

8  Ottoman   Infantry,  cspeclnlly   the   Sultan's   iKMly- 

Kuard. 
4  harem  b  hourls 


God;"  and  the  sea  and  land,  from  Galatao  to 
the  seven  towers,7  were  illuminated  by  the 
blaze  of  their  nocturnal  fires. 

Far  different  was  the  state  of  the  Chris- 
tians; who,  with  loud  and  impotent  complaints, 
deplored  the  guilt,  or  the  punishment,  of  their 
sins.  The  celestial  image  of  the  Virgin  had 
been  exposed  in  solemn  procession;  but  their 
divine  patroness  was  deaf  to  their  entreaties; 
they  accused  the  obstinacy  of  the  emperor  for 
refusing  a  timely  surrender;  anticipated  the 
horrors  of  their  fate;  and  sighed  for  the  re- 
pose and  security  of  Turkish  servitude.  The 
noblest  of  the  Greeks,  and  the  bravest  of  the 
allies,  were  summoned  to  the  palace,  to  pre- 
pare them,  on  the  evening  of  the  twenty-eighth, 
for  the  duties  and  dangers  of  the  general  as- 
sault. The  last  speech  of  Palaeologus  was  the 
funeral  oration  of  the  Eoman  Empire:  he 
promised,  he  conjured,  and  he  vainly  attempted 
to  infuse  the  hope  which  was  extinguished  in 
his  own  mind.  In  this  world  all  was  com- 
fortless and  gloomy;  and  neither  the  gos])el 
nor  the  church  have  proposed  any  conspicuous 
recompense  to  the  heroes  who  fall  in  the  serv- 
ice of  their  country.  But  the  example  of  their 
prince  and  the  confinement  of  a  siege  had 
armed  these  warriors  with  the  courage  of  de- 
spair; and  the  pathetic  scene  is  described  by 
the  feelings  of  the  historian  Phranza,8  who  was 
himself  present  at  this  mournful  assembly. 
They  wept,  they  embraced;  regardless  of  their 
families  and  fortunes,  they  devoted  their  lives; 
and  each  commander,  departing  to  his  sta- 
tion, maintained  all  night  a  vigilant  and 
anxious  watch  on  the  rampart.  The  emperor, 
and  some  faithful  companions,  entered  the 
dome  of  St.  Sophia,  which  in  a  few  hours  was 
to  be  converted  into  a  mosque;  and  devoutly 
received,  with  tears  and  prayers,  the  sacra- 
ment of  the  holy  communion.  He  re]>osed 
some  moments  in  the  palace,  which  resounded 
with  cries  and  lamentations;  solicited  the  par- 
don of  all  whom  he  might  have  injured;  and 
mounted  on  horseback  to  visit  the  guards  and 
explore  the  motions  of  the  enemy.  The  dis- 
tress and  fall  of  the  last  Constantine  are  more 
glorious  than  the  long  prosperity  of  the  By- 
zantine   CfTsars.B 

In  the  confusion  of  darkness  an  assailant 
may  sometimes  succeed;  but  in  this  great  and 
general  attack,  the  military  juilgment  and 
astrological    knowledge    of    Mahomet    advised 


0  A  nortliorn  siiburit  of 

Constantinople. 

1  The  southern  gate. 


R  rhnmherlnin  of  Pnln'- 

olOffUS. 

0  I.  e.,  the  Kmperorc  of 
the  East. 


EDWARD  GIBBON 


383 


him  to  expect  the  morning,  the  memorable 
twenty-ninth  of  May,  in  the  fourteen  hundred 
and  fifty-third  year  of  the  Christian  era.  The 
preceding  night  had  been  strenuously  em- 
ployed: the  troops,  the  cannon,  and  the  fas- 
oinesio  were  advanced  to  the  edge  of  the  ditch, 
which,  in  many  parts,  presented  a  smooth  and 
level  passage  to  the  breach;  and  his  fourscore 
galleys  almost  touched,  with  the  prows  and 
their  scaling-ladders,  the  less  defensible  walls 
of  the  harbour.  Under  pain  of  death,  silence 
was  enjoined;  but  the  physical  laws  of  mo- 
tion and  sound  are  not  obedient  to  discipline 
or  fear;  each  individual  might  suppress  his 
voice  and  measure  his  footsteps;  but  the  march 
aud  labour  of  thousands  must  inevitably  pro- 
duce a  strange  confusion  of  dissonant  clam- 
ours, which  reached  the  ears  of  the  watchmen 
of  the  towers.  At  daybreak,  without  the  cus- 
tomary signal  of  the  morning  gun,  the  Turks 
assaulted  the  city  by  sea  and  land;  and  the 
similitude  of  a  twined  or  twisted  thread  has 
been  applied  to  the  closeness  and  continuity  of 
their  line  of  attack.  The  foremost  ranks  con- 
sisted of  the  refuse  of  the  host,  a  voluntary 
crowd,  who  fought  without  order  or  command; 
of  the  feebleness  of  age  or  childhood,  of  peas- 
ants and  vagrants,  and  of  all  who  had  joined 
the  camp  in  the  blind  hope  of  plunder  and 
martyrdom.  The  common  impulse  drove  them 
onward  to  the  wall;  the  most  audacious  to 
climb  were  instantly  precipitated;  and  not-  a 
dart,  not  a  bullet,  of  the  Christians  was  idly 
wasted  on  the  accumulated  throng.  But  their 
strength  and  ammunition  were  exhausted  in 
this  laborious  defense;  the  ditch  was  filled 
with  the  bodies  of  the  slain;  they  supported 
the  footsteps  of  their  companions;  and  of 
this  devoted  vanguard  the  death  was  more  serv- 
iceable than  the  life.  Under  their  respective 
bashaws  and  sanjaks,"  the  troops  of  Anatolia 
and  Eomania  were  successively  led  to  the 
charge:  their  progress  was  various  and  doubt- 
ful; but,  after  a  conflict  of  two  hours,  the 
Greeks  still  maintained  and  improved  their 
advantage;  and  the  voice  of  the  emperor  was 
heard,  encouraging  his  soldiers  to  achieve,  by 
a  last  effort,  the  deliverance  of  their  country. 
In  th  b  fatal  moment  the  Janizaries  arose, 
fresh,  vigorous  and  invincible.  The  sultan 
himself  on  horseback,  with  an  iron  mace  in 
liis  hand,  was  the  spectator  and  judge  of  their 
valour;  he  was  surrounded  by  ten  thousand 
of  his  domestic  troops,  whom  he  reserved  for 
the  decisive   occasion ;    and   the   tide  of  Tiattle 

10  bundles  of  sticks  for  fillinf?  ditches 

11  jirovincial  frovcrnors 


was  directed  and  impelled  by  his  voice  and 
eye.  His  numerous  ministers  of  justice  were 
posted  behind  the  line,  to  urge,  to  restrain,  and 
to  punish ;  and,  if  danger  was  in  the  front, 
shame  and  inevitable  death  were  in  the  rear  of 
the  fugitives.  The  cries  of  fear  and  of  pain 
were  drowned  in  the  martial  music  of  drums, 
trumpets,  and  attaballs;i2  and  experience  has 
proved  that  the  mechanical  operation  of  sounds, 
by  quickening  the  circulation  of  the  blood  and 
spirits,  will  act  on  the  human  machine  more 
forcibly  than  the  eloquence  of  reason  and 
honour.  From  the  lines,  the  galleys,  and  the 
bridge,  the  Ottoman  artillery  thundered  on  all 
sides;  and  the  camp  and  city,  the  Greeks  and 
the  Turks,  were  involved  in  a  cloud  of  smoke, 
which  could  only  be  dispelled  by  the  final  de- 
liverance or  destruction  of  the  Roman  empire. 
The  single  combats  of  the  heroes  of  history 
or  fable  amuse  our  fancy  and  engage  our  af- 
fections; the  skillful  evolutions  of  war  may 
inform  the  mind,  and  improve  a  necessary 
though"  pernicious,  science.  But,  in  the  uniform 
and  odious  pictures  of  a  general  assault,  all 
is  blood,  and  horror,  and  confusion;  nor  shall 
I  strive,  at  the  distance  of  three  centuries  and 
a  thousand  miles,  to  delineate  a  scene  of  which 
there  could  be  no  spectators,  and  of  which  the 
actors  themselves,  were  incapable  of  forming 
any  just  or  adequate  idea. 

The  immediate  loss  of  Constantinople  may  be 
ascribed  to  the  bullet,  or  arrow,  which  pierced 
the  gauntlet  of  John  Justiniani.  The  sight  of 
his  blood,  and  the  exquisite  pain,  appalled  the 
courage  of  the  chief,  whose  arms  and  counsels 
were  the  firmest  rampart  of  the  city.  As  he 
withdrew  from  his  station  in  quest  of  a  sur- 
geon, his  flight  was  perceived  and  stopped  by 
the  indefatigable  emperor.  "Your  wound," 
exclaimed  Palaeologus,  "is  slight;  the  danger 
is  pressing;  your  presence  is  necessary;  and 
whither  will  you  retire?"  "I  will  retire," 
said  the  trembling  Genoese,  "by  the  same  road 
which  God  has  opened  to  the  Turks;"  and  at 
these  words  he  hastily  passed  through  one  of 
the  breaches  of  the  inner  wall.  By  this  pusil- 
lanimous act  he  stained  the  honours  of  a  mili- 
tary life;  and  the  few  days  which  he  survived 
in  Galata,  or  the  isle  of  Chios,  were  embittered 
by  his  own  and  the  public  reproach.  His  ex- 
ample was  imitated  by  the  greatest  part  of  the 
Latin  auxiliaries,  and  the  defence  began  to 
slacken  when  the  attack  was  pressed  with  re- 
doubled vigour.  The  number  of  the  Ottomans 
was  fifty,  perhaps  a  hundred,  times  superior  to 

12  kettlo-drums 


384 


LATER  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


that  of  the  Christians;   the  double  walls  were 
reduced  by  the  cannou  to  a  heap  of  ruins;  in  a 
circuit   of  several   miles,   some  places   must   be 
found    more    easy    of    access    or    more    feebly 
guarded;  and,  if  the  besiegers  could  penetrate 
in  a  single  point,  the  whole  city  was  irrecover- 
ably lost.     The  first  who  deserved  the  sultan's 
reward  was  Hassan,  the  Janizary,  of  gigantic 
stature    and    strength.      With    his   scimetar    in 
one  hand  and  his  buckler  in  the  other,  he  as- 
cended the  outward  fortification;   of  the  thirty 
Janizaries,   who    were   emulous   of   his   valour, 
eighteen  perished  in  the  bold  adventure.     Has- 
san   and    his    twelve    companions    had    reached 
the  summit:    the  giant  was  precipitated   from 
the   rampart;    he   rose   on   one   knee,   and  was 
again   oppressed   by   a    shower     of    darts     and 
stones.     But   his  .success   had   proved   that   the 
achievement  was  possible:  the  walls  and  towers 
were  instantly  covered  with  a  swarm  of  Turks; 
and  the  Greeks,   now  driven  from  the  vantage 
ground,  were  overwhelmed  by  increasing  multi- 
tudes.    Amidst   these   multitudes,   the   emperor, 
who  accomplished  all  the  duties  of  a  general 
and  a  soldier,  was  long  seen,  and  finally  lost. 
The  nobles  who  fought  round  his  person  sus- 
tained,   till    their    last    breath,    the    honourable 
names   of   Palajologus   and   Cantacuzene:'-   his 
mournful     exclamation     was     heard,     ' '  Cannot 
there    be    found   a    Christian     to     cut    otf    my  ] 
head?"  and  his  last  fear  was  that  of  falling 
alive  into  the  hands  of  the  infidels.     The  pru- 
dent despair  of  Coustantine  cast  away  the  pur- 
ple; amidst  the  tumult,  he  fell  by  an  unknown 
hand,  and  his  body  was  buried  under  a  moun- 
tain of  the  slain.     After  his  death,  resistance 
and    order    were    no    more;    the    Greeks    fled 
towards  the  city;  and  many  were  pressed  and 
stifled   in  the   narrow   pass  of  the  gate  of  St. 
Romanus.    The  victorious  Turks  rushed  through 
the  breaches  of  the  inner  wall;   and,  as  they 
advanced     into     the    streets,    they    were    soon 
joined   by   their   brethren,  who   had   forced  the 
gate   Phenar   on   the   side   of   the   harbour.     In 
the   first   heat  of  the  pursuit,  about  two  thou- 
sand   Christians    were    put    to    the    sword;    but 
avarice    soon    jirevaiied    over   cruelty;    and    the 
victors   acknowledged    that    they    should    imme- 
diately   have    given    quarter,    if    the    valour    of 
the  emperor  and  his  choseiv  bands  had  not  pre- 
pared  them    for   a   similar   oj)po8ition   in   every 
jtart  of  the  capital.     Tn  was  thus,  after  a  siege 
of  fifty-three  days,  that   Constantinople,  which 
had   defied   the   jtower   of   Chosroes.i*   the   Cha- 

18  The  naracH  of  scvpral  Byzantine  pmperors. 
14  A    PerHlan    WIdk.    who    In    th<>    Hovcnth    contnry 
rM'«l«'K('(l   Constnntlnoplp   for   ton   yearn. 


gan,i5  and  the  caliphs,i«  was  irretrievably  sub- 
dued by  the  arms  of  Mahomet  the  Second.  Hot 
empire  only  had  been  subverted  by  the  Latins; 
her  religion  was  trampled  in  the  dust  by  the 
Moslem  conquerors. 


GILBERT  WHITE  (1720-1793) 

From   THE  NATURAL  HISTORY  OF 
SELBORNE 

Selborne,*  Nov.  23,  1773. 
To   the   Honourable   Daines   Barrington. 
Dear  Sir, 

in  obedience  to  your  injunctions  I  sit  down 
to  give  you  some  account  of  the  house  martin 
or  martlet;  and,  if  my  monography  of  this  lit- 
tle domestic  and  familiar  bird  should  happen 
to  meet  with  your  approbation,  I  may  probably 
soon  extend  my  inquiries  to  the  rest  of  tlie 
British  Hirundines — the  swallow,  the  swift, 
and  the  bank  martin. 

A  few  house  martins  begin  to  appear  about 
the  16th  of  April;  usually  some  few  days  later 
than  the  swallow.     For  some  time  after  they 
appear,  the  Hinmdinfs  in  general  pay  no  at- 
tention to  the  business  of  nidification,  but  play 
and    sport    about    either    to    recruit    from    the 
fatigue   of   their   journey,   if   they   do   migrate 
at  all,  or  else  that  their  blood  may  recover  its 
true  tone  and  texture  after  it  has  been  so  long 
I  benumbed  by  the  severities  of  winter.    About 
the  middle  of  May,  if  the  weather  be  fine,  the 
martin  begins  to  think  in  earnest  of  providing 
a  mansion   for  its  family.     Tlie  crust  or  shell 
of  this  nest  seems  to  be  formed  of  such   dirl 
or  loam  as  comes  most  readily  to  hand,  and  i* 
tempered  and  wrought  together  with  little  bits, 
of    broken    straws    to    render    it    tough    and 
tenacious.     As  this  bird  often  builds  against  a 
perpendicular     wall     without     any     projecting 
ledge  under,  it  requires  its  utmost  eflforts  to  get 
the  first  foundation  firmly  fixed,  so  that  it  may 
safely  carry  the  superstructure.     On  this  occa- 
sion  the   bird   not   only   clings   with   its   claws, 
but  partly  supports  itself  by  strongly  inclining 
its   tail   against   the   wall,   making   that   a    ful- 
crum ;  and  thus  steadied,  it  works  and  plasters 
the    materials    into    the    face    of    the   brick    or 
stone.     But  then,  that  this  work  may  not,  while 
it  is  soft  and  green,  pull  itself  down  by  its  own 

ir.  Title  of  the  king  of  the  Avars,  ally  of  Chosroes. 
i«  Ottoman  sovereigns. 

•  A    parish   in    Hampshire.    Kmiiand.   where   NVhlte 
lived    and    made    the    oliservntlons    In    natural 
history     which     were     (•ommunlcated     to     Ills 
friends.    Thomas    I'ennant    and    Haines    Mm 
ilnRton. 


GILBERT   WHITE 


385 


rt fight,  the  provident  architect  has  prudence 
;ind  forbearance  enough  not  to  advance  her 
\\ork  too  fast;  but  by  building  only  in  the 
morning,  and  by  dedicating  the  rest  of  the  day 
i(.  food  and  amusement,  gives  it  sufficient  time 
to  dry  and  harden.  About  half  an  inch  seems 
to  be  a  sufficient  layer  for  a  day.  Thus  care- 
tul  workmen  when  they  build  mud  walls  (in- 
fcirnied  at  first  perhaps  by  this  little  bird) 
raise  but  a  moderate  layer  at  a  time,  and  then 
desist;  lest  the  work  should  become  top-heavy, 
and  so  be  ruined  by  its  own  weight.  By  this 
method  in  about  ten  or  twelve  days  is  formed 
an  hemispheric  nest  with  a  small  aperture 
towards  the  top,  strong,  compact,  and  warm; 
and  perfectly  fitted  for  all  the  purposes  for 
which  it  was  intended.  But  then  nothing  is 
more  common  than  for  the  house  sparrow,  as 
soon  as  the  shell  is  finished,  to  seize  on  it  as 
its  own,  to  eject  the  owner,  and  to  line  it  after 
its  own  manner. 

After  so  much  labour  is  bestowed  in  erecting 
a  mansion,  as  Nature  seldom  Avorks  in  vain, 
martins  will  breed  on  for  several  years  together 
in  the  same  nest,  where  it  happens  to  be  well 
sheltered  and  secure  from  the  injuries  of 
•weather.  The  shell  or  crust  of  the  nest  is  a  sort 
of  rustic-work  full  of  knobs  and  protuberances 
on  the  outside:  nor  is  the  inside  of  those  that  I 
have  examined  smoothed  with  any  exactness  at  j 
all ;  but  is  rendered  soft  and  warm,  and  fit  for 
incubation,  by  a  lining  of  small  straws,  grasses, 
and  feathers;  and  sometimes  by  a  bed  of  nios-s 
interwoven  with  wool.  In  this  nest  the  hen 
lays  from  three  t  >  five  Avhite  eggs.     .     . 

As  the  young  of  small  birds  presently  ar- 
rive at  their  liclilia,  or  full  growth,  they  soon 
become  impatient  of  confinement,  and  sit  all 
day  with  their  heads  out  at  the  orifice,  Avhere 
the  dams,  by  clinging  to  the  nest,  supply  them 
with  food  from  morning  to  night.  For  a  time 
the  young  are  fed  on  the  wing  by  their  parents; 
but  the  feat  is  done  by  so  quick  and  almost 
imperceptible  a  sleight,  that  a  person  must 
have  attended  very  exactly  to  their  motions 
before  he  would  be  able  to  perceive  it. 

As  soon  as  the  young  are  able  to  shift  for 
themselves,  the  dams  immediately  turn  their 
thoughts  to  the  business  of  a  second  brood: 
while  the  first  flight,  shaken  off  and  rejected 
by  their  nurses,  congregate  in  great  flocks,  and 
are  the  birds  that  are  seen  clustering  and  hov- 
ering on  sunny  mornings  and  evenings  round 
towers  and  steeples,  and  on  the  roofs  of 
churches  and  houses.  These  eongregatings 
usually  begin  to  take  place  about  the  first  week 
in  August ;  and  therefore  we  may  conclude 
that  by  that  time  the  first  flight  is  pretty  well 


over.  The  young  of  this  species  do  not  quit 
their  abodes  all  together,  but  the  more  forward 
birds  get  abroad  some  days  before  the  rest. 
These,  approaching  the  eaves  of  buildings,  and 
playing  about  before  them,  make  people  think 
that  several  old  ones  attend  one  nest.  They 
are  often  capricious  in  fixing  on  a  nesting- 
place,  beginning  many  edifices,  and  leaving 
them  unfinished;  but  when  once  a  nest  is  com- 
pleted in  a  sheltered  i)lace,  it  serves  for  sev- 
eral seasons.  Those  which  breed  in  a  ready- 
finished  house  get  the  start,  in  hatching,  of 
those  that  build  new,  by  ten  days  or  a  fort- 
night. These  industrioys  artificers  are  at  their 
labours  in  the  long  days  before  four  in  the 
morning:  when  they  fix  their  materials,  they 
plaster  them  on  with  their  chins,  moving  tlieir 
heads  with  a  quick  vibratory  motion.  They 
dip  and  wash  as  they  fly  sometimes  in  very  hot 
weather,  but  not  so  frequentl}'  as  swallows. 
It  has  been  observed  that  martins  usually  build 
to  a  north-east  or  north-west  aspect,  that  the 
heat  of  the  sun  may  not  crack  and  destroy 
their  nests:  but  instances  are  also  remembered 
where  they  bred  for  many- years  in  vast  abun- 
dance in  a  hot  stifled  inn-yard,  against  a  wall 
facing  to  the  south. 

Birds  in  general  are  wise  in  their  choice  of 
situation:  but  in  this  neighbourhood,  every 
summer,  is  seen  a  strong  proof  to  the  con- 
trary at  a  house  without  eaves  in  an  exposed 
district  where  some  martins  build  year  by  year 
in  the  corners  of  the  windows.  But,  as  tlic 
corners  of  these  windows  (which  face  to  the 
south-east  and  south-west)  are  too  shallow,  the 
nests  are  washed  down  every  hard  rain;  and 
yet  these  birds  drudge  on  to  no  purpose  from 
summer  to  summer,  without  changing  their 
aspect  or  house.  It  is  a  piteous  sight  to  see 
them  labouring  when  half  their  nest  is  washed 
away,  and  bringing  dirt — ''generis  lapsi  sar- 
cire  ruinas."^  Thus  is  instinct  a  most  won- 
derful unequal  faculty,  in  some  instances  so 
much  above  reason,  in  other  respects  so  far 
below  it!  Martins  love  to  frequent  towns, 
especially  if  there  are  great  lakes  and  rivers 
at  hand;  nay,  they  even  affect  the  close  air 
of  London.  And  I  have  not  only  seen  them 
nesting  in  the  Borough. =  but  even  in  the  Strand 
and  Fleet  Street ;  but  then  it  was  obvious  from 
the  dinginess  of  their  aspect  that  their  feathers 
partook  of  the  filth  of  that  sooty  atmosphere. 
j  ^lartins  are  by  far  the  least  agile  of  the  four 
species;    their   wings   and   tails   are   short,   and 

i"To  repair  the  wreck  2  A      street      extendlna: 

of    the    fallen  north  from  London 

house."          Virgil :  Bridge. 
Georgics,  iv.  249. 


386 


LATER  EIGHTEENTH  CENTUBY 


therefore  they  are  not  capable  of  such  surpris- 
ing turns  and  quick  and  glancing  evolutions 
as  the  swallow.  Accordingly  they  make  use 
of  a  placid  easy  motion  in  a  middle  region  of 
the  air,  seldom  mounting  to  any  great  height, 
and  never  sweeping  long  together  over  the 
surface  of  the  ground  or  water.  They  do  not 
wander  far  for  food,  but  affect  sheltered  dis- 
tricts, over  some  lake,  or  under  some  hanging 
T^ood,  or  in  some  hollow  vale,  especially  in 
windy  weather.  They  breed  the  latest  of  all 
the  swallow  kind;  in  1772  they  had  nestlings  on 
to  October  the  21st,  and  are  never  without  un- 
fledged young  as  late  as  Michaelmas.3 

As  the  summer  declines,  the  congregating 
flocks  increase  in  numbers  daily,  by  the  con- 
stant accession  of  the  second  broods;  till  at 
last  they  swarm  in  myriads  upon  myriads  round 
the  villages  on  the  Thames,  darkening  the  face 
of  the  sky  as  they  frequent  the  aits*  of  that 
river  where  they  roost.  They  retire  (the  bulk  of 
them,  I  mean)  in  vast  flocks  together,  about  the 
beginning  of  October:  but  have  appeared  of  late 
years  in  a  considerable  flight  in  this  neighbour- 
hood, for  one  day  or  two,  as  late  as  November 
the  3rd  and  6th  after  they  were  supposed  to 
have  been  gone  for  more  than  a  fortnight. 
They  therefore  withdraw  with  us  the  latest  of 
any  species.  Unless  these  birds  are  very  short- 
lived indeed,  or  unless  they  do  not  return  to 
the  district  where  they  are  bred,  they  must 
undergo  vast  devastations  somehow,  and  some- 
where; for  the  birds  that  return  yearly  bear 
no  manner  of  proportion  to  the  birds  that 
retire. 

House  martins  are  distinguished  from  their 
congeners  by  having  their  legs  covered  with 
soft  downy  feathers  down  to  their  toes.  They 
are  no  songsters;  but  twitter  in  a  pretty  in- 
ward soft  manner  in  their  nests.  During  the 
time  of  breeding,  they  are  often  greatly 
molested  with  fleas. — Letter  XVI   (or  LV). 

Selborne,  April  21,  1780. 
Dear  Sir, 

The  old  Sussex  tortoise,  that  I  have  men- 
tioned to  you  so  often,  is  become  my  property. 
I  dug  it  out  of  its  winter  dormitory  in  March 
last,  when  it  was  enough  awakened  to  express 
its  resentment  by  hi&sing;  and,  packing  it  in 
a  box  with  earth,  carried  it  eighty  miles  in 
post  chaises.  The  rattle  and  hurry  of  the 
journey  so  perfectly  roused  it,  that,  when  I 
turned  it  out  on  a  border,  it  walked  twice  down 
to  the  bottom  of  my  garden:  however,  in  the 
evening,  the  weather  being  cold,  it  buried  it- 


8  Sept.  20. 


4  Islets 


self  in  the  loose  mould,  and  continues  still  con- 
cealed. 

As  it  will  be  under  my  eye,  I  shall  now  have 
an  opportunity  of  enlarging  my  observations 
on  its  mode  of  life  and  propensities;  and  per- 
ceive already  that,  towards  the  time  of  coming 
forth,  it  opens  a  breathing  place  in  the  ground 
near  its  head,  requiring,  I  conclude,  a  freer 
respiration  as  it  becomes  more  alive.  This 
creature  not  only  goes  under  the  earth  from 
the  middle  of  November  to  the  middle  of  April, 
but  sleeps  great  part  of  the  summer ;  for  it 
goes  to  bed  in  the  longest  days  at  four  in  the 
afternoon,  and  often  does  not  stir  in  the  morn- 
ing till  late.  Besides,  it  retires  to  rest  for 
every  shower;  and  does  not  move  at  all  in  v.ct 
days. 

When  one  reflects  on  the  state  of  this  strange 
being,  it  is  a  matter  of  wonder  to  find  that 
Providence  should  bestow  such  a  profusion  of 
days,  such  a  seeming  waste  of  longevity,  on  a 
reptile  that  appears  to  relish  it  so  little  as  to 
squander  more  than  two-thirds  of  its  existence 
in  a  joyless  stupor,  and  be  lost  to  all  sensation 
for  months  together  in  the  profoundest  of 
slumbers. 

While  I  was  writing  this  letter,  a  moist  and 
warm  afternoon,  with  the  thermometer  at  50,. 
brought  forth  troops  of  shell-snails;  and,  at 
the  same  juncture,  the  tortoise  heaved  up  the 
mould  and  put  out  its  head ;  and  the  next 
morning  came  forth,  as  it  were  raised  from  the 
dead;  and  walked  about  till  four  in  the  after- 
noon. This  was  a  curious  coincidence!  a  very 
amusing  occurrence!  to  see  such  a  similarity 
of  feelings  between  the  two  phcreoikoW  for  so 
the  Greeks  call  both  the  shell-snail  and  the  tor- 
toise.— Letter  L  (or  XCII). 

More   Particulars    'Respecting   the   Old  Family 
Tortoise. 

Because  we  call  this  creature  an  abject  rep- 
tile, we  are  too  apt  to  undervalue  his  abilities, 
and  depreciate  his  powers  of  instinct.  Yet 
he  is,  as  Mr.  Pope  says  of  his  lord,* 

*  Much  too  wise  to  walk  into  a  well : ' 

and  has  so  much  discernment  as  not  to  fall 
down  a  haha;5  but  to  stop  and  withdraw  from 
the  brink  with  the  readiest  precaution. 

Though  he  loves  warm  weather,  he  avoids  the 
hot  sun;  because  his  thick  shell,  when  once 
heated,  would,  as  the  poet  says  of  solid  armour, 
'scald  with  safety.'  He  therefore  spends  the 
more    sultry    hours    under    the    umbrella    of   a 

.")  A  \u'6iif  In   a  «lltch. 

•  Imitations  of  Horace,  II,  11,  191. 


EDMUND  BURKE 


387 


large  cabbage  leaf,  or  amidst  the  waving  for- 
ests of  an  asparagus  bed. 

But  as  he  avoids  heat  in  the  summer,  so,  in 
the  decline  of  the  year,  he  improves  the  faint 
autumnal  beams,  by  getting  within  the  reflec- 
tion of  a  fruit-wall:  and,  though  he  never  has 
read  that  planes  inclining  to  the  horizon  re- 
ceive a  greater  share  of  warmth,  he  inclines 
his  shell  by  tilting  it  against  the  wall,  to  col- 
lect and  admit  every  feeble  ray. 

Pitiable  seems  the  condition  of  this  poor 
embarrassed  reptile;  to  be  cased  in  a  suit  of 
ponderous  armour,  which  he  cannot  lay  aside ; 
to  be  imprisoned,  as  it  were,  within  his  own 
shell,  must  preclude,  we  should  suppose,  all 
activity  and  disposition  for  enterprise.  Yet 
there  is  a  season  of  the  year  (usually  the  be- 
ginning of  June)  when  his  exertions  are  re- 
markable. He  then  walks  on  tiptoe,  and  is 
stirring  by  five  in  the  morning ;  and,  traversing 
the  garden,  examines  every  wicket  and  inter- 
stice in  the  fences,  through  which  he  will  es- 
cape if  possible;  and  often  has  eluded  the  care 
of  the  gardener,  and  wandered  to  some  distant 
field. — The  Antiquities  of  Selborne. 

EDMUND  BURKE  (1729-1797) 

From  the  SPEECH  AT  BRISTOL,  1780* 

Since  you  have  suffered  me  to  trouble  you 
so  much  on  this  subject,  permit  me,  gentlemen, 
to  detain  you  a  little  longer.  I  am  indeed 
most  solicitous  to  give  you  perfect  satisfaction. 
I  find  there  are  some  of  a  better  and  softer 
nature  than  the  persons  with  whom  I  have 
supposed  myself  in  debate,  who  neither  think 
ill  of  the  Act  of  Relief,  nor  by  any  means  de- 
sire the  repeal;  yet  who,  not  accusing  but 
lamenting  what  was  done,  on  account  of  the 
consequences,  have  frequently  expressed  their 
wish  that  the  late  Act  had  never  been  made. 
Some  of  this  description,  and  persons  of  worth, 
I  have  met  with  in  this  city.  They  conceive 
that  the  prejudices,  whatever  they  might  be, 
of  a  large  part  of  the  people  ought  not  to 
have  been  shocked;  that  their  opinions  ought 
to  have  been  previously  taken,  and  much  at- 
tended to;  and  that  thereby  the  late  horrid 
scenes  might  have  been  prevented. 

•  In  1699  a  most  tyrannical  law  against  Roman 
Catholics  had  been  passed.  The  abolition  of 
this  law  in  1778.  by  the  Act  of  Relief,  aroused 
some  fanatical  opposition  expressed  in  cries 
of  "No  Popery"  and  in  the  Lord  George 
Gordon  riots.  Burlie  is  defending  before  his 
constituents  his  support  of  the  repeal.  Sir 
Samuel  Romilly  called  the  entire  speech  "per- 
haps the  first  piece  of  oratory  in  our  lan- 
guage." 


I  confess  my  notions  are  widely  different, 
and  I  never  was  less  sorry  for  any  action  of 
my  life.  I  like  the  bill  the  better  on  account 
of  the  events  of  all  kinds  that  followed  it.  It 
relieved  the  real  sufferers;  it  strengthened  the 
state;  and,  by  the  disorders  that  ensued,  we  had 
clear  evidence  that  there  lurked  a  temper  some- 
where which  ought  not  to  be  fostered  by  the 
laws.  No  ill  consequences  whatever  could  be 
attributed  to  the  Act  itself.  We  knew  before- 
hand, or  we  were  poorly  instructed,  that  tolera- 
tion is  odious  to  the  intolerant;  freedom  to  op- 
pressors; property  to  robbers;  and  all  kinds 
and  degrees  of  prosperity  to  the  envious.  We 
knew  that  all  these  kinds  of  men  would  gladly 
gratify  their  evil  dispositions  under  the  sane 
tion  of  law  and  religion  if  they  could;  if  they 
could  not,  yet,  to  make  way  to  their  objects, 
they  would  do  their  utmost  to  subvert  all  re- 
ligion and  all  law.  This  we  certainly  knew; 
but,  knowing  this,  is  there  any  reason,  because 
thieves  break  in  and  steal,  and  thus  bring 
detriment  to  you,  and  draw  ruin  on  themselves, 
that  I  am  to  be  sorry  that  you  are  in  the  pos- 
session of  shops,  and  of  warehouses,  and  of 
wholesome  laws  to  protect  them  I  Are  you  to 
build  no  houses  because  desperate  men  may 
pull  them  down  upon  their  own  heads?  Or, 
if  a  malignant  wretch  will  cut  his  own  throat 
because  he  sees  you  give  alms  to  the  necessi- 
tous and  deserving,  shall  his  destruction  be 
attributed  to  your  charity,  and  not  to  his  own 
deplorable  madness?  If  we  repent  of  our  good 
actions,  what,  I  pray  you,  is  left  for  our  faults 
and  follies?  It  is  not  the  beneficence  of  the 
laws,  it  is  the  unnatural  temper,  which  benefi- 
cence can  fret  and  sour,  that  is  to  be  lamented. 
It  is  this  temper  which,  by  all  rational  means, 
ought  to  be  sweetened  and  corrected.  If  fro- 
ward  men  should  refuse  this  cure,  can  they 
vitiate  anything  but  themselves?  Does  evil  so 
react  upon  good  as  not  only  to  retard  its  mo- 
tion, but  to  change  its  nature?  If  it  can  so 
operate,  then  good  men  will  always  be  in  the 
power  of  the  bad;  and  virtue,  by  a  dreadful 
reverse  of  order,  must  lie  under  perpetual  sub- 
jection and  bondage  to  vice. 

As  to  the  opinion  of  the  people,  which  some 
think,  in  such  cases,  is  to  be  implicitly  obeyed. 
— Nearly  two  years'  tranquillity  which  fol- 
lowed the  Act,  and  its  instant  imitation  in  Ire- 
land, proved  abundantly  that  the  late  horrible 
spirit  was,  in  a  great  measure,  the  effect  of 
insidious  art,  and  perverse  industry,  and  gross 
misrepresentation.  But  suppose  that  the  dis- 
like had  been  much  more  deliberate  and  much 
more    general    than    I    am    persuaded    it    was. 


388 


LATEK   KlCllTtEMH   CEATUKY 


When  we  know  that  the  opinions  of  even  the 
greatest  multitudes  are  the  standard  of  recti- 
tude, I  shall  think  myself  obliged  to  make 
those  opinions  the  masters  of  my  conscience; 
but  if  it  may  be  doubted  whether  Omnip- 
otence itself  is  competent  to  alter  the  essen- 
tial constitution  of  right  and  wrong,  sure  I 
am  that  such  thinys  as  they  and  I  are  pos- 
sessed of  no  such  power.  No  man  carries 
further  than  I  do  the  policy  of  making  govern- 
ment i)leasing  to  the  people;  but  the  Avidest 
range  of  this  politic  complaisance  is  confined 
within  the  limits  of  justice.  I  would  not  only 
consult  the  interest  of  the  people,  but  I  would 
cheerfully  gratify  their  humours.  We  are  all 
a  sort  of  children  that  must  be  soothed  and 
managed.  I  think  I  am  not  austere  or  formal 
in  my  nature.  I  would  bear,  I  would  even  my- 
self play  my  part  in,  any  innocent  buffooneries 
to  divert  them ;  but  I  never  will  act  the  tyrant 
for  their  amusement.  If  they  will  mix  malice 
in  their  sports,  1  shall  never  consent  to  throw 
them  any  living  sentient  creature  whatsoever, 
no,  not  so  much  as  a  kitling,  to  torment. 

"But,  if  I  profess  all  this  impolitic  stub- 
bornness, I  may  chance  never  to  be  elected  into 
Parliament. "  It  is  certainly  not  pleasing  to 
be  put  out  of  the  public  service;  but  I  wish 
to  be  a  member  of  Parliament  to  have  my 
share  of  doing  good  and  resisting  evil.  It 
would  therefore  be  absurd  to  renounce  my  ob- 
jects in  order  to  obtain  my  seat.  I  deceive 
myself  indeed  most  grossly  if  I  had  not  much 
rather  pass  the  remainder  of  my  life  hidden  in 
the  recesses  of  the  deepest  obscurity,  feeding 
my  mind  even  with  the  visions  and  imagina- 
tions of  such  things,  than  to  be  placed  on  the 
most  splendid  throne  of  the  universe,  tanta- 
lized with  a  denial  of  the  practice  of  all  which 
can  make  the  greatest  situation  any  other  than 
the  greatest  curse.  Gentlemen,  I  have  had  my 
day.  I  can  never  sufficiently  express  my  grati- 
tude to  you  for  having  set  me  in  a  place  where- 
in I  could  lend  the  slightest  help  to  great  and 
laudable  designs.  If  I  have  had  my  share  in 
any  measure  giving  quiet  to  private  property 
and  private  conscience;  if  by  my  vote  I  have 
aided  in  securing  to  families  the  best  posses- 
sion, peace;  if  I  have  joined  in  reconciling 
kings  to  their  subjects,  and  subjects  to  their 
prince;  if  1  have  assisted  to  loosen  the  foreign 
holdings  of  the  citizen,  and  taught  him  to  look 
for  his  protection  to  the  laws  of  his  country, 
and  for  his  comfort  to  the  good-will  of  his 
countrymen;  if  I  have  thus  taken  my  part  with 
the  best  of  men  in  the  best  of  their  actions,  I 
can   shut    the    book — I    might   wish    to    read    a 


page  or  two  more,  but  this  is  enough   for  my 
measure — I   ha\e  not  lived  in  vain. 

And  now,  gentlemen,  on  this  serious  day, 
when  I  come,  as  it  were,  to  make  up  my  ac- 
count with  you,  let  me  take  to  myself  some 
degree  of  honest  pride  on  the  nature  of  the 
charges  that  are  against  me.  I  do  not  here 
stand  before  you  accused  of  venalit}',  or  of 
neglect  of  duty.  It  is  not  said  that,  in  the 
long  period  of  my  service,  I  have  in  a  single 
instance  sacrificed  the  slightest  of  your  inter- 
ests to  my  ambition,  or  to  my  fortune.  It  is 
not  alleged  that,  to  gratify  any  anger  or  re- 
venge of  my  own  or  of  my  party,  I  have  had 
a  share  in  wronging  or  oppressing  any  de- 
scription of  men,  or  any  one  man  ill  any  de- 
scription. No!  the  charges  against  me  are  all 
of  one  kind:  that  I  have  pushed  the  principles 
of  general  justice  and  benevolence  too  far, 
further  than  a  cautious  policy  would  warrant, 
and  further  than  the  opinions  of  many  would 
go  along  with  me.  In  every  accident  which 
may  happen  through  life — in  pain,  in  sorrow, 
in  depression  and  distress — I  will  call  to  mind 
this   accusation,   and   be   comforted. 

From    BEFLECTIONS    ON    THE    KEVOLU- 
TION  IN  FRANCE* 

Yielding  to  reasons,  at  least  as  forcible  as 
those  which  were  so  delicately  urged  in  the 
compliment  on  the  new  year,t  the  king  of 
France  will  probably  endeavour  to  forget  these 
events  and  that  compliment.  But  history,  who 
keeps  a  durable  record  of  all  our  acts,  and 
exercises  her  awful  censure  over  the  proceed- 
ings of  all  sorts  of  sovereigns,  will  not  forget 
cither  those  events,  or  the  era  of  this  liberal 
refinement!  in  the  intercourse  of  mankind. 
History  will  record,  that  on  the  morning  of  the 
6th  of  October,  1789,  the  king  and  queen  of 
France,  after  a  day  of  confusion,  alarm,  dis- 
may, and  slaughter,  lay  down,  under  the 
pledged  security  of  public  faith,  to  indulge 
nature  in  a  few  hours  of  respite,  and  troubled, 
melancholy  rejiose.  From  this  sleep  the  queen 
was  first  startled  by  the  voice  of  the  sentinel 
at  her  door,  who  cried  out  to  her  to  save  her- 
self by  flight — that  this  was  the  last  proof  of 

1  Spoken  saroa.«HcalI.v :  see  beginning  of  third 
par.igrapb. 

•  These  reflections  grew  out  of  a  correspondence 
which  Burke  had  with  "a  very  young  gentle- 
niau  of  Taris."  and  they  retain  the  tone  of  a 
personal  letter.    They  wore  pubiished  in  1700. 

t  An  address  from  the  Assembly  had  l>oen  pre- 
scnied  to  the  King  and  Queen  Jan.  3.  17!>0, 
feilcltatlng  them  upon  the  new  year  and 
begging  them  to  forget  the  past  in  view  of 
the  good  they   might  do  in   the  f\iture. 


EDMUND  BURKE 


389 


fidelity  he  coulJ  give — that  they  were  upon  him, 
and  he  was  dead.  Instantly  he  was  cut  down. 
A  band  of  cruel  ruffians  and  assassins,  reeking 
with  his  blood,  rushed  into  the  chamber  of  the 
([ueen,  and  pierced  with  a  hundred  strokes  of 
bayonets  and  poniards  the  bed,  from  whence 
this  persecuted  woman  had  but  just  time  to 
fly  almost  naked,  and,  through  ways  unknown 
to  the  murderers,  had  escaped  to  seek  refuge 
at  the  feet  of  a  king  and  husband,  not  secure 
of  his  own  life  for  a  moment. 

This  king,  to  say  no  more  of  him,  and  this 
queen,  and  their  infant  children,  (who  once 
would  have  been  the  pride  and  hope  of  a  great 
and  generous  people,)  were  then  forced  to 
abandon  the  sanctuary  of  the  most  splendid 
palace  in  the  world,  which  they  left  swimming 
in  blood,  polluted  by  massacre,  and  strewed 
with  scattered  limbs  antl  mutilated  carcases. 
Thence  they  were  conducted  into  the  capital 
of  their  kingdom.  Two  had  been  selected 
from  the  unprovoked,  unresisted,  promiscuous 
slaughter,  which  was  made  of  the  gentlemen 
of  birth  and  family  who  composed  the  king's 
body  guard.  These  two  gentlemen,  with  all 
the  parade  of  an  execution  of  justice,  were 
cruelly  and  publicly  dragged  to  the  block,  and 
beheaded  in  the  great  court  of  the  palace. 
Their  heads  were  stuck  upon  spears,  and  led 
the  procession;  whilst  the  royal  captives  who 
followed  in  the  train  were  slowly  moved  along, 
amidst  the  horrid  yells,  and  shrilling  screams, 
and  frantic  dances,  and  infamous  contumelies, 
and  all  the  unutterable  abominations  of  the 
furies  of  hell,  in  the  abused  shape  of  the  vilest 
of  women.  After  they  had  been  made  to  taste, 
drop  by  drop,  more  than  the  bitterness  of 
death,  in  the  slow  torture  of  a  journey  of 
twelve  miles,  protracted  to  six  hours,  they 
were,  under  a  guard,  composed  of  those  very 
soldiers  who  had  thus  conducted  them  through 
this  famous  triumph,  lodged  in  one  of  the  ok! 
palaces  of  Paris  now  converted  into  a  bastile 
for  kings. 

Is  this  a  triumph  to  be  consecrated  at  altars? 
to  be  commemorated  with  grateful  thanksgiv- 
ing? to  be  offered  to  the  divine  humanity  with 
fervent  prayer  and  enthusiastic  ejaculation? — 
These  Theban  and  Thracian  orgies,2  acted  in 
France,  and  applauded  only  in  the  Old  Jewry,3 

1  assure  you,  kindle  prophetic  enthusiasm  in 
the  minds  but  of  very  few  people  in  this  king- 
dom :  although  a  saint  and  apostle,  who  may 
have  revelations  of  his  own,  and  who  has  so 

2  Bacchanalian  orgies  of  ancient  Greece. 

3  A  London  street,  where  Dr.  Richard  Price,  of  the 

Revolution    Society,    had    preached    a    sermon 
In  approbation  of  the  Revolution   In   France. 


completely  vanquished  all  the  mean  supei-sti- 
tions  of  the  heart,  may  incline  to  think  it  pious 
and  decorous  to  compare  it  with  the  entrance 
into  the  world  of  the  Prince  of  Peace,  pro- 
claimed in  a  holy  temple  by  a  venerable  sage, 
and  not  long  before  not  worse  announced  by 
the  voice  of  angels  to  the  quiet  innocence  of 
shepherds. 

At  first  I  was  at  a  loss  to  account  for  this 
fit  of  unguarded  transport.  I  knew,  indeed, 
that  the  sufferings  of  monarchs  make  a  de- 
licious repast  to  some  sort  of  palates.  There 
were  reflections  which  might  serve  to  keep  this 
appetite  within  some  bounds  of  temperance. 
But  when  I  took  one  circumstance  into  my 
consideration,  I  was  obliged  to  confess,  that 
much  allowance  ought  to  be  made  for  the  so- 
ciety, and  that  the  temptation  was  too  strong 
for  common  discretion;  I  mean,  the  circum- 
stance of  the  lo  Paian*  of  the  triumph,  the 
animating  cry  which  called  "for  all  the 
BISHOPS  to  be  hanged  on  the  lamp-posts," 
might  well  have  brought  forth  a  burst  of  en- 
thusiasm on  the  foreseen  consequences  of  this 
happy  day.  I  allow  to  so  much  enthusiasm 
some  little  deviation  from  prudence.  I  allow 
this  prophet  to  break  forth  into  hymns  of  joy 
and  thanksgiving  on  an  event  which  appears 
like  the  precursor  of  the  Millennium,  and  the 
projected  fifth  monarchy,^  in  the  destruction  of 
all  church  establishments.  There  was,  how- 
ever, (as  in  all  human  affairs  there  is,)  in  the 
midst  of  this  joy,  something  to  exercise  the 
patience  of  these  worthy  gentlemen,  and  to  try 
the  long-suffering  of  their  faith.  The  actual 
murder  of  the  king  and  queen,  and  their  child, 
was  wanting  to  the  other  auspicious  circum- 
stances of  this  "beautiful  day."  The  actual 
murder  of  the  bishops,  though  called  for  by  so 
many  holy  ejaculations,  was  also  wanting.  A 
group  of  regicide  and  sacrilegious  slaughter, 
was  indeed  boldly  sketched,  but  it  was  only 
sketched.  It  unhappily  was  left  unfinished,  in 
this  great  historj'-piece  of  the  massacre  of  in- 
nocents. What  hardy  pencil  of  a  great  master, 
from  the  school  of  the  rights  of  men,*  will 
finish  it,  is  to  be  seen  hereafter.  The  age  has 
not  yet  the  complete  benefit  of  that  diffusion 
of  knowledge  that  has  undermined  supersti- 
tion and  error;  and  the  king  of  France  wants 
another  object  or  two  to  consign  to  oblivion, 
in   consideration  of  all   the   good   which  is  to 

4  Ancient  shout  of  victory. 

5  The    dream    of    a    Puritan    sect    of    Cromwell's 

time,  to  establish  a  monarchy  rivaling  ancient 
Assyria,  Persia,  Macedonia  and  Rome. 
*  Ironically  alluding  to  the  philosophers  who  up- 
held revolutionary  doctrines  in  the  name  of 
humanity.  Burke's  extreme  conservatism  on 
this  subject  must  not  he  forgotten. 


390 


LATER  EIGHTEENTH  CENTUBY 


arise  from  his  own  sufferings,  and  the  patriotic 
crimes  of  an  enlightened  age. 

Although  this  work  of  our  new  light  and 
knowledge  did  not  go  to  the  length  that  in  all 
probability  it  was  intended  it  should  be  car- 
ried, yet  I  must  think  that  such  treatment  of 
any  human  creatures  must  be  shocking  to  any 
but  those  who  are  made  for  accomplishing 
revolutions.  But  I  cannot  stop  here.  In- 
fluenced by  the  inborn  feelings  of  my  nature, 
and  not  being  illuminated  by  a  single  ray  of 
this  new  sprung  modern  light,  I  confess  to 
you,  Sir,  that  the  exalted  rank  of  the  persons 
suffering,  and  particularly  the  sex,  the  beauty, 
and  the  amiable  qualities  of  the  descendant  of 
so  many  kings  and  emperors,  with  the  tender 
age  of  royal  infants,  insensible  only  through 
infancy  and  innocence  of  the  cruel  outrages 
to  which  their  parents  were  exposed,  instead  of 
being  a  subject  of  exultation,  adds  not  a  little 
to  my  sensibility  on  that  most  melancholy  occa- 
sion. 

I  hear  that  the  august  person,  who  was  the 
principal  object  of  our  preacher's  triumph, 
though  he  supported  himself,  felt  much  on  that 
shameful  occasion.  As  a  man,  it  became  him 
to  feel  for  his  wife  and  his  children,  and  the 
faithful  guards  of  his  person,  that  were  mas- 
sacred in  cold  blood  about  him;  as  a  prince,  it 
became  him  to  feel  for  the  strange  and  fright- 
ful transformation  of  his  civilized  subjects, 
and  to  be  more  grieved  for  them  than  solici- 
tous for  himself.  It  derogates  little  from  his 
fortitude,  while  it  adds  infinitely  to  the  honour 
of  his  humanity.  I  am  very  sorry  to  say  it, 
very  sorry  indeed,  that  such  personages  are  in 
a  situation  in  which  it  is  not  becoming  in  us 
to  praise  the  virtues  of  the  great. 

I  hear,  and  I  rejoice  to  hear,  that  the  great 
lady,  the  other  object  of  the  triumph,  has 
borne  that  day,  (one  is  interested  that  beings 
made  for  suffering  should  suffer  well,)  and 
that  she  bears  all  the  succeeding  days,  that  she 
bears  the  imprisonment  of  her  husband,  and 
her  captivity,  and  the  exile  of  her  friends, 
and  the  insulting  adulation  of  addresses,  and 
the  whole  weight  of  her  accumulated  wrongs, 
with  a  serene  patience,  in  a  manner  suited  to 
her  rank  and  race,  and  becoming  the  offspring 
of  a  8overeign«  distinguished  for  her  piety  and 
her  courage;  that,  like  her,  she  has  lofty  senti- 
ments; that  she  feels  with  the  dignity  of  a 
Bomnn  matron;  that  in  the  last  extremity 
she  will  save  herself  from  the  last  disgrace ;7 
an<l  that,  if  she  must  fall,  she  will  fall  by  no 
igiio)ilt>  hand. 

6  Marltt  Theresa 


It  is  now  sixteen  or  seventeen  years  since  I 
saw  the  queen  of  France,  then  the  dauphiness, 
at  Versailles;  and  surely  never  lighted  on  this 
orb,  which  she  hardly  seemed  to  touch,  a  more 
delightful  vision.  I  saw  her  just  above  the 
horizon,  decorating  and  cheering  the  elevated 
sphere  she  just  began  to  move  in, — glittering 
like  the  morning-star,  full  of  life,  and  splen- 
dour, and  joy.  Oh!  what  a  revolution!  and 
what  a  heart  must  I  have  to  contemplate  with- 
out emotion  that  elevation  and  that  fall!  Little 
did  I  dream  when  she  added  titles  of  veneration 
to  those  of  enthusiastic,  distant,  respectful 
love,  that  she  should  ever  be  obliged  to  carry 
the  sharp  antidote  against  disgrace  concealed 
in  that  bosom;  little  did  I  dream  that  I  should 
have  lived  to  see  such  disasters  fallen  upon  her 
in  a  nation  of  gallant  men,  in  a  nation  of  men 
of  honour,  and  of  cavaliers.  I  thought  ten 
thousand  swords  must  have  leaped  from  their 
scabbards  to  avenge  even  a  look  that  threatened 
her  with  insult.  But  the  age  of  chivalry  is 
gone.  That  of  sophisters,  economists,  and  cal- 
culators, has  succeeded;  and  the  glory  of  Eu- 
rope is  extinguished  for  ever.  Never,  never 
more  shall  we  behold  that  generous  loyalty  to 
rank  and  sex,  that  proud  submission,  that  dig- 
nified obedience,  that  subordination  of  the 
heart,  which  kept  alive,  even  in  servitude  itself, 
the  spirit  of  an  exalted  freedom.  The  unbought 
grace  of  life,  the  cheap  defence  of  nations,  the 
nurse  of  manly  sentiment  and  heroic  enterprise, 
is  gone!  It  is  gone,  that  sensibility  of  prin- 
ciple, that  chastity  of  honour,  which  felt  a 
stain  like  a  wound,  which  inspired  courage 
whilst  it  mitigated  ferocity,  which  ennobled 
whatever  it  touched,  and  under  which  vice  itself 
lost  half  its  evil,  by  losing  all  its  grossness. 

This  mixed  system  of  opinion  and  sentiment 
had  its  origin  in  the  ancient  chivalry;  and  the 
principle,  though  varied  in  its  appearance  by 
the  varying  state  of  human  affairs,  subsisted 
and  influenced  through  a  long  succession  of  gen- 
erations, even  to  the  time  we  live  in.  If  it 
should  ever  be  totally  extinguished,  the  loss  I 
fear  will  be  great.  It  is  this  which  has  given 
its  character  to  modern  Europe.  It  is  this 
which  has  distinguished  it  under  all  its  forms 
of  government,  and  distinguished  it  to  its  ad- 
vantage, from  the  states  of  Asia,  and  possibly 
from  those  states  which  flourished  in  the  most 
brilliant  periods  of  the  antique  world.  It  was 
this,  which,  without  confounding  ranks,  had 
l)roduced  a  noble  equality,  and  handed  it  down 
through  all  the  gradations  of  social  life.  It 
was    this    oi)iniou    which    mitigated    kings    into 

7  By  poison,  self-administered. 


J 


WILLIAM  COWPER 


391 


companions,  and  raised  private  men  to  be  fel- 
lows with  kings.  Without  force  or  opposition, 
it  subdued  the  fierceness  of  pride  and  power; 
it  obliged  sovereigns  to  submit  to  the  soft 
collar  of  social  esteem,  compelled  stern  authority 
to  submit  to  elegance,  and  gave  a  dominating 
vanquisher  cf  laws  to  be  subtlued  by  manners. 

But  now  all  is  to  be  changed.  All  the  pleas- 
ing illusions,  which  made  power  gentle  and 
obedience  liberal,  which  harmonized  the  dif- 
ferent shades  of  life  and  which,  by  a  bland 
assimilation,  incorporated  into  politics  the  sen- 
timents which  beautify  and  soften  private 
society,  are  to  be  dissolved  by  this  new  con- 
quering empire  of  light  and  reason.  All  the 
decent  drapery  of  life  is  to  be  rudely  torn  off. 
All  the  superadded  ideas, '  furnished  from  the 
wardrobe  of  a  moral  imagination,  which  the 
heart  owns,  and  the  understanding  ratifies,  as 
necessary  to  cover  the  defects  of  our  naked, 
shivering  nature,  and  to  raise  it  to  dignity  in 
our  own  estimation,  are  to  be  exploded  as  a 
ridiculous,  absurd,  and  antiquated  fashion. 

On  this  scheme  of  things,  a  king  is  but  a 
man,  a  queen  is  but  a  woman;  a  woman  is  but 
an  animal,  and  an  animal  not  of  the  highest 
order.  All  homage  paid  to  the  sex  in  general 
as  such,  and  without  distinct  views,  is  to  be 
regarded  as  romance  and  folly.  Eegicide,  and 
parricide,  and  sacrilege,  are  but  fictions  of 
superstition,  corrupting  jurisprudence  by  de- 
stroying its  simplicity.  The  murder  of  a  king, 
or  a  queen,  or  a  bishop,  or  a  father,  are  only 
common  homicide;  and  if  the  people  are  by 
any  chance,  or  in  any  way,  gainers  by  it,  a 
sort  of  homicide  much  the  most  pardonable,  and 
into  which  we  ought  not  to  make  too  severe  a 
scrutiny. 

On  the  scheme  of  this  barbarous  philosophy, 
which  is  the  offspring  of  cold  hearts  and  muddy 
understandings,  and  which  is  as  void  of  solid 
wisdom  as  it  is  destitute  of  all  taste  and  ele- 
gance, laws  are  to  be  supported  only  by  their 
own  terrors,  and  by  the  concern  which  each 
individual  may  find  in  them  from  his  own  pri- 
vate speculations,  or  can  spare  to  them  from 
his  own  private  interests.  In  the  groves  of 
their  academy,*  at  the  end  of  every  vista,  you 
see  nothing  but  the  gallows.  Nothing  is  left 
which  engages  the  affections  on  the  part  of  the 
commonwealth.  On  the  principles  of  this  me- 
chanic philosophy,  our  institutions  can  never  be 
embodied,  if  I  may  use  the  expression,  in  per- 
sons;   so   as  to  create  in  us  love,  veneration. 

•  The  Athenian  philosophers  conducted  their  In- 
struction walking;  in  the  groves  of  the 
Academe.  See  Newman,  Site  of  a  Unicertityj 
in  the  present  Tolumc. 


admiration,  or  attachment.  But  that  sort  of 
reason  which  banishes  the  affections  is  incap- 
able of  filling  their  place.  These  public  affec- 
tions, combined  with  manners,  are  required 
sometimes  as  supplements,  sometimes  as  cor- 
rectives, always  as  aids  to  law.  The  precept 
given  by  a  wise  man,  as  well  as  a  great  critic, 
for  the  construction  of  poems,  is  equally  true 
as  to  states: — Non  satis  est  pulchra  esse 
poemata,  dulcia  sunto.s  There  ought  to  be  a 
system  of  manners  in  every  nation,  which  a 
well-formed  mind  would  be  disposed  to  relish. 
To  make  us  love  our  country,  our  country  ought 
to  be  lovely. 


WILLIAM  COWPER  (1731-1800) 

From  OLXEY  HYMNS 
XXXV.    Light  Shining  Out  or  Darkness 

1 

God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way 

His  wonders  to  perform; 
He  plants  his  footsteps  in  the  sea. 

And  rides  upon  the  storm. 


Deep  in  unfathomable  mines 

Of  never-failing  skill 
He-  treasures  up  •  his  bright  designs. 

And  works  his  sovereign  will. 


Ye  fearful  saints,  fresh  courage  take, 
The  clouds  ye  so  much  dread 

Are  big  with  mercy,  and  shall  break 
In  blessings  on  your  head. 


Judge  not  the  Lord  by  feeble  sense, 

But  trust  him  for  his  grace : 
Behind  a  frowning  providence 

He  hides  a  smiling  face. 
5 
His  purposes  will  ripen  fast. 

Unfolding  every  hour; 
The  bud  may  have  a  bitter  taste, 

But  sweet  will  be  the  flower. 


Blind  unbelief  is  sure  to  err. 

And  scan  his  work  in  vain: 
God  is  his  own  interpreter, 

And  be  will  make  it  plain. 

8  "It  Is  not  enough  that  poems  be  beautiful,  Ihey 
must  have  sweetness."  Horace :  .Irs  Poet  tea, 
99. 


302 


LATEK  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


ON  THE  LOSS  OF  THE  ROYAL  GEORGE 

1 

Toll  for  the  brave! 

The  brave  that  are  no  more! 
All  sunk  beneath  the  wave, 

Fast  by  their  native  shore! 

2 

Eight  hundred  of  the  brave, 
Whose  courage  ■well  was  tried, 

Had  made  the  vessel  heel, 
And  laid  her  on  her  side. 


A  land-breeze  shook  the  shrouds, 

And  she  was  overset: 
Down  went  the  Royal  George, 

With  all  her  crew  complete. 

4 
Toll  for  the  brave! 

Brave  Kempeufelt  is  gone; 
His  last  sea-fight  is  fought; 

His  work  of  glory  done. 

5 
It  was  not  in  the  battle; 

No  tempest  gave  the  shock; 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak; 

She  ran  upon  no  rock. 

6 
His  sword  was  in  its  sheath; 

His  fingers  held  the  pen 
When  Kempenfelt  went  down 

With  twice  four  hundred  men. 


Weigh  the  vessel  up, 

Once  dreaded  by  our  foes! 
And  mingle  with  our  cup 

The  tear  that  England  owes: 

8 
Her  timbers  yet  are  sound, 

And  she  may  float  again, 
Full  charged  with  England's  thunder. 

And  plough  the  distant  main. 

9 
But  Kempenfelt  is  gone. 

His  victories  are  o  'er ; 
And  he  and  his  eight  hundred 

Shall  plough  the  wave  no  more. 

•  A  man-of-wnr  which,  In  1782.  while  undergoing 
ivpiilrs.  turned  over,  filled,  and  sank,  with 
Adiuirui  Kempenfelt  and  over  eight  hundred 
men  on  board.  This  poem  takes  a  place 
nmong  the  great  poeraH  written  about  the 
llrltiHh  navy,  like  Onmpl)ell'H  Ye  Afariner/i  of 
Unfflniid  and  Ti;nnyson'B  The  Revenge, 


THE  JACKDAW  t 

1 

There  is  a  bird,  who,  by  his  coat, 
And  by  the  hoarseness  of  his  note, 

Might  be  supposed  a  crow; 
A  great  frequenter  of  the  church. 
Where  bishop-like  he  finds  a  perch. 

And  dormitory  too. 

2 
Above  the  steeple  shines  a  plate. 
That  turns  and  turns  to  indicate 

From  what  point  blows  the  weather; 
Look  up — your  brains  begin  to  swim, 
'Tis  in  the  clouds — that  pleases  him; 

He  chooses  it. the  rather. 

3 

Fond  of  the  speculative  height. 
Thither  he  wings  his  airy  flight. 

And  thence  securely  sees 
The  bustle  and  the  raree-showi 
That  occupy  mankind  below, 

Secure  and  at  his  ease. 

4 
You  think,  no  doubt,  he  sits  and  mases 
On  future  broken  bones  and  bruises, 

If  he  should  chance  to  fall. 
No;  not  a  single  thought  like  that 
Employs  his  philosophic  pate. 

Or  troubles  it  at  all. 

5 
He  sees  that  this  great  roundabout, 
The  world,  with  all  its  motley  rout, 

Church,  army,  physic,  law, 
Its  customs,  and  its  businesses, 
Is  no  concern  at  all  of  his. 

And  says — what  says  he? — "Caw." 

6 
Thrice  happy  bird!    I  too  have  seen 
Much  of  the  vanities  of  men; 

And,  sick  of  having  seen  'em. 
Would  cheerfully  these  limbs  resign 
For  such  a  pair  of  wings  as  thine, 

And  such  a  head  between   'em. 

ON    THE    RECEIPT    OF    MY    aMOTHER'S 

PICTURE,     OUT     OF     NORFOLK; 

THE  GIFT  OF  MY  COUSIN, 

ANN  BODHAM 

0  TH.\T    those    lips    had    hmguagol    Life    has 

passed 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine — thy  own  sweet  smile  1  pee, 

1  A  show  that  can  be  carried  nbont  in  a  box. 

t  TrnnHlated   from    flie   Latin   «>r  Towpct's   lenclier, 
Vincent  Rourne, 


WILLIAM  LUWPKR 


393 


The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  nie; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 
"Grieve    not,    my    child,    chase   all   thy    fears 

away ! ' ' 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize, 
The  art  that  baffles  Time's  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it)  here  shines  on  me  still  the  same. 
Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear,        H 

0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here! 
Who  bidst  me  honour  with  an  artless  song, 
Aflfectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long, 

1  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone, 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own: 
And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief, 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief, 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 
A  momentary  dream  that  thou  art  she.  20 

My  mother!  when  I  learned  that  thou  wast 
dead. 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed? 
Hovered  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son, 
Wretch  even  then,  life's  journey  just  begun? 
Perhaps  thou  gavest  me,  though  unfelt,  a  kiss: 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss — 
Ah,  that  maternal  smile!     It  answers — Yes. 
I  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial  day, 
I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away. 
And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew  30 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu! 
But   was   it   such  I — It   was. — Where   thou   art 

gone. 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore, 
The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more! 
Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my  concern, 
Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return. 
What  ardently  I  wished  I  long  believed, 
And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived. 
By  expectation  every  day  beguiled,  40 

Dupe  of  to-morroic  even  from  a  child. 
Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went. 
Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrow  spent, 
I  learned  at  last  submission  to  my  lot; 
But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  forgot. 

W'here  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no 
more. 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery  floor; 
And  where  the  gardener  Eobin,  day  by  day, 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way,        50 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapped 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet  capped, 
'Tis  now  become  a  history  little  known 
That  once  we  called  the  pastoral  house  our  own. 
Short-lived  possession!  but  the  record  fair 
That  memory  keeps,  of  all  thy  kindness  there. 
Still  outlives  many  a  storm,  that  has  effaced 
A  thousand  other  themes  les.s  deeply  traced. 


I  Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 
That  thou  might 'st  know  me  safe  and  warmly 

laid; 
Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home,     60 
The  biscuit,  or  confectionary  plum; 
The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestowed 
By   thy   own   hand,   till   fresh   they   shone   and 

glowed ; 
All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all. 
Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall. 
Ne'er  roughened  by  those  cataracts  and  brakes, 
That  humour  interposed  too  often  makes; 
All  this  still  legible  in  memory's  page. 
And  still  to  be  80  to  my  latest  age, 
Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay        70 
Such  honours  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may; 
Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere, 
Not   scorned   in   heaven,    though    little   noticed 

here. 
Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore  the 

hours 
When,   playing  with   thy  vesture's   tissued 

flowers. 
The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 
I  pricked  them  into  paper  with  a  pin 
(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while, 
W^ouldst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head  and 

smile), 
Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  appear,  80 
Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I  wish  them 

heref 
I  would  not  trust  my  heart — the  dear  delight 
Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I  might — 
But  no — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such 
So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much. 
That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,  as  a  gallant  bark  from  Albion 's  coast 
(The  storms  all  weathered  and  the  ocean 

crossed) 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-havened  isle,     90 
Where    spices    breathe,    and    brighter    seasons 

smile, 
There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below, 
While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay; 
So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift!  bast  reached  the 

shore, 
*  *  Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  biUows  roar, ' ' 
And  thy  loved  consort  on  the  dangerous  tide 
Of  life  long  since  has  anchored  by  thy  side. 
But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest,     100 
Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distressed — 
Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest  tost. 
Sails  ripped,  seams  opening  wide,  and  compass 

lost. 
And  day  by  day  some  current 's  thwarting  force 


394 


LATEH  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


Sets  me  more  distant  from  a  prosperous  course. 
Yet  oh  the  thought  that  thou  art  safe,  and  he! 
That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 
My  boast  is  not,  that  I  deduce  my  birth 
From  loins  enthroned,  and  rulers  of  the  earth; 
But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise —  110 
The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies! 
And  now,  farewell.     Time  unrevoked  has  run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I  wished  is  done. 
By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 
I  seem  to  have  lived  my  childhood  o'er  again j 
To  have  renewed  the  joys  that  once  were  mine, 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine: 
And,  while  the  wings  of  Fancy  still  are  free 
And  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee. 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft —    120 
Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe  me  left. 

TO   MRS.  UNWIN* 

Mary!  I  want  a  lyre  with  other  strings, 
Such   aid  from  heaven   as  some  have   feigned 

they  drew, 
An  eloquence  scarce  given  to  mortals,  new 
And  undebased  by  praise  of  meaner  things, 
That,  ere  through  age  or  woe  I  shed  my  wings, 
I  may  record  thy  worth  with  honour  due, 
In  verse  as  musical  as  thou  art  true. 
And  that  immortalizes  whom  it  sings. 
But  thou  hast  little  need.    There  is  a  book 
By  seraphs  writ  with  beams  of  heavenly  light, 
On  which  the  eyes  of  God  not  rarely  look, 
A  chronicle  of  actions  just  and  bright; 
There  all  thy  deeds,  my  faithful   Mary,  shine, 
And,  since  thou  owu'st  that  praise,  X  spare  thee 

mine. 

THE   CASTAWAY  t 

1 
Obscurest  night  involved  the  sky. 

The  Atlantic  billows  roared, 
When  such  a  destined  wretch  as  I, 

Washed  headlong  from  on  board. 
Of  friends,  of  hope,  of  all  bereft. 
His  floating  home  forever  left. 

2 
No  braver  chief  could  Albion  boast 

Than  he  with  whom  he  went, 
Nor  ever  ship  left  Albion's  coast 

With  warmer  wishes  sent. 
He  loved  them  both,  but  l)oth  in  vain, 
Nor  him  beheld,  nor  her  again. 

•  The   friend   and   constant   companion   of  Cowpor 

for  thirty-four  yi-ars. 
t  The  Inst  poom   tlint   Cowper  wrotf  :   founded  on 

an  incident   in  Admiral  Anson'H  Vouai/es.     It 

portrays    imaKinativeiy    hla    own    melancholy 

<'ondition. 


Not  long  beneath  the  whelming  brine, 

Expert  to  swim,  he  lay ; 
Nor  soon  he  felt  his  strength  decline, 

Or  courage  die  away; 
But  waged  with  death  a  lasting  strife. 
Supported  by  despair  of  life. 


He  shouted;  nor  his  friends  had  failed 
To  check  the  vessel's  course. 

But  so  the  furious  blast  jjrevailed 
That,  pitiless  perforce. 

They  left  their  outcast  mate  behind, 

And  scudded  still  before  the  wind. 


Some  succour  yet  they  could  afford; 

And  such  as  storms  allow. 
The  cask,  the  coop,  the  floated  cord. 

Delayed  not  to  bestow; 
But  he,  they  knew,  nor  ship  nor  shore, 
Whate'er  they  gave,  should  visit  more. 

6 
Nor,  cruel  as  it  seemed,  could  he 

Their  haste  himself  condemn. 
Aware  that  flight,  in  such  a  sea, 

Alone  could  rescue  them; 
Yet  bitter  felt  it  still  to  die 
Deserted,  and  his  friends  so  nigh. 


He  long  survives,  who  lives  an  hour 

In  ocean,  self -upheld : 
And  so  long  he,  with  unspent  power, 

His  destiny  repelled; 
And  ever,  as  the  minutes  flew, 
Entreated  help,  or  cried  ' '  Adieu !  " 

8 
At  length,  his  transient  respite  past. 

His  comrades,  who  before 
Had  heard  his  voice  in  every  blast, 

Could  catch  the  sound  no  more; 
For  then,  by  toil  subdued,  he  drank 
The  stifling  wave,  and  then  he  sank. 

9 
No  poet  wept  him;  but  the  page 

Of  narrative  sincere, 
That   tells   his  name,   his  worth,   his  age, 

Is  wet  with  Anson's  tear: 
An<l  tears  by  bards  or  heroes  shed 
Alike  immortalise  the  dead. 

10 

I  therefore  purpose  not,  or  dream. 

Descanting  on  his  fate, 
To  give  the  melancholy  theme 


GEORGE  CRABBE 


395 


A  more  enduring  date: 
But  misery  still  delights  to  trace 
Its  semblance  in  another's  case. 

11 

No  voice  divine  the  storm  allayed, 

No  light  propitious  shone, 
When,  snatched  from  all  effectual  aid. 

We  perished,  each  alone; 
But  I  beneath  a  -rougher  sea, 
And  whelmed  in  deeper  gulfs  than  he. 


GEORGE  CRABBE  (1754-1832) 

From  THE  BOROUGH* 
Letter  I 

"Describe  the  Borough." — Though  our  idle 
tribe 
May  love  description,  can  we  so  describe. 
That    you    shall    fairly    streets    and    buildings 

trace, 
And  all  that  gives  distinction  to  a  place* 
This  cannot  be;  yet,  moved  by  your  request, 
A  part  I  paint — let  fancy  form  the  rest. 

Cities  and  towns,  the  various  haunts  of  men. 
Require  the  pencil;  they  defy  the  pen. 
Could  he,  who  sang  so  well  the  Grecian  fleet,i 
So  well  have  sung  of  alley,  lane,  or  street?  10 
Can  measured  lines  these  various  buildings  show, 
The  Town-Hall  Turning,  or  the  Prospect  Row? 
Can  I  the  seats  of  wealth  and  want  explore. 
And  lengthen  out  my  lays  from  door  to  door? 

Then,  let  thy  fancy  aid  me. — I  repair 
From  this  tall  mansion  of  our  last-year 's  mayor, 
Till  we  the  outskirts  of  the  Borough  reach. 
And  these  half-buried  buildings  next  the  beach; 
Where  hang  at  open  doors  the  net  and  cork, 
While  squalid  sea-dames  mend  the  meshy  work; 
Till  comes  the  hour,  when,  fishing  through  the 
tide,  21 

The  weary  husband  throws  his  freight  aside — 
A  living  mass,  which  now  demands  the  wife. 
The  alternate  labours  of  their  humble  life. 

1  Homer,  Iliad  II. 

•  This  poem  was  inscribed  to  the  Dulse  of  Rut- 
land, to  whom  Crabbe  bad  been  chaplain, 
and  takes  the  form  of  Letters  from  a  resi- 
dent of  a  sea-port  (Crabbe  was  a  native  of 
Aldeburgb.  Suffolk)  to  the  owner  of  an 
inland  country-seat.  The  date  of  the  poem 
is  1810.  Crabbe's  reputation,  however,  was 
established  by  The  Village  in  1783,  and  his 
place  is  with  those  later  18th  century  poets 
who  clung  to  the  18th  century  forms,  though 
reacting  against  the  artlficia"lity  and  frigid 
conventionalism  that  had  so  long  reigned. 
In  homeliness  of  themes  and  naked  realism 
of  treatment,  the  poet  of  The  Tillage  and 
The  Borough  stands  quite  alone.  See  Eng. 
Lit.,  p.  226. 


Can  scenes  like  these  withdraw  thee  from  thy 

wood. 
Thy  upland  forest  or  thy  valley's  flood? 
Seek,  then,  thy  garden's  shrubby  bound,  and 

look. 
As  it  steals  by,  upon  the  bordering  brook: 
That  winding  streamlet,  limpid,  lingering,  slow, 
Where    the    reeds    whisper    when    the    zephyrs 

blow;  30 

Where  in  the  midst,  upon  her  throne  of  green. 
Sits  the  large  lily  as  the  water's  queen; 
And  makes  the  current,  forced  awhile  to  stay, 
Murmur  and  bubble  as  it  shoots  away; 
Draw  then  the  strongest  contrast  to  that  stream. 
And  our  broad  river  will  before  thee  seem. 
With   ceaseless  motion  comes  and  goes  the 

tide; 
Flowing,  it  fills  the  channel  vast  and  wide; 
Then  back  to  sea,  with  strong  majestic  sweep 
It  rolls,  in  ebb  yet  terrible  and  deep;  40 

Here    sampire-banks   and   salt-wort  bound   the 

flood; 
There  stakes  and  sea-weeds,  withering  on  the 

mud; 
And,  higher  up,  a  ridge  of  all  things  base. 
Which  some  strong  tide  has  rolled  upon  the 

place. 
Thy  gentle  river  boasts  its  pigmy  boat. 
Urged  on  by  pains,  half  grounded,  half  afloat; 
While  at  her  stern  an  angler  takes  his  stand, 
And  marks  the  fish  he  purposes  to  land. 
From  that  clear  space,  where,  in  the  cheerful 

ray 
Of  the  warm  sun,  the  scaly  people  play.  50 

Far  other  craft  our  prouder  river  shows. 
Hoys,  pinks  and  sloops;  brigs,  brigantines  and 

snows : 
Nor  angler  we  on  our  wide  stream  descry. 
But  one  poor  dredger  where  his  oysters  lie: 
He,  cold  and  wet,  and  driving  with  the  tide, 
Beats  his  weak  arms  against  his  tarry  side. 
Then  drains  the  remnant  of  diluted  gin, 
To  aid  the  warmth  that  languishes  within; 
Renewing  oft  his  poor  attempts  to  beat 
His  tingling  fingers  into  gathering  heat.         60 
He  shall  again  be  seen  when  evening  comes. 
And  social  parties  crowd  their  favourite  rooms; 
Where  on  the  table  pipes  and  papers  lie, 
The  steaming  bowl  or  foaming  tankard  by. 
'Tis    then,    with    all    these    comforts    spread 

around. 
They  hear  the  painful  dredger 's  welcome  sound ; 
And  few  themselves  the  savoury  boon  deny. 
The  food  that  feeds,  the  living  luxury. 

Yon   is   our  quay!    those   smaller  hoys   from 

town,  6* 

Its  various  wares,  for  country-use,  bring  down; 


396 


LATER  EIGHTEENTH  CENTUBY 


Those  laden  Maggous,  in  return,  impart 
The  country "iiroduce  to  the  city  mart; 
Hark  to  the  clamour  in  that  miry  road, 
Bounded  and  narrowed  by  yon  vessel's  load; 
The  lumbering  wealth   she  empties  round   the 

place. 
Package,  and  parcel,  hogshead,  chest,  and  case; 
While  the  loud  seaman  and  the  angry  hind. 
Mingling  in  business,  bellow  to  the  wind. 

Near  these  a  crew  amphibious,  in  the  docks. 
Rear,  for  the  sea,  those  castles  on  the  stocks: 
See  the  long  keel,  which  soon  the  waves  must 

hide;  81 

See  the  strong  ribs  which  form  the  roomy  side; 
Bolts  yielding  slowly  to  the  sturdiest  stroke, 
And   planks   which   curve    and    crackle   in    the 

amoke. 
Around  the  whole  rise  cloudy  wreaths,  and  far 
Bear  the  warm  pungence  of  o'er-boiling  tar. 

Dabbling  on  shore  half -naked  sea-boys  crowd, 
Swim  round  a  ship,  or  swing  upon  the  shroud; 
Or,  in  a  boat  purloined,  with  paddles,  play. 
And  grow  familiar  with  the  watery  way.         90 
Young  though   they  be,  they   feel  whose   sons 

they  are; 
They  know  what  British  seamen  do  and  dare; 
Proud  of  that  fame,  they  raise  and  they  enjoy 
The  rustic  wonder  of  the  village. boy. 

Turn  to  the  watery  world! — but  who  to  thee 
(A  wonder  yet  unviewed)  shall  paint — the  sea? 
Various  and  vast,  sublime  in  all  its  forms. 
When   lulled   by   zephyrs,    or  when   roused   by 

storms ; 
Its  colours  changing,  when  from  clouds  and  sun 
Shades  after  shades  upon  the  surface  run; 
Embrowned  and  horridz  now,  and  now  serene, 
In  limpid  blue,  and  evanescent  green;  170 

And  oft  the  foggy  banks  on  ocean  lie, 
Lift  the  fair  sail,   and  cheat  the  experienced 

eye. 
Be  it  the  summer-noon:  a  sandy  space 
The  ebbing  tide  has  left  upon  its  place; 
Then  just  the  hot  and  stony  beach  above. 
Light    twinkling   streams    in    bright    confusion 

move 
(For  heated  thus,  the  warmer  air  ascends, 
And  with  the  cooler  in  its  fall  contends)  ; 
Then  the  broad  bosom  of  the  ocean  keeps 
An  equal  motion,  swelling  as  it  sleeps,  ISO 

Then  slowly  sinking;  curling  to  the  strand. 
Faint,  lazy  waves  o'ercreop  the  ridgy  sand. 
Or  tap  the  tarry  boat  with  gentle  blow, 
And  back  return  in  silence,  smooth  and  slow. 
Ships  in  the  calm  seem  anchored ;  for  they  glide 
On  the  still  sea,  urged  solely  by  the  tide; 
Art  tliou  not  present,  this  calm  scene  before, 
2  rough 


Where  all  beside,  is  pebbly  length  of  shore, 
And  far  as  eye  can  reach,  it  can  discern  no 

more? 
Yet    sometimes    comes    a    ruffling    cloud,    to 

make  190 

The  quiet  surface  of  the  ocean  shake; 
As  an  awakened  giant  with  a  frown 
Might  show  his  wrath,  and  then  to  sleep  sink 

down. 
View  now  the  winter-storm,  above,  one  cloud. 
Black   and  unbroken,   all  the  skies  o'ershroud. 
The  unwieldy  porpoise  through  the  day  before 
Had  rolled  in  view  of  boding  men  on  shore; 
And  sometimes  hid,  and  sometimes  showed,  his 

form. 
Dark  as  the  cloud,  and  furious  as  the  storm. 
All   where   the   eye   delights,  yet    dreads,   to 

roam,  200 

The  breaking  billows  cast  the  flying  foam 
Upon  the  billows  rising — all  the  deep 
Is  restless  change;   the  waves  so  swelled  and 

steep, 
Breaking  and  sinking,  and  the  sunken  swells, 
Nor  one,  one  moment,  in  its  station  dwells. 
But,  nearer  land,  you  may  the  billows  trace. 
As  if  contending  in  their  watery  chase; 
May  watch   the  mightiest   till   the   shoal   they 

reach. 
Then  break  and  hurry  to  their  utmost  stretch; 
Curled  as  they  come,  they  strike  with  furious 

force,  210 

And  then,  re-flowing,  take  their  grating  course, 
Raking  the  rounded  flints,  which  ages  past 
Rolled  by  their  rage,  and  shall  to  ages  last. 

Far  off,  the  petrel  in  the  troubled  way 
Swims  with  her  brood,  or  flutter*  in  the  spray; 
She  rises  often,  often  drops  again. 
And  sports  at  ease  on  the  tempestuous  main. 
High  o  'er  the  restless  deep,  above  the  reach 
Of   gunner's   hope,   vast   flights   of  wild-ducks 

stretch ; 
Far  as  the  eye  can  glance  on  either  side,      220 
In  a  broad  space  and  level  line  they  glide; 
All  in  their  wedge-like  figures  from  the  north. 
Day  after  day,  flight  after  flight,  go  forth. 
In-shore    their    passage    tribes    of    soa-gulls 

urge. 
And  drop  for  prey  within  the  sweeping  surge; 
Oft  in  the  rough  opposing  blast  they  fly 
Far  back,  then  turn,  and  all  their  force  apply. 
While  to  the  storm  they  give  their  weak  com- 
plaining cry; 
Or  clap   the  sleek  white  pinion  to  the  breast, 
And   in  the  restless  wcean  dip  for  rest.         230 

Darkness  begins  to  reign;  the  louder  wind 
Appals  the' weak  and  awes  the  firmer  mind; 
But    frights  not  him,   whom   evening   nn(l   the 

spray 


WILLIAM  BLAKE 


397 


In  part  conceal — ^yon  prowler  on  his  way. 
Lo!  he  has  something  seen;  he  runs  apace, 
As  if  he  feared  companion  in  the  chase; 
He  sees  his  prize,  and  now  he  turns  again, 
Slowly  and   sorrowing — "Was  your  search  in 

vainf  " 
Gruffly  he  answers,  "  'Tis  a  sorry  sight! 
A  seaman's  body;  there'll  be  more  to-night!" 
Hark  to  those  sounds!  they're  from  distress 

at  sea;  241 

How  quick  they  come!    What  terrors  may  there 

be! 
Yes,    'tis  a  driven  vessel:    I  discern 
Lights,    signs    of    terror,    gleaming    from    the 

stern ; 
Others  behold  them  too,  and  from  the  town 
In  various  parties  seamen  hurry  down; 
Their    wives    pursue,    and    damsels    urged    by 

dread. 
Lest  men  so  dear  be  into  danger  led; 
Their  head  the  gown  has  hooded,  and  their  call 
In  this  sad  night  is  piercing  like  the  squall; 
They  feel  their  kinds  of  power,  and  when  they 

meet,  251 

Chide,  fondle,  weep,  dare,  threaten,  or  entreat. 

See  one  poor  girl,  all  terror  and  alarm. 
Has  fondly  seized  upon  her  lover's  arm; 
' '  Thou   shalt  not   venture ; ' '   and  he  answers, 

"No! 
I  will  not" — still  she  cries,  "Thou  shalt  not 

go." 
No  need  of  this;  not  here  the  stoutest  boat 
Can  through  such  breakers,  o'er  such  billows 

float; 
Yet  may  they  view  these  lights  upon  the  beach, 
Which  yield  them  hope,  whom  help  can  never 

reach,  260 

From  parted  clouds  the  moon  her  radiance 

throws 
On  the  wild  waves,  and  all  the  danger  shows; 
But  shows  them  beaming  in  her  shining  vest, 
Terrific  splendour!  gloom  in  glory  dressed! 
This  for  a  moment,  and  then  clouds  again 
Hide  every  beam,  and  fear  and  darkness  reign. 
But  hear  we  now  those  sounds?     Do  lights 

appear? 
I  see  them  not!  the  storm  alone  I  hear: 
And  lo!  the  .sailors  homeward  take  their  way; 
Man  must  endure — let  us  submit  and  pray.    270 
Such  are  our  winter- views ;  but  night  comes 

on — 
Now  business  sleeps,  and  daily  cares  are  gone: 
Now  parties  form,  and  some  their  friends  assist 
To  waste  the  idle  hours  at  sober  whist; 
The  tavern 's  pleasure  or  the  concert 's  charm 
Unnumbered  moments  of  their  sting  disarm; 
Play-bills  and  open  doors  a  crowd  invite. 


To  pass  off  one  dread  portion  of  the  night; 

And  show  and  song  and  luxury  combined 

Lift  off  from  man  this  burthen  of  mankind.  280 

Others  adventurous  walk  abroad  and  meet 
Beturning  parties  pacing  through  the  street; 
When  various  voices,  in  the  dying  day. 
Hum  in  our  walks,  and  greet  us  in  our  way; 
When  tavern-lights  flit  on  from  room  to  room, 
And  guide  the  tippling  sailor,  staggering  home: 
There  as  we  pass,  the  jingling  bells  betray 
How  business  rises  with  the  closing  day: 
Now  walking  silent,  by  the  river's  side. 
The  ear  perceives  the  rippling  of  the  tide;    290 
Or  measured  cadence  of  the  lads  who  tow 
Some  entered  hoy,  to  fix  her  in  her  row; 
Or  hoUow  sound,  which  from  the  parish-bell 
To  some  departed  spirit  bids  farewell! 

Thus  shall  you  something  of  our  Borough 
know. 
Far  as  a  verse,  with  Fancy's  aid,  can  show; 
Of  sea  or  river,  of  a  quay  or  street. 
The  best  description  must  be  incomplete; 
But  when  a  happier  theme  succeeds,  and  when 
Men  are  our  subjects  and  the  deeds  of  men ;  300 
Then  may  we  find  the  Muse  in  happier  style, 
And   we   may   sometimes   sigh    and   sometimes 
smile. 


WILUAM  BLAKE  (1757-1827) 


SONG 


How  sweet  I  roamed  from  field  to  field. 
And  tasted  all  the  summer's  pride. 
Till  I  the  Prince  of  Love  beheld, 
Who  in  the  sunny  beams  did  glide. 


He  showed  me  lilies  for  my  hair. 
And  blushing  roses  for  my  brow; 
And  led  me  through  his  gardens  fair 
Where  all  his  golden  pleasures  grow. 


With  sweet  May-dews  my  wings  were  wet. 
And  Phoebus  fired  my  vocal  rage; 
He  caught  me  in  his  silken  net, 
And  shut  me  in  his  golden  cage. 


He  loves  to  sit  and  hear  me  sing. 
Then,  laughing,  sports  and  plays  with  me; 
Then  stretches  out  my  golden  wing. 
And  mocks  my  loss  of  liberty. 


398 


LATER  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


TO  THE  MUSES 


Whether  on  Ida 'si  shady  brow, 
Or  in  the  chambers  of  the  East, 
The  chambers  of  the  sun,  that  now 
From  ancient  melody  have  ceased; 


Whether  in  Heaven  ye  wander  fair, 
Or  the  green  corners  of  the  earth, 
Or  the  blue  regions  of  the  air 
Where  the  melodious  winds  have  birth; 


Whether  on  crystal  rocks  ye  rove. 
Beneath  the  bosom  of  the  sea 
Wandering  in  many  a  coral  grove. 
Fair  Nine,  forsaking  Poetry! 


How  have  you  left  the  ancient  love 
That  bards  of  old  enjoyed  in  you! 
The  languid  strings  do  scarcely  move, 
The  sound  is  forced,  the  notes  are  few. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  SONGS  OF 
INNOCENCE 


Piping  down  the  valleys  wild. 
Piping  songs  of  pleasant  glee. 
On  a  cloud  I  saw  a  child, 
And  he,  laughing,  said  to  me: 


"Pipe  a  song  about  a  Lamb!" 
So  I  piped  with  merry  cheer. 
"Piper,  pipe  that  song  again:" 
So  I  piped :  he  wept  to  hear. 

3 

*fDrop  thy  pipe,  thy  happy  pipe; 
Sing  thy  songs  of  happy  cheer:" 
So  I  sang  the  same  again. 
While  he  wept  with  joy  to  hear. 


"Piper,  sit  thee  down   and  write 
In  a  lM)ok,  that  all  may  read," 
So  he  vanished  from  my  sight; 
And  I  plucked  a  hollow  reed. 


1  A  monntnln  of  the  Trond :  nlso  ono  In  Crete. 
Helicon,  In  H«potlii.  Is  more  properly  the 
mountain  of   llic   .Muses. 


And  I  made  a  rural  pen. 
And  1  stained  the  water  clear, 
And  I  wrote   my   happy   songs 
Every  child  may  joy  to  hear. 

THE   TIGER* 

1 
Tiger,  Tiger,  burning  bright 
In  the  forest  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Could  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 

2 
In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burnt  the  fire  of  thine  eyes? 
On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire? 
What  the  hand  dare  seize  the  fire? 


And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art. 
Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thy  heart? 
When  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 
What  dread  hand  forged  thy  dread  feet? 

4 
What  the  hammer?     What  the  chain? 
In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain? 
What  the  anvil?    What  dread  grasp 
Dared  its  deadly  terrors  clasp? 

5 
When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears, 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears, 
Did  he  smile  his  work  to  see? 
Did  he  who  made  the  Lamb  make  thee? 


Tiger,  Tiger,  burning  bright 
In  the  forest  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Dare  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 


AH,  SUNFLOWER 

1 

Ah,  Sunflower!  weary  of  time. 
Who  countest  the  steps  of  the  Sun; 
Seeking  after  that  sweet  golden  clime 
Where  the  traveller's  journey  is  done; 

o 

Where  the  Youth,  pined  away  with  desire, 
And  the  pale  Virgin,  shrouded  in  snow, 
Arise  from  their  graves,  and  aspire 
Where  my  Sunflower  wishes  to  go! 

The  Text  U  that  of  Malkln,  1806. 


SCOTTISH  LYRICS 


399 


SCOTTISH  LYRICS 

BOBEKT  FEKGUSSON    (1750-1774) 

Elegy  ox  the  Death  op  Scots  Music* 

1 

On  Scotia's  plains,  in  days  of  yore, 
When  lads  and  lasses  tartan  wore, 
Saft  music  rang  on  ilkai  shore, 

In  hamely  weid;2 
But  harmony  is  now  no  more, 

And  music  dead. 


Round  her  the  feathered  choir  would  wing, 

Sae  bonnily  she  wont  to  sing, 

And  sleely3  wake  the  sleeping  string. 

Their  sang  to  lead, 
Sweet  as  the  zephyrs  o '  the  spring ; 

But  now  she's  dead. 


Mourn,  ilka  nymph  and  ilka  swain. 

Ilk  sunny  hill  and  dowie*  glen; 

Let  weeping  streams  and  Naiads  drain 

Their  fountain  head; 
Let  Echo  swell  the  dolefu'  strain, 

Sin'  music's  dead. 


Whan  the  saft  vernal  breezes  ea' 
The  grey-haired  winter's  fogs  awa', 
Xaebody  than  is  heard  to  blaw. 

Near  hill  or  mead. 
On  chaunters  or  on  aiten  straw,« 

Sin'  music's  dead. 


Nae  lasses  now,  on  sinuner  days. 
Will  lilt7  at  bleaching  o'  their  elaes; 
Nae  herds*  on  Yarrow's  bonny  braes.s 

Or  banks  o'  Tweed, 
Delight  to  chaunt  their  hameiUo  lays, 

Sin'  music's  dead. 

6 
At  glomin  now  the  bagpipe's  dumb. 
Whan  weary  owsenn  hameward  come; 


1  every 

2  homely  garb 

3  skillfully 

4  gloomy 

5  finger-pipe   (of  a  bag- 
pipe) 


«  oaten  reed 

7  sing  cheerily 

8  shepherds 

9  slopes 

10  homely 

11  oxen 


•  Native  Scottish  mnsic  and  poetry  were  for  a 
long  time  eclipsed  by  the  popularity  of  Eng- 
lish and  foreign  modes.  But  they  never  died 
out  completely :  and  at  the  verv  time  when 
Fergusson  wrote  his  lament  (about  1773) 
they  were  experiencing  a  revival  which 
reached  its  culmination  some  fifteen  years 
later  in  the  poems  and  songs  of  Bums. 


Sae  sweetly  as  it  wont  to  bum,i2 

And  pibrochsi3  skreed;i* 

We  never  hear  its  weirlike'^  hum,- 
For  music 's  dead. 


Macgibbon'sifi  gane:    Ah!   wae's  my  heart! 
The  man  in  music  maist  expert, 
Wha  cou'd  sweet  melody  impart, 

And  tune  the  reed, 
Wi'  sic  a  slee  and  pawkyi''  art; 

But  now  he's  dead. 

8 
Ilk  carlineis  now  may  grunt  and  grane. 
Ilk  bonny  lassie  make  great  mane; 
Sin'  he's  awa,  I  trow  there's  nane 

Can  fill  his  stead; 
The  blythest  sangster  on  the  plain. 

Alack,  is  dead! 

9 
Now  foreign  sonnets  bear  the  gree,i9 
And  crabbit20  queer  variety 
O'  sounds  fresh  sprung  frae  Italy, 

A  bastard  breed! 
Unlike  that  saft-tongued  melody 

Whilk2i  now  lies  dead. 

10 
Cou'd  lav'rocks22  at  the  dawning  day, 
Cou'd  Unties  chirming23  frae  the  spray, 
Or  todling  burnss*  that  smoothly  play 

O'er  gowden25  bed. 
Compare  wi'  Birls  of  Invermay?-^ 

But  now  they're  dead. 

11 
O  Scotland!  that  eou'd  yenee27  afford 
To  bang  the  pith28  o'  Roman  sword, 
Winna  your  sons,  wi'  joint  accord. 

To  battle  speed. 
And  fight  till  Music  be  restor'd, 

Whilk  now  lies  dead! 

LADY  ANNE  LINDSAY    (1750-1825) 
AuLD  RoBix  Gray 


Wlien  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  and  the  kye 

at  hame, 
And  a'  the  warld  to  rest  are  gane, 

12  drone 

13  martial  tnnes 
!•«  quaver   forth 
13  warlike 
i«  \Vm.     Macgibbon.     a 

musician    of    Edin- 
burgh. 

17  cunning 

18  old  woman 

19  victory 


20  crabbed 

21  which 

22  sky-larks 

-3  linnets  chirping 
24  loitering  brooks 

23  golden 

26  A  popular  sohg. 

27  once 

28  surpass  the  might 


400 


LATER  EIGHTEE^'TH  CENTURY 


The  waes  o '  my  heart  fa '  in  showers  f rae  my 

e'e, 
While  my  gudeman  lies  sound  by  me. 

2 
Young  Jamie  lo'ed  me  weel,  and  sought  me  for 

his  bride; 
But  saving  a  eroun  he  had  naething  else  beside; 
To  make  the  croun  a  pund,  young  Jamie  gaed 

to  sea; 
And  the  eroun  and  the  pund  were  baith  for  me. 

3 
He  hadna  been  awa'  a  week  but  only  twa, 
When  my  father  brak  his  arm,  and  the  cow  wa« 

stown29  awa'; 
My  mother  she  fell  sick, — and  my  Jamie  at  the 

sea — 
And  auld  Robin  Gray  came  a-courtin'  me. 

4 
My    father    couldna    work,    and    my    mother 

couldna  spin; 
1    toiled    day    and    night,    but    their    bread    1 

couldna  win; 
Auld    Rob    maintained    them    baith,    and    wi ' 

tears  in  his  e'e 
Said,  ' '  Jennie,  for  their  sakes,  0,  marry  me !  " 

5 
My  heart  it  said  nay ;  I  looked  for  Jamie  back ; 
But  the  wind  it  blew  high,  and  the  ship  it  was 

a  wrack; 
His  ship  it  was  a  wrack — why  didna  Jamie  dee? 
Or  why  do  I  live  to  cry,  Wae  's  me ! 

6 
^ly  father  urged  me  sair:   my  mother  didn.i 

speak ; 
But  she  looked  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was 

like  to  break: 
They  gi'ed  him  my  hand,  tho*  my  heart  was  in 

the  sea; 
Sae  auld  Robin  Gray  he  was  gudeman  to  me. 

7 
1  hadna  been  a  wife  a  week  but  only  four. 
When  mournfu'  as  I  sat  on  the  stane  at  the 

door, 
r  saw  my  Jamie's  wraith, — for  I  couldna  think 

it  he, 
Till  he  said,  *  *  I  'm  come  hame  to  marry  thee. ' ' 

8 
O  sair,  sair  did  we  greet,3<»  and  micklesi  say 

of  a'; 
We  took   but  ae  kiss,  and   I  bade  him   gang 

awa'; 


ao  Btolen 
•ocrjr 


81  much     (or     poRRlbly 
"little") 


I   wish   that  1   were  dead,   but   I'm   no  like  to 

dee; 
And  why  was  I  born  to  say,  Wae's  me! 

9 
I  gang  like  a  ghaist,  and  I  carena  to  spin; 
I  daurna  think  on  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a  sin; 
But  I  '11  do  my  best  a  gude  wife  aye  to  be, 
For  auld  Robin  Gray  he  is  kind  unto  me. 


ISOBEL  PAGAN   (d.  1821) 

Ca  '  THE  YOWES 


As  I  gaed  down  the  water  side, 
There  I  met  my  shepherd  lad, 
He  rowedi  me  sweetly  in  his  plaid, 
And  he  ca'd  me  his  dearie. 

Ca'  the  yowes2  to  the  knowes,^' 
Ca'  them  where  the  heather  grows, 
Ca'  them  where  the  burnie  rows,* 
My  bonnie  dearie. 


"Will  ye  gang  down  the  water  side. 
And  see  the  waves  sae  sweetly  glide 
Beneath  the  hazels  spreading  wide? 
The  moon  it  shines  fu'  clearly." 

Ca '  the  yotves,  etc. 


"I  was  bred  up  at  nae  sic  school, 
My  shepherd  lad,  to  play  the  fool; 
And  a'  the  day  to  sit  in  dool,-'' 
And  naebody  to  see  me. ' ' 

4 
**Ye  shall  get  gowns  and  ribbons  meet, 
Cauf-leather  shoon  upon  your  feet, 
And  in  my  arms  ye'se^  lie  and  sleep, 
And  ye  shall  be  my  dearie. ' ' 

5 
'Ml'  ye '11  but  stand  to  what  ye've  said, 
I'se  gang  wi'  you,  my  shepherd  lad; 
And  ye  may  row  me  in  your  plaid, 
And  I  shall  be  your  dearie." 

6 
"While  waters  wimple  to  the  sea. 
While  day  blinks  in  the  lift"  sae  hie. 
Till  clay-cauld  death  shall  blin'  my  e'e, 
Ye  aye  shall  be  my  dearie." 


1  rolled 

2  ewes 
s  knollR 

4  brook  flows 


5  sorrow 

6  ye  shnll 
»  «ky 


ROBERT  BURNS 


401 


LADY    NAIRN  E    (1766—1845) 

The  Land  o'  the  Leal 

1 
I  'm  wearin '  awa  ',  John, 
like  snaw-wreaths  in  thaw,  John, 
I  'm  wearin '  awa ' 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal.s 
There's  nae  sorrow  there,  John, 
There's  neither  cauld  nor  care,  John, 
The  day  is  aye  fair 

In  the  land  o'  the  leaL 
2 
Our  bonnie  bairn's  there,  John, 
She  was  baith  gude  and  fair,  John; 
And  oh!  we  grudged  her  sair 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
But  sorrow's  sel'  wears  past,  John, 
And  joy's  a-coming  fast,  John, 
The  joy  that's  aye  to  last 

In  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
3 
Sae  dear  that  joy  was  bought,  John, 
Sae  free  the  battle  fought,  John, 
That  sinfu'  man  e'er  brought 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
Oh,  dry  your  glistening  e'e,  John! 
My  saul  langs  to  be  free,  John, 
And  angels  beckon  me 

To  the  land  o'  the  leaL 
4 
Oh,  haud»  ye  leal  and  true,  John! 
Your  day  it's  wearin'  through,  John, 
And  I  'U  welcome  you 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
Now  fare-ye-weel,  my  ain  John, 
This  warld's  cares  are  vain,  John, 
We'll  meet,  and  weTl  be  fain,io 

In  the  land  o'  the  leal. 

ROBERT  BURNS  (1759-1796) 

THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT  » 

INSCRIBED  TO  ROBERT  AIKEX,  ESQ. 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil. 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure ; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear,  with  a  disdainful  smile. 

The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

Grai. 
1 
My  lov'd,  my  honour 'd,  much  respected  friend! 
No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays: 
With  honest  pride,  T  scorn  each  selfish  end, 

8  loyal,  faithful  lo  happy 

!•  hold 

•  Of   this    poi>m.    Gilbert    Burns.    Robert's   brother, 
writes :     "Robert  had  frequently  remarked  to 


My  dearest  meed,  a  friend 's  esteem  and  praise  ;t 
To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays. 
The  lowly  train  in  life's  sequester 'd  scene, 
The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless  ways, 
"VMiat  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have  been; 
Ah!    tho'   his   worth   unknown,   far   happier 

there,  I  ween! 

2 
November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh;i 
The  short 'ning  winter  day  is  near  a  close; 
The  naij  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh; 
The  black 'ning  trains  o'  craws  to  their  repose: 
The  toil-worn  Cotters  frae  his  labour  goes, — 
This  night  his  weekly  moil^  is  at  an  end, — 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes. 
Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend, 
And  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does 

hameward  bend. 

3 
At  length  his  lonely  cot  api)ear3  in  view, 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree; 
Th'     expectant    wee-things,    toddUn,    stacher* 

through 
To  meet   their  dad,  wi*  fliehterin^   noise   an' 

glee. 
His  wee  bit  ingle,^  blinkin  bonilie. 
His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thrifty  wifie  's  smile, 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee. 
Does  a'  his  weary  kiaugh?  and  care  beguile. 
An'  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labour  an' 

his  toU. 

4 
Belyve,*  the  elder  bairns  come  drappin  in. 
At  service  out,  amang  the  farmers  roun'; 
Some  ca'9  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentieio 

rin 


1  sough 

2  cottager 

3  labor 

*  stagger 
3  fluttering 


•  fire-place  or  fire 
T  anxiety 
8  by   and   by 
»  drive 
10  heedful 


me  that  he  thought  there  was  something 
peculiarly  venerable  in  the  phrase,  "Let  us 
worship  God,'  used  by  a  decent,  sober  head 
of  a  family,  introducing  family  worship.  To 
this  sentiment  of  the  author,  the  world  is 
indebted  for  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Sight. 
The  cotter  is  an  exact  copy  of  my  father,  in 
his  manners,  his  family  devotion,  and  ex- 
hortations ;  yet  the  other  parts  of  the  de- 
scription do  not  apply  to  our  family.  None 
of  us  were  'at  service  out  among  the  farmers 
roun'.  Instead  of  our  depositing  our  *sair- 
won  pennv-fee*  with  our  parents,  my  father 
laboured  hard,  and  lived  with  the  most  rigid 
economy,  that  he  might  be  able  to  keep  his 
children  at  home."  Mr.  J.  L.  Robertson,  com- 
menting on  the  fact  that  more  than  half  the 
poem  is  in  English,  says :  ".\n  unusually  ele- 
vated or  serious  train  of  thought  in  the  mind 
of  a  Scottish  peasant  seems  to  demand  for 
its  expression  the  use  of  a  speech  which  one 
may  describe  as  Sabbath  Scotch." 
t  Aiken  was  not  only  a  patron,  but  a  genuine 
friend,  of  Burns. 


402 


LATER  EIGHTEENTH  CENTUBY 


A  cannieii^  errand  to  a  neibor  town: 
Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman-grown, 
In  youthfu'  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her  e'e, 
Comes  hame,  perhaps  to   show   a   brawi2   new 

gown, 
Or  deposite  her  sair-won  penny-fee, 

To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hard- 
ship be. 

5 

With  joy  unfeign'd,  brothers  and  sisters  meet, 
And  each  for  other's  weelfare  kindly  spiers :i3 
The  social  hours,  swift-wing 'd,  unnotic'd  fleet; 
Each  tells  the  uncosi*  that  he  sees  or  hears. 
The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years; 
Anticipation  forward  points  the  view; 
The  mother,  wi'  her  needle  an'  her  sheers, 
Garsis    auld   claes   look   amaist    as   weel's   the 
new; 
The  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due. 


Their  master's  an'  their  mistress's  command 
The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey; 
An'  mind  their  labours  wi'  an  eydent^o  hand. 
An'  ne'er,  tho'  out  o'  sight,  to  jauk  or  play; 
"An'  O!  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway, 
An'  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  an'  night; 
Lest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  astray. 
Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting  might: 
They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the 
Lord  aright ! ' ' 

7 
But  hark!  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door; 
Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same. 
Tells  how  a  neibor  lad  cam  o'er  the  moor, 
To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame. 
The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 
Sparkle  in  Jenny's  e'e,  and  flush  her  cheek; 
Wi'    heart-struck,    anxious    care,    inquires    his 

name. 
While  Jenny  hafflinsi^  is  afraid  to  speak; 
Weel  pleas 'd  the  mother  hears  it's  nae  wiM 

worthless  rake. 

8 
Wi'  kindly  welcome  Jenny  brings  him  ben,>8 
A  strappin  youth ;  he  takes  the  mother 's  eye ; 
BIythe  Jenny  sees  the  visit's  no  ill  taen; 
The  father  cracks'"  of  horses,  ploughs,  and  kye. 
The  youngster's  artless  heart  o'erflows  wi'  joy, 
But    blate20   and    laithfu',21    scarce   can    weel 

behave ; 
The  mother,  wi'  a  woman's  wiles,  can  spy 


11  carpful 

12  linndsomp 

13  nskH 

14  xt range  things 

15  innkcs 
10  diligent 


17  partly 

iR  Into  lli(>  parlor 

II)  talk8 

tio  Hhamefaced 

21  baubful 


What   makes   the   youth   sae   bashfu'   and   sae 
grave, 
Weel-pleas'd  to  think  her  bairn's  respected 
like  the  lave.22 

9 

O  happy  love!  where  love  like  this  is  found! 

0  heart-felt  raptures!  bliss  beyond  compare! 

1  've  paced  much  this  weary,  mortal  round, 
And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare, — 
"If   Heaven   a   draught   of  heavenly  pleasure 

spare. 
One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 
'Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair 
In  other's  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale, 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the 

ev'ning  gale." 

10 
Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a  heart, 
A  wretch!  a  villain!  lost  to  love  and  truth! 
That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art, 
Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth? 
Curse  on  his  perjur'd  arts!  dissembling  smooth! 
Are  honour,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exil'd? 
Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  rnth, 
Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o'er  their  child; 
Then  paints  the  ruin'd  maid,  and  their  dis- 
traction wild? 

11 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board. 
The  halesome  parritch,  chief  of  Scotia's  food; 
The  sowpei  their  only  hawkie2  does  afford. 
That  yont^  the  hallan*  snugly  chows  her  cood: 
The  dame  brings  forth,  in  complimental  mood. 
To   grace   the   lad,  her  weel-hain'd   kebbuck,5 

fell;6 
An'  aft  he's  prest,  an'  aft  he  ca's  it  guid: 
The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell 

How  'twas  a  towmond  auld,  sin'  lint  was  i' 

the  bell.7 

12 
The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face, 
They  round  the  ingle  form  a  circle  wide; 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  with  patriarchal  grace 
The  big  ha's  Bible,  ance  his  father's  pride: 
His  bonnet  rev  'rently  is  laid  aside, 
His  lyart  haffetso  wearing  thin  and  bare; 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide. 
He  walesio  a  portion  with  judicious  care; 

22  rest 


1  8iip.  portion  (of  milk) 

2  row 

3  b«'yond 

4  pint  it  Ion 

.1  well  Hiivpd  choose 

n  lilting 

7  a     twelve-month     old, 

since    flax    was    in 

llowcr 


shall  (In  ancient 
usage,  the  "hall" 
was  the  general  as- 
sembly room  of  the 
house,  as  opposed 
to  the  n  r  i  V  H  t  e 
"bowers.   ) 

•  grey  temples 

io  chooses 


KOBEKT  BUKNS 


403 


And  "Let  us  worship  God!"  he  says  with 
solemn  air. 

13 
Thej  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise, 
They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim; 
Perhaps    'Dundee's'    wild-warbling    measures 

rise. 
Or  plaintive  '  Martyrs, '  worthy  of  the  name ; 
Or  noble  'Elgin'  beetsu  the  heaven-ward  flame, 
The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays: 
Compar'd  with  these,  Italian  triUs  are  tame: 
The  tickl'd  ears  no  heart-felt  raptures  raise; 
Nae    unison    hae    they    with    our    Creator's 
praise. 

14 
The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page, 
How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high; 
Or  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 
With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny; 
Or  how  the  royal  bardi2  did  groaning  lie 
Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven's  avenging  ire; 
Or  Job's  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry; 
Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  fire; 

Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

15 
Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme, 
How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed; 
How  He,  who  bore  in  Heav'n  the  second  name, 
Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  His  head: 
How  His  first  followers  and  servants  sped; 
The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a  land: 
How  he,i3  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 
Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand. 

And  heard  great  Bab 'Ion's  doom  pronounc'd 
by  Heav'n 's  command. 

16 
Then  kneeling  down  to  Heaven's  Eternal  King, 
The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays: 
Hope  ' '  springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing, '  'i* 
That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days. 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays. 
No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear. 
Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise. 
In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear. 

While  circling  Time  moves  round  in  an  eter- 
nal sphere. 

17 
Compar'd  with  this,  how  poor  Religion's  pride 
In  all  the  pomp  of  method  and  of  art, 
When  men  display  to  congregations  wide 
Devotion's  ev'ry  grace,  except  the  heart! 


11  adds  fuel  to,  fans 

12  David 

13  John 


14  Pope,    Windsor 
eat,  112. 


For- 


The  Pow'r,  incens'd,  the  pageant  will  desert, 
The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole; 
But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 
2klay   hear,   well-pleas 'd,   the   language   of   the 

soul; 
And  in  His  Book  of  Life  the  inmates  poor 

enrol. 

18 
Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev'ral  way; 
The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest; 
The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay. 
And  proffer  up  to  Heav'n  the  warm  request. 
That  He  who  stills  the  raven's  clam'rous  nest. 
And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flow'ry  pride. 
Would,  in  the  way  His  wisdom  sees  the  best. 
For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide; 
But  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine 

preside. 

19 
From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia's  grandeur 

springs. 
That  makes  her  lov'd  at  home,  rever'd  abroad: 
Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings, 
"An     honest    man's    the    noblest    work    of 

God;  "15 

And  certes,  in  fair  Virtue's  heavenly  road, 
The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind; 
What  is  a  lordling's  pompf  a  cumbrous  load. 
Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind. 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refin  'dl 

.    20 
O  Scotia!  my  dear,  my  native  soil! 
For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is  sent, 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 
Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet  eon- 
tent! 
And  oh!  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  prevent 
From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile! 
Then,  howe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 
A  \-irtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while, 

And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much- 
lov'd  isle. 

21 

O  Thou!  who  pour'd  the  patriotic  tide 
That  stream  'd  thro '  Wallace 's  undaunted  heart, 
Who  dar'd  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride. 
Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part,— 
(The  patriot's  God  peculiarly  thou  art, 
His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward!) 
O  never,  never  Scotia's  realm  desert. 
But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot-bard. 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and 
guard ! 

19  Pope,  Eaaay  on  Man,  iv,  248. 


404 


LATEB  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


ADDRESS   TO   THE   DEIL  * 

"O  Prince !  O  chiof  of  many  throned  pow'rs 
That  led  th*  embattled  seraphim  to  war." 

Milton. 
1 
O  Thou!  whatever  title  suit  thee — 
Auld  Hornie,  Satan,  Nick,  or  Clootie^ — 
Wha  in  yon  cavern  grim  an'  sootie, 
Clos'cl  under  hatches, 
Spairgest  about  the  brunstane^  cootie, 
To  scauds  poor  wretches! 


Hear  n'e,  auld  Hangie,*  for  a  wee, 
An'  let  poor  damned  bodies  be; 
I'm  sure  sma'  pleasure  it  can  gie, 

E'en  to  a  deil, 
To  skelps  an'  scaud  poor  dogs  like  me, 

An'  hear  us  squeel! 


Great  is  thy  pow 'r  au'  great  thy  famej 
Far  kenn'd  an'  noted  is  thy  name; 
An'  tho'  yon  lowins  heugh's^  thy  hame, 

Thou  travels  far; 
An'  faith!  thou's  neither  lags  nor  lame, 

Nor  blates  nor  scaur.io 


Whyles,ii  rangin  like  a  roarin  lion. 
For  prey  a'  holes  and  corners  tryin; 
Whyles,  on  the  strong-wing 'd  tempest  flyin, 

Tirlini-  the  kirks; 
Whyles,  in  the  human  bosom  pryin, 

Unseen  thou  lurks. 

5 
I've  heard  my  rev 'rend  grannie  say. 
In  lanelyi3  glens  ye  like  to  stray; 

1  From  rioot,  one  of  the      7  pit 

divisions  of  a  clo-      8  slow 

ven  hoof.  9  bashful 

2  brimstone  lo  timid 

3  scald  11  sometimes 

4  hangman  12  unroofing 

5  slap  13  lonely 
0  blazing 

•  "The  humorous  satire  of  the  piece  is  at  the 
expense  of  popular  Scottish  Calvinism." — J  L. 
Robertson. 

t  "Spairges  is  the  best  Scots  word  in  its  place  I 
ever  met  with.  The  deil  is  not  standing 
flinging  the  li<|uid  brimstone  on  his  friends 
with  a  ladle,  but  we  see  him  standing  at  a 
large  boiling  vat,  with  something  like  a  golf- 
bat,  striking  the  liquid  this  way  and  that 
way  aslant,  with  all  his  might,  making  it  fly 
through  the  whole  apartment,  while  the  in- 
mates are  winking  and  holding  up  their  arms 
to  defend  their  faces."  (.Tames  Hogg.)  This 
interpretation  admirably  fits  the  word 
xpairges  (Latin,  aparoere,  to  sprinkle;  Eng- 
lish, aaptrge,  anpeme)  ;  If  it  is  correct,  the 
word  cootie,  which  properly  means  a  wooden 
kitchen  dish  of  any  size  from  a  ladle  to  a 
small  tub.  Is  used  rather  boldly  for  the  con- 
tents of   the  cootie, 


Or  where  auld  ruin'd  castles  gray 
Nod  to  the  moon. 

Ye  fright  the  nightly  wand  'rer  's  way 
Wi'  eldritchi*  croon.is 


When  twilight  did  my  graunie  summon 

To  say  her  pray'rs,  doucei«  honest  woman! 

Aft  yonti7  the  dyke  she's  heard  you  bummin,is 

Wi'    eeriei*    drone; 
Or,  rustlin,  thro'  the  boortreesi»  comin, 

Wi'  heavy  groan. 


Ae  dreary,  windy,  winter  night, 

The  stars  shot'down  wi'  sklentinso  light, 

Wi'  you  mysel  I  gat  a  fright 

AyontiT  the  lough  ;2i 
Ye  like  a  rash-buss22  Stood  in  sight, 

Wi'  waving  sough. 

8 
The  cudgel  in  my  nieve^s  did  shake, 
Each  bristl'd  hair  stood  like  a  stake. 
When  wi '  an  eldritch,  stoor-'i ' '  Quaick,  quaick. 

Amang  the  springs, 
Awa  ye  squatter 'dzo  like  a  drake, 

On  whistlin  wings. 


Let  warlocks2«  grim,  an'  wither 'd  hags. 
Tell  how  W'i'  you,  on  ragweed  nags, 
They  skim  the  muirs^"  an'  dizzy  crags, 

Wi'  wicked  speed; 
And  in  kirk-yards  renew  their  leagues, 

Owre  howket-8  dead. 

10 
Thence,  countra  wives  wi '  toil  and  pain 
May  plunge  an'  plunge  the  kirn2»  in  vain; 
For  oh!  the  yellow  treasure's  ta'en 

By  witchin  skill; 
An'  dawtet,3o  twalai-pint  hawkie'ssz  gaen 

As  yell '833  the  bill.a* 

11 
Thence,  mystic  knots  mak  great  abuse 
On  young  guidmen,  fond,  keen,  an'  crouse;*^ 


14  ghostly 

15  moan 

16  grave 

1 7  beyond 
16  buzzing 
19  elders 
30  slanting 

21  lake 

22  bush  of  rnsbes 

23  fist 

24  harsh 


25  fluttered 
2«  wizards 

27  moors 

28  dug  up 

26  churn 

80  doted  on,  dear 

81  twelve 

82  cow 

83  dry  as 
P4  bull 

8!^  spirited 


ROBEBT  BUENS 


405 


When  the  best  wark-lume  i*  the  house, 

By  cantripi  wit, 
Is  instaot  made  no  worth  a  louse. 
Just  at  the  bit.2 

12 
When  thowes  dissolve  the  snawy  hoord, 
An '  float  the  jinglin  icy  boord, 
Then  water-kelpiess  haunt  the  foord, 

By  your  direction, 
An'   'nighted  trav'lers  are  allur'd 

To  their  destruction. 

13 
And  aft  your  moss-traversing  spunkies* 
Decoy  the  wight  that  late  an'  drunk  is: 
The  bleezin,5  curst,  mischievous  monMes 

Delude  his  eyes. 
Till  in  some  miry  slough  he  sunk  is, 

Ne'er  mair  to  rise. 

14 
When  masons'  mystic  word  an'  grip 
In  storms  an'  tempests  raise  you  up, 
Some  cock  or  cat  your  rage  maun  stop, 

Or,  strange  to  tell! 
The  youngest  brither  ye  wad  whip 

Aff  straught  to  hell. 

15 
Lang  syne,«  in  Eden's  bonie*  yard, 
When  youthfu'  lovers  first  were  pair'd, 
An'  all  the  soul  of  love  they  shar'd, 

The  raptur'd  hour. 
Sweet  on  the  fragrant  flow'ry  swaird, 

In  shady  bow'r; 

16 
Then  you,  ye  auld  snick^ -drawing  dog! 
Ye  cam  to  Paradise  incog, 
An'  play'd  on  man  a  eursfed  brogue,* 

(Black  be  your  fa'!9) 
An'  gied  the  infant  warld  a  shog,io 

'Maist  ruin'd  a'. 

17 
D'ye  mind  that  day  when,  in  a  bizz," 
Wi'  reeket  duds,  an'  reestet  gizz,i2 
Ye  did   present  your  smoutie  phiz 
'Mang  better  folk, 


1  magic 

2  nicK  of  time 

3  spirits 

•*  will-o'-tiie-wisps 

5  blazing 

0  since 

T  latch 

♦  This  spelling  represents  the  broad  Scotch  pro- 
nunciation rather  better  than  the  spelling 
bonny. 


8  trick 

9  lot 

10  shock 

11  bustle 

12  smoked  garments  and 

singed  face 


An'  sklented  on  the  man  of  Uzi 
Your  spitefu'  jokef 

18 

An'  how  ye  gat  him  i'  your  thrall. 
An'  brak  him  out  o'  house  an  hal'. 
While  scabs  and  blotches  did  him  gall, 

Wi'  bitter  claw; 
An'  lpws'd2  his  ill-tongu'd  wicked  scaul',3 

Was  warst  aval 

19 
But  a'  your  doings  to  rehearse. 
Your  wily  snares  an'  fechtin*  fierce, 
Sin'  that  day  Michael  did  you  pierce,^ 

Down  to  this  time, 
Wad  ding  a  Lallans  tongue,  or  Erse,^ 

In  prose  or  rhyme. 

20 
An'  now,  auld  Cloots,8  I  ken  ye 're  thinkin, 
A  certain  bardie's  rantin,  drinkin. 
Some  luckless  hour  will  send  him  linkins 

To   your  black  pit; 
But  faith!  he'll  turn  a  corner  jinkin,io 

An'  cheat  you  yet. 

21 
But  fare  you  weel,  auld  Nickie-ben! 

0  wad  ye  tak  a  thought  an'  men'! 
Ye  aiblinsn  might — I  dinna  ken — 

Still  hae  a  stake: 

1  'm  waei2  to  think  upo '  yon  den, 

Ev'n  for  your  sake! 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  UNCO  GUIDf 
OR   THE  RIGIDLY   RIGHTEOUS 

My  Son,  these  maxims  make  a  rule, 
An'  lump  them  aye  thegither ; 
The  Rigid  Righteous  is  a  fool. 
The  Rigid  Wise  anither : 
The  cleanest  corn  that  e'er  was  dightis 

May  hae  some  pyles  o'  caffi*  in ; 
So  ne'er  a  fellow-creature  slight 
For  random  fits  o'  daffin.is 

Solomon. — Eccles.  vii,  16. 


O  ye  wha  are  sae  guid  yoursel', 
Sae  pious  and  sae  holy. 


1  Job 

2  loosed 

3  scold 

4  fighting 

5  Par.  Lost  vi.  325 

6  bafBe  a  lowland 
T  Gaelic 

8  hoof s   (Satan) 
t  The    word    unco    (for    uncouth,    "unknown")    Is 

used  both  as  an  adjective,  meaning  "unusual, 
strange."  and  as  an  adverb,  meaning  "extreme- 
ly,  wonderfully." 


0  tripping 

10  dodging 

11  perhaps 

12  sad 

13  dressed,  winnowed 

14  grains  of  cbaS 

15  merriment 


406 


LATEK  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


Ye've  nought  to  do  but  mark  and  tell 
Your  neibours'  fauts  and  folly! 

Whase  life  is  like  a  weel-gaum  mill, 
Supplied  wi '  store  o '  water ; 

The  heapet  happer's  ebbing  still, 
An '  still  the  claps  plays  clatter, — 

2 
Hear  me,  ye  venerable  core,3 

As  counsel  for  poor  mortals 
That  frequent  pass  douce*  Wisdom 's  door 

For  glaikets  Folly's  portals: 
I,  for  their  thoughtless,  careless  sakes. 

Would  here  propone^  defences — 
Their  donsie^  tricks,  their  black  mistakes. 

Their  failings  and  mischances, 

3  ! 

Ye  see  your  state  wi'  theirs  compar'd, 

And  shudder  at  the  nifferjs 
But  cast  a  moment's  fair  regard. 

What  makes  the  mighty  differ  ?o 
Discount  what  scant  occasion  gave, 

That  purity  ye  pride  in; 
And  (what's  aft  mair  than  a'  the  lave) 

Your  better  art  o'  hidin. 

4 
Think,  when  your  castigated  pulse 

Gies  now  and  then  a  wallop. 
What  ragings  must  his  veins  convulse 

That  still  eternal  gallop!        • 
Wi'  wind  and  tide,  fair  i'  your  tail, 

Right  on  ye  scud  your  sea-way; 
But  in  the  teeth  o'  baith  to  sail, 

It  makes  an  unco  lee-way. 

5 
See  Social  Life  and  Glee  sit  down. 

All  joyous  and  unthinking, 
Till,  quite  tran8mugrified,io  they're  grown 

Debauchery  and  Drinking: 

0  would  they  stay  to  calculate 
Th '  eternal  consequences ; 

Or — ^your  more  dreaded  hell  to  state — 
Damnation  of  expenses!     .... 

7 
Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man. 

Still  gentler  sister  woman; 
Tho'  Ihey  may  gang  a  kenninn  wrang, 

To  step  aside  is  human; 
One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark, — 

The  moving  Why  they  do  it; 
And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark, 

How  far  perhaps  they  rue  it. 

1  well-golng 

2  clapper 
»  corps,  company 
4  grave 
6  giddy 
«  propone 


7  mischievous 

8  exchange 
8  difference 

10  transformed 

11  a  little 


8 
Who  made  the  heart,  'tis  He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us; 
He  knows  each  chord,  its  various  tone. 

Each  spring,  its  various  bias: 
Then  at  the  balance  let's  be  mute. 

We  never  can  adjust  it; 
What's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 

But  know  not  what's  resisted. 


TO  A  MOUSE 

ON    TURNING    HER    UP    IN    HER    NEST    WITH    THE 
PLOUGH,   NOVEMBER,    1785 

1 

Wee,  sleekit,!  cowrin,  tim'rous  beastie, 
O,  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breastie! 
Thou  need  na  start  awa  sae  hasty 

Wi'  bickerings  brattle !3 
I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an'  chase  thee 

Wi'  murd'rin  pattle!* 


I'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  nature's  social  union. 
An'  justifies  that  ill  opinion 

Which  makes  thee  startle 
At  me,  thy  poor,  earth-born  companion, 

An'  fellow-mortal! 


I  doubt  na,  whyles,5  but  thou  may  thieve; 
What  then?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live! 
A  daimens  icker^  in  a  thrave^ 

'S  a  sma'  request; 
I'll  get  a  blessin  wi'  the  lave,» 

An'  never  miss't! 


Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin! 
It's  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin! 
An'  naething,  now,  to  bigio  a  new  ane, 

O*  foggage^i  green! 
An'  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin, 

Baith  snelli2  an'  keen! 


Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  and  waste. 
An'  weary  winter  comin  fast. 
An'  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast, 

Thou  thought  to  dwell. 
Till  crash!  the  cruel  coulter 1 3  past 

Out  thro'  thy  cell. 

1  sleek  8  twenty-four  sheaves. 

2  hastening  8  rest 

8  scamper  lo  build 

4  plough-staff,  or  scraper  1 1  herbage 

B  sometimes  12  sharp 

6  occasional  18  plough 

7  ear  of  corn 


BOBEET  BUENS 


407 


6 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble 

Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble! 

Now   thou 's   turn  'd    out,    for   a '    thy    trouble, 

Buti  house  or  hald,2 
To  tholes  the  winter's  sleety  dribble 

An'  cranreuch*  cauld! 


But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane^ 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain; 
The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men 

Gang  aft  a-gley,8 
An'  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  an'  pain, 

For  promis'd  joy. 

8 
Still  thou  art  blest,  compar'd  wi'  me; 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee: 
But  och!  I  backward  cast  my  e'e 

On  prospects  drear! 
An'  forward,  tho'  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an'  fear! 


TO  A  LOUSE 

ON  SEEING  OXE  ON  A  LADY  'S  BONNET  AT  CHUKCH 
1 

Ha!  whaur  ye  gaun,  ye  crowlin^  ferliefs 
Your  impudence  protects  you  sairly;» 
I  canna  say  but  ye  struntio  rarely, 

Owre  gauze  and  lace; 
Tho',  faith!  I  fear  ye  dine  but  sparely 

On  sic  a  place. 


Ye  ugly,  creepin,  blastitu  wonuer,i2 
Detested,  shunn  'd  by  saunt  an '  sinner. 
How  daur  ye  set  your  fitis  upon  her — 

Sae  fine  a  lady  I 
Gae  somewhere  else  and  seek  your  dinner 

On  some  poor  body. 

3 

Swith!i*  in  some  beggar's  haffeti^  squattle;i« 
There  ye  may  creep,  and  sprawl,  and  sprattle.J" 
Wi'  ither  kindred,  jumping  cattle. 

In  shoals  and  nations; 
Whaur  hornis  nor  baneis  ne'er  daur  unsettle 

Your  thick  plantations. 


1  without 

2  abode 

3  endure 

4  hoar-frost 

5  alone 
«  awry 

"  crawling 
s  wonder 
n  irreatl^ 
10  strut 


I 


11  blasted,  "confounded" 

12  marvel 

13  foot 
1-1  quick 
IS  temple 
Hi  sprawl 

17  struggle 

18  horn-comb 

19  poison 


Now  haud2o  you  there,  ye 're  out  o'  sight, 
Below  the  fatt'rels,2i  snug  and  tight; 
Xa,  faith  ye  yet!  ye '11  no  be  right 

Till  ye've  got  on  it — 
The  vera  tapmost,  tow'rin  height 

O'  Miss's  bonnet. 


My  sooth! 22  right  bauld  ye  set  your  nose  out, 
As  plump  an'  grey  as  ony  grozet23 

0  for  some  rank,  mercurial  rozet,24 

Or  fell,  red  smeddum,25 

1  'd  gie  you  sic  a  hearty  dose  o  't. 

Wad  dress  your  drodduin.2« 


I  wad  na  been  surpris'd  to  spy 
You  on  an  auld  wife's  flainen  toy; 27 
Or  aiblins  some  bit  duddie28  boy, 

On's  wyliecoat;29 
But  Miss's  fine  Lunardi!3o  fye! 

How  daur  ye  do'tf 


O  Jenny,  dinna  toss  your  head, 
An'  set  your  beauties  a'  abread! 
Ye  little  ken  what  cursed  speed 

The  blastie's  makin! 
Thae  winks  an'  finger-ends,  I  dread. 

Are  notice  takin! 

8 
O  wad  some  Power  the  giftie  gie  us 
To  see  oursels  as  ithers  see  us! 
It  wad  frae  mony  a  blunder  free  us. 

An'  foolish  notion: 
What  airs  in  dress  an '  gait  wad  lea  'e  us, 

An'  ev'n  devotion! 


TO  A  MOUNTAIN  DAISY 

ON    TURNING   ONE   DOWN    AVITH    THE    PLOUGH,   IN 
APRIL,  1786 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tippfed  flow'r, 

Thou's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour; 

For  I  maunsi  crush  amang  the  stoure32 

Thy  slender  stem: 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  pow  'r. 

Thou  bonie  gem. 


20  hold 

21  ribbon-ends 

22  truth 

2:^  gooseberry 
24  rosin 
2--.  powder 
20  back 


27  flannel  cap 

28  ragged 

29  flannel  vest 

30  A   bonnet  named  for 

an  aeronaut. 

31  must 

32  flying  dust 


408 


LA  TEE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


Alas!  it's  no  thy  neibor  sweet, 
The  bonie  lark,  companion  meet. 
Bending  thee   'mang  the  dewy  weet 

Wi'  spreckl'd  breast. 
When  upward-springing,  biythe,  to  greet 

The  purpling  east. 


Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth; 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm, 
Scarce  rear'd  above  the  parent-earth 

Thy  tender  form. 


The  flaunting  flow'rs  our  gardens  yield, 
High  shelt'ring  woods  an'  wa'si  maun  shield; 
But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bields 

0 '  clod  or  stane, 
Adorns  the  histies  stibble  field 

Unseen,  alane. 


There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad. 
Thy  snawie  bosom  sun-ward  spread. 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise; 
But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed. 

And  low  thou  lies! 

6 
Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 
Sweet  flow 'ret  of  the  rural  shade! 
By  love's  simplicity  betray 'd. 

And  guileless  trust; 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soil'd,  is  laid 

Low  i'  the  dust. 


Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard. 

On  life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starr'd! 

Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card* 

Of  prudent  lore, 
Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard, 

And  whelm  him  o'er! 

8 
Such  fate  to  suffering  Worth  is  giv'n, 
Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striv'n. 
By  human  pride  or  cunning  driv'n 

To  mis'ry's  brink; 
Till  wrench  'd  of  ev  'ry  stay  but  Heav  'n, 

He  ruin'd  sink! 


10 


Ev'n  thou  who  mourn 'st  the  Daisy's  fate, 
That  fate  is  thine — no  distant  date; 
Stern  Ruin's  plough-share  drives  elate. 

Full  on  thy  bloom. 
Till  crush  'd  beneath  the  furrow 's  weight 

Shall  be  thy  doom! 


TAM  O '  SHANTER 

A  TALE 

"Of  Brownyis  and  of  Bogillis  full  is  this  Buke." 
— Gawin  Douglas. 

When  chapmani  billies2  leave  the  street. 
And  drouthys  neibors  neibors  meet. 
As  market-days  are  wearing  late. 
And  folk  begin  to  tak  the  gate; 
While  we  sit  bousin*  at  the  nappy,5 
An'  getting  fous  and  unco-'  happy. 
We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles. 
The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,^  and  stiles, 
That  lie  between  us  and  our  hame, 
Whare  sits  our  sulky,  sullen  dame, 
Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering  storm, 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fands  honest  Tam  o'  Shanter, 
As  he  frae  Ayr  ae  night  did  canter; 
(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne'er  a  town  surpasses,       15 
For  honest  men  and  bonie  lasses). 


0  Tam!  had'st  thou  but  been  sae  wise. 
As  taen  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice! 
She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  was  a  skellum,io 
A  bletherin,ii  blusterin,  drunken  blellum;i2 
That  frae  November  till  October, 
Ae  market-day  thou  was  na  sober; 
That  ilka  melderis  wi'  the  miller. 
Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller; 
That  ev'ry  naig  was  ca'd'*  a  shoe  on. 
The  smith  and  thee  gat  roarin  fou  on; 
That  at  the  Lord's  house,  ev'n  on  Sunday, 
Thou  drank  wi'  Kirkton  Jean  till  Monday. 
She  prophesied  that,  late  or  soon, 
Thou     would     be     found,     deep     drown 'd 

Doon, 
Or  catch 'd  wi'  warlocksis  in  the  mirk,i« 
By  AUoway's  auld,  haunted  kirk. 


1  walls 

2  shelter 


.1  barren 

*  compaHs-card 


Ah,  gentle  dames!  it  gars  me  greet,' ^ 
To  think  how  mony  counsels  sweet, 


1  pedlar 

2  fellows 

3  thirsty 

4  drinking 
s  ale 

6  full 
T  very 
n  gates 
9  found 


20 


25 


10  rascal 

11  idly-talking 

12  babbler 

18  e  V  e  r  y   grinding   o  f 

corn 
14  driven 

13  wizards 

16  dark 

17  make   me  weep 


ROBEET  BURNS 


409 


How  mony  lengthen 'd ',  sage  advices, 
The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises! 


35 


But  to  our  tale: — Ae  market  night, 
Tam  had  got  planted  unco  right, 
Fast  by  an  ingle,  bleezin  finely, 
Wi'  reamin  swatsi  that  drank  divinely;  40 

And  at  his  elbow,  Souter2  Johnie, 
His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  crony: 
Tam  lo'ed  him  like  a  vera  brither; 
They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither. 
The  night  drave  on  wi'  sangs  and  clatter;     45 
And  ay  the  ale  was  growing  better: 
The  landlady  and  Tam  grew  gracious, 
Wi'  secret  favours,  sweet  and  precious: 
The  souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories; 
The  landlord's  laugh  was  ready  chorus;         50 
The  storm  without  might  rair  and  rustle, 
Tam  did  na  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 

Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  sae  happy, 
E'en  drown 'd  himsel  amang  the  nappy: 
As  bees  flee  hame  wi'  lades  o'  treasure,         55 
The  minutes  wing'd  their  way  wi'  pleasure; 
Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tam  was  glorious, 
O'er  a'  the  ills  o'  life  victorious! 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, 
You  seize  the  flow  'r,  its  bloom  is  shed ;         60 
Or  like  the  snow  falls^  in  the  river, 
A  moment  white — then  melts  for  ever; 
Or  like  the  borealis  race. 
That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place; 
Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form  65 

Evanishing  amid  the  storm. —  ^ 
Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide: 
The  hour  approaches  Tam  maun  ride; 
That  hour,  o'  night's  black  arch  the  key-stane, 
That  dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  beast  in;       70 
And  sic  a  night  he  taks  the  road  in, 
As  ne  'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

The  wind  blew  as  'twad  blawn  its  last; 
The  rattling  show'rs  rose  on  the  blast; 
The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallow 'd;    75 
Loud,  deep,  and  lang  the  thunder  bellow 'd: 
That  night,  a  child  might  understand. 
The  Deil  had  business  on  his  hand. 

Weel-mounted  on  his  grey  mare,  Meg, 
A  better  never  lifted  leg,  80 

Tam   skelpit*  on  thro'  dub'"'   and  mire. 
Despising  wind,  and  rain,  and  fire; 
Whiles  holding  fast  his  gude  blue  bonnet. 
Whiles  crooning  o  'er  some  auld  Scots  sonnet, 
Whiles  glow'rin  round  wi'  prudent  cares,       85 


1  frothing  ales 

2  shoemaker 

3  Supply  "that." 


4  hurried 

5  puddle 


Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares. 
Kirk-Alloway  was  drawing  nigh. 
Where  ghaists  and  houletsi  nightly  cry. 

By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 
Whare  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  smoor'd;2      90 
And  past  the  birkss  and  meikle*  stane, 
Whare  drucken  Charlie  brak's  neck-bane; 
And  thro'  the  whins,^  and  by  the  cairn,6 
Whare  hunters  fand  the  murder 'd  bairn; 
And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well,  95 

Whare  Mungo's  mither  hang'd  hersel. 
Before  him  Doon  pours  all  his  floods; 
The  doubling  storm  roars  thro'  the  woods, 
The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole. 
Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll;  100 

When,  glimmering  thro'  the  groaning  trees, 
Kirk-Alloway  seem'd  in  a  bleeze," 
Thro'  ilka  bores  the  beams  were  glancing, 
And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing. 

Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn!  105 

What  dangers  thou  canst  make  us  scorn! 
Wi '  tippenny,9  we  fear  nae  evil ; 
Wi '  usquabae,io  we  '11  face  the  devil ! 
The  swats  sae  ream'd  in  Tammie's  noddle. 
Fair  play,  he  car'd  na  deUs  a  boddle,"  HO 

But  ilaggie  stood,  right  gair  astonish  'd, 
Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonish 'd, 
She  ventur'd  forward  on  the  light; 
And,  wow!  Tam  saw  an  unco  12  sight! 

Warlocks  and  witches  in  a  dance;  115 

Nae  cotillon  brentis  new  frae  France, 
But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and  reelsi* 
Put  Ufe  and  mettle  in  their  heels. 
A  winnock-bunkeris  in  the  east. 
There  sat  Auld  Nick,  in  shape  o'  beast;       120 
A  towzie  tyke,i6  black,  grim,  and  large. 
To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge; 
He  screw 'd  the  pipes  and  gart  them  skirl,i7 
Till  roof  and  rafters  a'  did  dirl.is 
Cofiins  stood  round,  like  open  presses,         126 
That  shaw'd  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses; 
And  by  some  devilish  eantraipis  sleight 
Each  in  its  eauld  hand  held  a  light. 
By  which  heroic  Tam  was  able 
To  note  upon  the  haly  table  130 

A  murderer's  banes  in  gibbet-aims; 
Twa  span-lang,  wee,  unchristened  bairns; 
A  thief,  new-cutted  frae  the  rape,2o 


1  owls 

2  smothered 

3  birches 

4  great 

5  furze 

9  heap  of  stones 
"  blaze 

8  chink 

»  two-penny  ale 

10  whiskey 


11  a  small  coin 

12  strange 

13  bright  (new) 

14  All  Scottish  dances. 

15  window-seat 

16  shaggy  cur 

IT  made  them  shriek 

18  rattle 

19  magic 

20  rope 


410 


LATER  EIGHTEENTH  CENTUEY 


Wi '  his  last  gasp  his  gabi  did  gape ; 

Five  tomahawks,  wi'  blude  red-rusted:         135 

Eive  scymitars,  wi'  murder  crusted; 

A  garter,  which  a  babe  had  strangled: 

A  knife,  a  father's  throat  had  mangled. 

Whom  his  ain  son  o'  life  bereft. 

The  grey  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft;  140 

Wi'  mair  o'  horrible  and  awfu', 

Which  ev'n  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu'. 

As  Tammie  glowr'd,^   amaz'd,   and   curious, 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious; 
The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew,  145 

The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew; 
They     reel'd,     they     set,     they     cross 'd,     they 

cleekit,3 
Till  ilka  carlin*  swat^'  and  reekit,« 
And  eoosf?  her  duddies^  to  the  wark,9 
And  linketio  at  it  in  her  sark!"  150 

Now,  Tam,  O  Tam;  had  thae  been  queans,i2 
A'  plump  and  strapping  in  their  teens! 
Their  sarks,  instead  o'  creeshieis  flannen, 
Been  snaw-white  seventeen  hunder  linen!* 
Thiri-t  breeks  o'  mine,  my  only  pair,  155 

That  ance  were  plush,  o'  gude  blue  hair, 
I  wad  hae  gien  them  aff  my  hurdles,!'' 
For  ae  blink  o'  the  bonie  burdieslio 
But  wither 'd  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 
EigwoodieiT  hags  wad  speanis  a  foal,  160 

Lowpingi»  an'  flinging  on  a  crummock,2o 
I  wonder  didna  turn  thy  stomach. 

But  Tam  ken'd  what  was  what  fu'  brawlie:2i 
There  was  ae  winsome  wench  and  walie22 
That  night  enlisted  in  the  eore-'3  165 

(Lang  after  ken'd  on  Carrick  shore: 
For  mony  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot. 
And  perish 'd  mony  a  bonie  boat, 
And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  bear,24 
And  kept  the  country-side  in  fear) ;  170 

Her  cutty  sark,  o'  Paisley  harn,25 
That  while  a  lassie  she  had  worn. 
In  longitude  tho'  sorely  scanty, 
It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vauntie.2e 


1  mouth 

2  Btarod 

3  Joined  hands 

4  old  woman 

5  sweated 
8  steamed 

7  cast  off 

8  rlothes 

0  work 

10  tripped 
M  smm'k 
12  Kirls 

1  a  Kreasy 
n  tlieHe 


Ah!  little  ken'd  thy  reverend  grannie,  175 

That  sark  she  cofti  for  her  wee  Nannie, 
Wi'  twa  pund  Scotsf  ('twas  a'  her  riches), 
Wad  ever  grac'd  a  dance  of  witches! 

But  here  my  Muse  her  wing  maun  cow'r. 
Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  pow'r;  180 

To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  flang 
(A  souple  jade  she  was  and  Strang), 
And  how  Tam  stood,  like  one  bewitch 'd, 
And  thought  his  very  een-  enrich 'd: 
Even  Satan  glovvr'd,  and  fidg'd^  fu'  fain,     185 
And  hotch'd*  and  blew  wi'  might  and  main: 
Till  first  ae  caper,  syne'>  anither, 
Tam  tinto  his  reason  a'  thegither, 
And  roars  out,  "Weel  done,  Cutty-sark!" 
And  in  an  instant  all  was  dark:  190 

And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied. 
When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi'  angry  fyke,7 
When  plundering  herds  assail  their  byke;^ 
As  open  pussie's^  mortal  foes,  195 

When,  pop!   she  starts  before  their  nose; 
As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd. 
When  "Catch  the  thief!"  resounds  aloud; 
So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches  follow, 
Wi'  mony  an  eldritchio  skriech  and  hollo.     200 

Ah,  Tam!  Ah,  Tam!  thou '11  get  thy  fairinlu 
In  hell  they'll  roast  thee  like  a  herrin! 
In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  eomin! 
Kate  soon  will  be  a  woefu'  woman! 
Now,  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg,  205 

And  win  the  key-stane  of  the  brig;  12 
There,  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss, 
A  running  stream  they  dare  na  cross. 
But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make. 
The  fienti3  a  tail  she  had  to  shake!  210 

For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest. 
Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest. 
And  flew  at  Tam  wi'  furious  ettle;i* 
But  little  wist  she  Maggie's  mettle — 
Ae  spring  brought  aff  her  master  hale,  215 

But  left  behind  her  ain  grey  tail: 
The  carlin  claught  her  by  the  rump. 
And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a  stump. 


IS  hips 
18  lasses 

17  bony 

18  that  would  wean  (by 

disgust) 
10  leaping 

20  staff 

21  well 

22  goodly 

23  company 

24  barley 

2B  short  shirt,  of  Paisley 

yarn 
2(1  proud 


•  Very  fine  linen,  woven  In  a  reed  of  1700  divi- 
sions, or  40  to  the  Inch. 


Now,  wha  this  tale  0'  truth  shall  read, 
Ilk  man,  and  mother's  son,  take  heed: 
Whene'er  to  drink  you  are  inclin'd. 
Or  cutty-sarks  nm  in  your  mind, 


220 


1  bought 

2  eyes 

3  fidgeted 

4  s(|ulrmed 
r>  then 

n  lost 
7  fnss 


Shire 

9  the  hare's 

10  ghostly 

11  reward 

1 2  bridge 
IS  devil 
14  Intent 


t  A    pound    Scots    Is    one   shilling,    eight    pence — 
about   forty  cents. 


ROBEKT  BURNS 


411 


Think,  ye  may  buy  the  joys  owre  dear; 
Bemember  Tam  o'  Shanter's  mare. 


GBEEN  GBOW  THE  BASHES 

There's  nought  but  care  on  ev'ry  ban*, 

In  ev'ry  hour  that  passes,  O: 
What  signifies  the  life  o'  man, 

An  'twere  na  for  the  lasses,  O. 

Chor. — Green  grow  the  rashes,!  O; 
Green  grow  the  rashes,  O; 
The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er   I   spend 
Are  spent  among  the  lasses,  O. 

The  war1y2  race  may  riches  chase, 

An'  riches  still  may  fly  them,  0; 
An'  the'  at  last  they  catch  them  fast, 

Their  hearts  can  ne'er  enjoy  them,  O. 

Green  grow,  &e. 

But  gie  me  a  eannies  hour  at  e  'en, 

My  arms  about  my  dearie,  O; 
An'  war'ly  cares,  an'  war'ly  men. 

May  a'  gae  tapsalteerie,*  O! 

Green  grow,  &c. 

For  yoQ  sae  douce,'  ye  sneer  at  this; 

Ye 're  nought  but  senseless  asses,  O: 
The  wisest  man  the  warl'  e'er  saw, 

He  dearly  lov'd  the  lasses,  O. 

Green  grow,  &c, 

Auld  Nature  swears,  the  lovely  dears 

Her  noblest  work  she  classes,  O: 
Her  prentice  han'  she  try'd  on  man, 

An'  then  she  made  the  lasses,  O. 

Green  grow,  &c. 

ATJLD  LANG  SYNE 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot. 

And  never  brought  to  min'f 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot 

And  auld  lang  syne!« 

Chorus — For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear. 
For  auld  lang  syne. 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 
For  auld  lang  syne. 

And  surely  ye '11  be  your  pint-stowp!7 

And  surely  I'll  be  mine! 
And  we'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet. 

For  auld  lang  syne. 
For  auld,  &e. 


1  rushes 

2  worldly 
8  quiet 

4  topsy-torvy 

5  grave 


« old     long    since     (old 

times) 
r  be  good  for  (stand  for) 

your     three  -  pint 

measure 


We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes,i 

And  pu'd  the  gowans^  fine; 
But  we've  wander 'd  mony  a  weary  fit,3 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 
For  auld,  &c. 

We  twa  hae  paidl'd  i'  the  burn,* 

From  mornin'  sun  till  dine;' 
But  seas  between  us  braid«  hae  roax'd 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 
For  auld,  &e. 

And  there's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fierl^ 

And  gie's  a  hand  o'  thine! 
And  we'U  tak  a  right  guid-willie  waught,8 

For  auld  lang  syne. 
For  auld,  &c. 


JOHN  ANDEBSON  MY  JO 

John  Anderson  my  jo,»  John, 

When  we  were  first  acquent, 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 

Your  bonie  brow  was  brent  ;i* 
But  now  your  brow  is  beld,ii  John, 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow,i2 

John  Anderson  my  jo. 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither; 
And  mony  a  cantyi3  day,  John 

We've  had  wi'  ane  anither:: 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

And  hand  in  hand  well  go. 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson  my  jo. 


WHISTLE  O'EB  THE  LAVE  O'T 

First  when  Maggie  was  my  care, 
Heav'n,  I  thought,  was  in  her  air. 
Now  we're  married — speiri*  nae  mair. 

But  whistle  o'er  the  laveis  o't! 
Meg  was  meek,  and  Meg  was  mild. 
Sweet  and  harmless  as  a  child — 
Wiser  men  than  me's  beguil'd; 
Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't  I 

How  we  live,  my  Meg  and  me, 
How  we  love,  and  how  we  gree, 


1  slopes 

2  daisies 

3  foot 

4  brook 

5  dinner-time 
G  broad 

7  comrade 

8  hearty  draught 


8  sweetheart  (Joy) 

10  smooth 

11  bald 

12  head 

13  merry 

14  ask 
16  rest 


412 


LATER  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


I  care  na  by  how  few  may  see — 

Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't! 
Wha  I  wish  were  maggot's  meat, 
Dish'd  up  in  her  winding-sheet, 
I   could   write — but    Meg   maun   see't — 

Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't! 


TO  MARY  IN  HEAVEN* 

Thou  ling 'ring  star,  with  less'ning  ray, 

That  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  morn, 
Again  thou  usher 'st  in  the  day 

My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 
O  Mary!  dear  departed  shade! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 
See 'at  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid? 

Hear'st     thou    the    groans    that    rend 
breast? 

That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget. 

Can  I  forget  the  hallowed  grove, 
Where  by  the  winding  Ayr  we  met 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love? 
Eternity  wiU  not  efface 

Those  records  dear  of  transports  past, 
Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace — 

Ah!  little  thought  we   'twas  our  last! 


his 
8 


16 


Ayr,  gurgling,  kiss'd  his  pebbled  shore, 

O'erhung  with  wild  woods,  thick 'ning  green; 
The  fragrant  birch  and  hawthorn  hoar 

'Twin'd  amorous  round  the  raptur'd  scene: 
The  flow'rs  sprang  wanton  to  be  prest. 

The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray, 
Till  too,  too  soon  the  glowing  west 

Proclaim 'd  the  speed  of  winged  day.  24 

Still  0  'er  these  scenes  my  mem  'ry  wakes, 

And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care! 
Time  but  th'  impression  stronger  makes, 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 
My  Mary,  dear  departed  shade! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 
See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid? 

Hear'st     thou    the    groans    that    rend    his 
breast?  32 


MY  HEART'S  IN   THE  HIGHLANDS 

Farewell    to    the    Highlands,    farewell    to    the 

North, 
The    birth-place    of    valour,    the    country    of 

worth ; 
Wherever  I  wander,  wherever  I  rove, 
The  hills  of  the  Highlands  for  ever  I  love. 

*  Mary    Campbell,    who    died    in    1786 ;    Bums's 
"Hlgbland   Mary." 


My  heart's  in  the   Highlands,  my  heart  is 

not  here; 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  a-chasing  the 

deer; 
A-chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the 

roe, 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I  go. 

Farewell  to  the  mountains,  high-cover 'd  with 
snow ; 

Farewell  to  the  strathsi  and  green  valleys  be- 
low; 

Farewell  to  the  forests  and  wild-hanging  woods. 

Farewell  to  the  torrents  and  loud-pouring 
floods. 

My  heart's  in   the  Highlands,  my  heart  is 

not  here; 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  a-chasing  the 

deer; 
A-ehasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the 

roe, 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I  go. 

THE  BANKS  0'  DOON 

Ye  flowery  banks  o'  bonie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  blume  sae  fair? 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds. 

And  I  sae  fu'  o'  care? 

Thou  '11  break  my  heart,  thou  bonie  bird, 

That  sings  upon  the  bough; 
Thou  minds  me  o '  the  happy  days. 

When  my  fause  luve  was  true.  8 

Thou '11  break  my  heart,  thou  bonie  bird, 

That  sings  beside  thy  mate; 
For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang. 

And  wist  na  o'  my  fate. 

Aft  hae  I  rov'd  by  bonie  Doon 

To  see  the  woodbine  twine, 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o '  its  luve, 

And  sae  did  I  o'  mine.  16 

Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 

Frae  aff  its  thorny  tree; 
And  my  fause  luver  staw2  my  rose 

But  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 

AFTON  WATER 

Flow   gently,   sweet   Afton,   among  thy   green 

braes," 
Flow    gently,    I  '11    sing    1|hee    a    song    in    thy 

praise ; 


1  brond  vales 

2  stole 


8  hills,  slopes 


EOBEBT  BURNS 


413 


My  Mary 's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow    gently,    sweet    Afton,    disturb    not    her 
dream. 

Thou  stock-dove  whose  echo  resounds  thro'  the 

glen, 
Ye  wild  whistling  blackbirds  in  yon  thorny  den, 
Thou     green-crested    lapwing,    thy    screaming 

forbear, 
I    charge    you,    disturb    not    my    slumbering 

fair.  8 

How  lofty,  sweet  Afton,  thy  neighbouring  hills, 
Far  mark'd  with  the  courses  of  clear,  winding 

rills; 
There  daily  I  wander  as  noon  rises  high. 
My  flocks  and  my  Mary's  sweet  cot  in  my  eye. 

How    pleasant    thy    banks    and    green    valleys 

below. 
Where    wild   in    the   woodlands   the   primroses 

blow; 
There  oft,  as  mild  Evening  weeps  over  the  lea, 
The  sweet-scented  birki  shades  my  Mary  and 

me.  16 

Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how  lovely  it  glides, 
And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary  resides; 
How  wanton  thy  waters  her  snowy  feet  lave. 
As  gathering  sweet  flow 'rets  she  stems  thy 
clear  wave. 

Flow   gently,   sweet   Afton,   among  thy   green 

braes. 
Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my  lays; 
My  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow    gently,    sweet    Afton,    disturb    not    her 

dream.  24 

HIGHLAND  MAEY 

Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green  be  your  woods,  and   fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlie!2 
There  simmer  first  unfald3  her  robes. 

And  there  the  langest  tarry; 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 

O'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary.  8 

How  sweetly  bloom 'd  the  gay  green  birk. 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom, 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 

I  clasp 'd  her  to  my  bosom! 
The  golden  hours  on  angel  wings. 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie; 
For  dear  to  me,  as  light  and  life. 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary.  16 


Wi'  monie  a  vow,  and  lock'd  embrace, 

Our  parting  was  fu'  tender; 
And,  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursels  asunder; 
But  O,  fell  death's  untimely  frost. 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early! 
Now  green's  the  sod,  and  cauld's  the  clay, 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary!  24 

O  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips, 

I  aft  hae  kiss'd  sae  fondly! 
And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly! 
And  mould 'ring  now  in  silent  dust. 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly! 
But  still  within  my  bosom 's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 


32 


1  birch 

2  muddy 


3i. 


e.,  may  summer  un- 
fold 


BANNOCKBURN 
Robert  Bruce 's  Address  to  His  Abkt 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 
Or  to  victory! 

Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour; 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lour; 
See  approach  proud  Edward's'  power — 
Chains  and  slavery! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave  t 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's'  grave? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave! 
Let  him  turn  and  flee! 

Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom 's  sword  will  strongly  draw. 
Freeman  stand,  or  Freeman  fa', 
Let  him  follow  me! 

By  oppression's  woes  and  pains! 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins. 
But  they  shall  be  free! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe! 
Liberty's  in  every  blow! — 
Let  us  do  or  die! 


16 


24 


CONTENTED   WI'   LITTLE   AND 
CANTIE  WI'  MAIE 

Contented  wi'  little,  and  cantiei  wi'  mair, 
Whene'er  I  forgatherz  wi'  Sorrow  and  Care, 
I  gie  them  a  skelps  as  they're  creeping  alang, 


1  merry 

2  meet 


3  slap 


iU 


LATER  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


Wi'  a  cogi  o'  gude  swats2  and  an  auld  Scot- 
tish sang. 

I    whiles    clawS    the    elbow    o'    troublesome 

Thought ; 
But  man  is  a  soger,  and  life  is  a  f aught; 
My  mirth   and  gude  humour  are  coin   in  my 

pouch, 
And  my  freedom's  my  lairdship  nae  monarch 

dare  touch.  8 

A  towmond*  o '  trouble,  should  that  be  my  fa  '•• 
A  night  o'  gude  fellowship  sowtherso  it  a'; 
When  at  the  blythe  end  of  our  journey  at  last, 
"Wha  the  deil  ever  thinks  o'  the  road  he  has 
past? 

Blind  Chance,  let  her  snapper  and  stoyte^  on 

her  way; 
Be't  to   me,   be't  frae  me,  e'en  let  the  jade 

gae: 
Come  ease  or  come  travail,  come  pleasure   or 

pain. 
My  warst  word   is  "Welcome,    and    welcome 

again! "  16 

A  MAN'S  A  MAN  FOR  A'  THAT 

Is  there,8  for  honest  poverty. 

That  hings  his  head,  an'  a'  that? 
The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by, 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that! 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

Our  toils  obscure,  an'  a'  that; 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp; 

The  man's  the  gowds   for  a'  that.  8 

What  though  on  hamely  fare  we  dine. 

Wear  hodden-grey,io  an'  a'  that; 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 

A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

Their  tinsel  show,  an'  a'  that; 
The  honest  man,  tho'  e'er  sae  poor, 

Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that.  -6 


32 


1  cup 

2  ale 

8  scratch 

4  twelve  month 

slot 


6  solders,  mends 

T  stumble  and  stagger 

8  Supply  "a  man.'^ 

»  gold 

10  coarse  cloth 


Ye  see  yon  birkie,i  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  an'  stares,  an'  a'  that; 
Tho'  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 

He's  but  a  coof2  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

His  riband,  star,  an'  a'  that. 
The  man  o'  independent  mind, 

He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that.  24 

A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  an'  a'  that; 
But  an  honest  man's  aboon  his  might. 

Quid  faith,  he  mauna  fa's  that! 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

Their  dignities,  an'  a'  that. 
The  pith  o'  sense,  an'  pride  o'  worth. 

Are  higher  rank  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may. 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that. 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth, 

May  bear  the  gree,*  an '  a '  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

It's  coming  yet  for  a'  that, 
That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er. 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that.  40 

0,  WERT  THOU  IN  THE  CAULD  BLAST 

O,  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast, 

On  yonder  lea,  on  yonder  lea. 
My  plaidie  to  the  angry  airt,5 

I'd  shelter  thee,  I'd  shelter  thee. 
Or  did  misfortune's  bitter  storms 

Around  thee  blaw,  around  thee  blaw, 
Thy  bields  should  be  my  bosom, 

To  share  it  a',  to  share  it  a'.  8 

Or  were  I  in  the  wildest  waste, 

Sae    black    and    bare,    sae    black    and    bare, 
The  desert  were  a  paradise, 

If  thou  wert  there,  if  thou  wert  there. 
Or  were  I  monarch  o'  the  globe, 

Wi'  thee  to  reign,  wi'  thee  to  reign, 
The  brightest  jewel  in  my  cro\m 

Wad  be  my  queen,  wad  be  my  queen. 


itt 


1  fellow 

2  fool 

s  may  not  accomplish 


4  prize 

5  to  the  windy  quarter 
e  shelter 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 
(1770-1850) 

DEAR  NATIVE  BEGIONS* 

Dear  native  regions,  I  foretell, 
From  what  I  feel  at  this  farewell, 
That,  wheresoe'er  my  steps  may  tend, 
And  whensoe'er  my  course  shall  end. 
If  in  that  hour  a  single  tie 
Survive  of  local  sympathy, 
My  soul  will  cast  the  backward  view, 
The  longing  look  alone  on  you. 

Thus,  while  the  Sun  sinks  down  to  rest 
Far  in  the  regions  of  the  west. 
Though  to  the  vale  no  parting  beam 
Be  given,  not  one  memorial  gleam, 
A  lingering  light  he  fondly  throws 
On  the  dear  hills  where  first  he  rose. 

WE  ABE  SEVENt 

— A  simple  Child, 
That  lightly  draws  its  breath. 
And  feels  its  life  in  every  Umb, 
What  should  it  know  of  death? 

I  met  a  little  cottage  Girl: 
She  was  eight  years  old,  she  said; 
Her  hair  was  thick  with  many  a  curl 
That  clustered  round  her  head. 


♦Wordsworth  thought  it  worth  while  to  print 
this  "extract  from  the  conclusion  of  a  poem" 
which  was  written,  at  the  age  of  sixteen, 
just  before  he  left  his  school  at  Hawkshead. 
It  both  reveals  his  strong  local  attachment 
and  anticipates  his  reliance  upon  what  be- 
came for  him  a  chief  source  of  poetic  in- 
spiration, namely,  "emotion  recollected  in 
tranquillity." 

tThis,  and  the  two  poems  that  follow  it,  were 
among  those  contributed  by  Wordsworth  to 
the  Joint  volume  of  Lyrical  Ballads  which 
he  and  Coleridge  published  in  1798  (see  p. 
428;  also  Eng.  Lit.,  pp.  2.S2-235).  This  poem 
was  written  to  show  "the  obscurity  and 
perplexity  which  in  childhood  attend  our 
notion  of  death,  or  rather  our  utter  in- 
ability   to   admit    that    notion." 


16 


24 


She  had  a  rustic,  woodland  air, 
And  she  was  wildly  clad: 
Her  eyes  were  fair,  and  very  fair; 
— Her  beauty  made  me  glad. 

"Sisters  and  brothers,  little  Maid, 
How  many  may  you  be?" 
' '  How  many  ?    Seven  in  all, ' '  she  said 
And  wondering  looked  at  me. 

"And  where  are  they?   I  pray  you  tell. 
She  answered,  "Seven  are  we; 
And  two  of  us  at  Conway  dwell. 
And  two  are  gone  to  sea. 

'  *  Two  of  us  in  the  church-yard  lie, 
My  sister  and  my  brother; 
And  in  the  church-yard  cottage,  I 
Dwell  near  them  with  my  mother." 

"You  say  that  two  at  Conway  dwell, 
And  two  are  gone  to  sea. 
Yet  ye  are  seven! — I  pray  you  tell, 
Sweet  Maid,  how  this  may  be. ' ' 

Then  did  the  little  Maid  reply, 
' '  Seven  boys  and  girls  are  we ; 
Two  of  us  in  the  church-yard  lie. 
Beneath  the  church-yard  tree." 

' '  You  run  about,  my  little  Maid, 
Your  limbs  they  are  alive; 
If  two  are  in  the  church-yard  laid, 
Then  ye  are  only  five." 

"Their  graves  are  green,  they  may  be  seen," 
The  little  Maid  replied, 

' '  Twelve  steps  or  more  from  my  mother 's  door, 
And  they  are  side  by  side.  <0 

"My  stockings  there  I  often  knit. 
My  kerchief  there  I  hem ; 
And  there  upon  the  ground  I  sit, 
And  sing  a  song  to  them. 


"And  often  after  sunset.  Sir, 
When  it  is  light  and  fair, 
I  take  my  little  porringer. 
And  eat  my  supper  there. 


32 


48 


415 


416 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 


'  *  The  first  that  died  was  sister  Jane ; 
In  bed  she  moaning  lay, 
Till  God  released  her  of  her  pain; 
And  then  she  went  away. 

"So  in  the  church-yard  she  was  laid; 

And,  when  the  grass  was  dry, 

Together  round  her  grave  we  played, 

My  brother  John  and  I.  56 

' '  And  when  the  ground  was  white  with  snow. 

And  I  could  run  and  slide, 

My  brother  John  was  forced  to  go, 

And  he  lies  by  her  side." 

"How  many  are  you,  then,"  said  I, 

"If  they  two  are  in  heaven?" 

Quick  was  the  little  Maid 's  reply, 

"O  Master!    we  are  seven."  64 

"But  they  are  dead;  those  two  are  dead! 
Their  spirits  are  in  heaven ! ' ' 
'Twas  throwing  words  away;  for  still 
The  little  Maid  would  have  her  will. 
And  said,  "Nay,  we  are  seven!  " 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  EARLY  SPRING* 

I  heard  a  thousand  blended  notes. 

While  in  a  grove  I  sate  reclined, 

In  that  sweet  mood  when  pleasant  thoughts 

Bring  sad  thoughts  to  the  mind. 

To  her  fair  works  did  Nature  link 

The  human  soul  that  through  me  ran; 

And  much  it  grieved  my  heart  to  think 

What  man  has  made  of  man.  8 

Through  primrose  tufts,  in  that  green  bower, 
The  periwinkle  trailed  its  wreaths; 
And  'tis  my  faith  that  every  flower 
Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes. 

The  birds  around  me  hopped  and  played, 

Their  thoughts  I  cannot  measure: — 

But  the  least  motion  which  they  made 

It  seemed  a  thrill  of  pleasure.  16 

The  budding  twigs  spread  out  their  fan, 
To  catch  the  breezy  air; 
And  I  must  think,  do  all  I  can. 
That  there  was  pleasure  there. 

*  ThiR  Is  one  of  the  earliest  and  most  definite 
expreBsions  of  Wordsworth's  faith  in  the  es- 
sential oneness  of  man  and  nature,  and  of 
his  sorrow  over  man's  apostasy  from  that 
faith. 


If  this  belief  from  heaven  be  sent, 
If  such  be  Nature's  holy  plan, 
Have  I  not  reason  to  lament 
What  man  has  made  of  man? 


24 


LINES  COMPOSED  A  FEW  MILES  ABOVE 
TINTERN  ABBEY,  ON  REVISITING 
THE  BANKS  OF  THE  WYE  DURING 
A  TOUR.    July  13,  1798.t 

Five  years  have  past;   five  summers,  with  the 

length 
Of  five  long  winters!    and  again  I  hear 
These    waters,    rolling    from    their    mountain- 
springs 
With  a  soft  inland  murmur.t — Once  again 
Do  I  behold  these  steep  and  lofty  cliffs, 
That  on  a  wild  secluded  scene  impress 
Thoughts  of  more  deep  seclusion;  and  connect 
The  landscape  with  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 
The  day  is  come  when  I  again  repose 
Here,  under  this  dark  sycamore,  and  view       10 
These  plots  of   cottage-ground,   these  orchard- 
tufts. 
Which  at  this  season,  with  their  unripe  fruits, 
Are  clad  in  one  green  hue,  and  lose  themselves 
'Mid  groves  and  copses.     Once  again  I  see 
These  hedge-rows,  hardly  hedge-rows,  little  lines 
Of    sportive    wood    run    wild:     these    pastoral 

farms. 
Green  to  the  very  door;  and  wreaths  of  smoke 
Sent  up,  in  silence,  from  among  the  trees! 
With  some  uncertain  notice,  as  might  seem 
Of  vagrant  dwellers  in  the  houseless  woods,      20 
Or  of  some  Hermit's  cave,  where  by  his  fire 
The  Hermit  sits  alone. 

These  beauteous  forms, 
Through  a  long  absence,  have  not  been  to  me 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye: 
But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and   'mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet, 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart; 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind, 

t  Note  by  Wordsworth :  "I  have  not  ventured 
to  call  this  poem  an  Ode :  but  It  was  writ- 
ten with  a  hope  that  In  the  transitions,  and 
the  impassioned  music  of  the  versification, 
would  be  found  the  principal  requisites  of 
that  species  of  composition."  Professor 
Dowden  remarks  upon  the  four  stages  of 
the  poet's  growth  to  be  found  described  In 
the  poem :  First,  animal  enjoyment  of 
nature  in  boyhood ;  second,  passion  for 
beauty  and  sublimity ;  third,  perception  of 
nature's  tranquillizin?  and  elevating  in- 
fluence on  the  spirit ;  and  fourth,  deep  com- 
munion with  a  spiritual  presence ;  stages 
which  he  further  describes  as  the  periods  of 
the  blood,  of  the  senses,  of  the  Imagination, 
and   of  the  soul. 

t  For  the  effect  of  the  tides  on  the  Wye  nearer 
Its  mouth,  see  Tennyson's  In  Mcmoriain, 
XIX. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


417 


With  tranquil  restoration: — feelings  too  30 

Of  unremembered  pleasure:    such,  perhaps, 

As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  influence 

On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life. 

His  little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts 

Of  kindness  and  of  love.    Nor  less,  I  trust. 

To  them  I  may  have  owed  another  gift, 

Of  aspect  more  sublime;  that  blessed  mood 

In  which  the  burthen  of  the  mystery. 

In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 

Of  all  this  unintelligible  world,  40 

Is  lightened: — that  serene  and  blessed  mood. 

In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on, — 

Until,  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame 

And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 

Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 

In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul: 

While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 

Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy. 

We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

If  this 
Be  but  a  vain  belief,  yet,  oh!  how  oft —  5C 

In  darkness  and  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless  daylight;  when  the  fretful  stir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world, 
Have  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart — 
How  oft,  in  spirit,  have  I  turned  to  thee, 

0  sylvan  Wye!    thou  wanderer  thro'  the  woods, 
How  often  has  my  spirit  turned  to  thee! 

And  now,  with  gleams  of  half-extinguished 
thought. 
With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint, 
And  somewhat  of  a  sad  perplexity,  60 

The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again: 
While  here  I  stand,  not  only  with  the  sense 
Of  present  pleasure,  but  with  pleasing  thoughts 
That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and  food 
For  future  years.     And  so  I  dare  to  hope. 
Though  changed,  no   doubt,   from  what   I  was 
when  first 

1  came  among  these  hills;  when  like  a  roe 

I  bounded  o'er  the  mountains,  by  the  sides 
Of  the  deep  rivers,  and  the  lonely  streams. 
Wherever  nature  led:    more  like  a  man  70 

Flying   from   something   that    he   dreads,   than 

one 
Who   sought   the  thing  he   loved.     For   nature 

then 
(The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days, 
And  their  glad  animal  movements  all  gone  by) 
To  me  was  all  in  all. — I  cannot  paint 
What  then  I  was.     The  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  me  like  a  passion:    the  tall  rock, 
The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 
Their  colours  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 
An  appetite ;  a  feeling  and  a  love,  80 

That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm. 
By  thought  supplied,  nor  any  interest 


Unborrowed  from  the  eye. — That  time  is  past, 
And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more, 
And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.     Not  for  this 
Faiut  I,  nor  mourn  nor  murmur;  other  gifts 
Have  followed;  for  such  loss,  I  would  believe, 
.\bundant  recompense.     For  I  have  learned 
To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 
Of  thoughtless  youth;  but  hearing  oftentimes 
The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity,  91 

Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 
To  chasten  and  subdue.     And  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts;  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns. 
And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man; 
A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels  100 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought. 
And  rolls  through  all  things.     Therefore  am  I 

still 
A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods. 
And  mountains;  and  of  all  that  we  behold 
From  this  green  earth;  of  all  the  mighty  world 
Of  eye,  and  ear, — both  what  they  half  create. 
And  what  perceive;  well  pleased  to  recognize 
In  nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense. 
The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse, 
The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 
Of  all  my  moral  being. 

Nor  perchance,         m 
If  I  were  not  thus  taught,  should  I  the  more 
Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to  decay: 
For  thou  art  with  me  here  upon  the  banks 
Of  this  fair  river;  thou  my  dearest  Friend, 
My  dear,  dear  Friend;  and  in  thy  voice  I  catch 
The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and  read 
My  former -pleasures  in  the  shooting  lights 
Of  thy  wild  eyes.    Oh!  yet  a  little  while 
May  I  behold  in  thee  what  I  was  once,  120 

My  dear,  dear  Sister!    and  this  prayer  I  make. 
Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  loved  her;   'tis  her  privilege. 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy:    for  she  can  so  informi 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues. 
Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men, 
Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all    130 
The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life. 
Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 
Our  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we  behold 
Is  full  of  blessings.     Therefore  let  the  moon 
Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk; 
•And  let  the  misty  mountain-winds  be  free 
To  blow  against  thee:    and,  in  after  years, 
1  give  form  to,  animate 


418 


THE  KOMANTIC  REVIVAL 


"When  these  wild  ecstasies  shall  be  matured 

Into  a  sober  pleasure;  when  thy  mind 

Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms,  140 

Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling-place 

For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies;  oh!   then, 

If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief, 

Should   be   thy  portion,   with   what   healing 

thoughts 
Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me, 
And  these  my  exhortations!     Nor,  perchance — 
If  I  should  be  where  I  no  more  can  hear 
Thy  voice,  nor  catch  from  thy  wild  eyes  these 

gleams 
Of  past  existence — wilt  thou  then  forget 
That  on  the  banks  of  this  delightful  stream   150 
We  stood  together;  and  that  I,  so  long 
A  worshipper  of  Nature,  hither  came 
Unwearied  in  that  service:    rather  say 
With  warmer  love — oh!  with  far  deeper  zeal 
Of  holier  love.     Nor  wilt  thou  then  forget. 
That  after  many  wanderings,  many  years 
Of  absence,  these  steep  woods  and  lofty  cliffs. 
And  this  green  pastoral  landscape,  were  to  me 
More   dear,  both   for   themselves   and   for  thy 

sake! 

STRANGE   FITS   OF   PASSION   HAVE 
I    KNOWN* 

Strange  fits  of  passion  have  I  known: 
And  I  will  dare  to  tell. 
But  in  the  Lover's  ear  alone. 
What  once  to  me  befell. 

When  she  I  loved  looked  every  day 

Fresh  as  a  rose  in  June, 

I  to  her  cottage  bent  my  way 

Beneath  an  evening-moon.  S 

Upon  the  moon  I  fixed  my  eye, 

All  over  the  wide  lea ; 

With  quickening  pace  my  horse  drew  nigh 

Those  paths  so  dear  to  me. 

And  now  we  reached  the  orchard-plot; 

And,  as  we  climbed  the  hill, 

The  sinking  moon  to  Lucy's  cot 

Came  near,  and  nearer  still.  16 

In  one  of  those  sweet  dreams  I  slept, 
Kind  Nature's  gentlest  boon! 

•  This  little  group  of  flvo  poemH  upon  an  unknown 
and  perhaps  imaginary  Lucy  were  writlen  in 
Germany  in  the  year  1700.  Williout  titles  or 
notes,  or  any  ornament  beyond  two  or  three 
of  the  simplest  figures,  they  convey  abso- 
lutely their  contained  emotion,  Illustrating 
that  poetry  which,  in  moments  of  deepest 
feeling,  is  the  natural  language  of  man.  The 
fifth  poem  appears  to  sum  »ip  the  j)recoding 
four ;  In  its  two  brief  stanzas  It  presents  the 
two  opposing  and  inscrutable  mysteries  of 
life  ann  death,  and  leaves  them  to  the  im- 
agination, without  further  comment. 


24 


And  all  the  while  my  eyes  I  kept 
On  the  descending  moon. 

My  horse  moved  on ;  hoof  after  hoof 
He  raised,  and  never  stopped: 
When  down  behind  the  cottage  roof. 
At  once,  the  bright  moon  dropped. 

What  fond  and  wayward  thoughts  will  slide 

Into  a  Lover's  head! 

"O  mercy!  "  to  myself  I  cried, 

' '  If  Lucy  should  be  dead ! ' ' 

SHE   DWELT   AMONG   THE   UNTRODDEN 
WAYS 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove,i 
A  Maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise 

And  very  few  to  love: 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye! 
— Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky.  • 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and,  oh. 

The  difference  to  me! 

I  TRAVELLED  AMONG  UNKNOWN  MEN 
I  travelled  among  unknown  men. 

In  lands  beyond  the  sea; 
Nor,  England!  did  I  know  till  then 

What  love  I  boxe  to  thee. 

'Tis  past,  that  melancholy  dream! 

Nor  will  I  quit  thy  shore 
A  second  time;  for  still  I  seem 

To  love  thee  more  and  more.  8 

Among  thy  mountains  did  I  feel 

The  joy  of  my  desire; 
And  she  I  cherished  turned  her  wheel 

Beside  an  English  fire. 

Thy  mornings  showed,  thy  nights  concealed 
The  bowers  where  Lucy  played ; 

And  thine  too  is  the  last  green  field 

That  Lucy's  eyes  surveyed.  l** 

THREE  YEARS  SHE  GREW  IN  SUN  AND 
SHOWER 
Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower, 
Then  Nature  said,  ' '  A  lovelier  flower 
On  earth  was  never  sown; 
This  Child  I  to  myself  will  take; 

1  The  name  of  several  streams  In  England :  one 
has  been  made  famous  by  Izaak  Walton,  the 
unglcr. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


419 


She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 

A  Lady  of  my  own.  ® 

"Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 

Both  law  and  impulse:    and  with  me 

The  Girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 

In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower, 

Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 

To  kindle  or  restrain.  12 


"She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn, 
Or  up  the  mountain  springs; 
And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm 
Of  mute  insensate  things. 


18 


"The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 

To  her;  for  her  the  willow  bend; 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 

Even  in  the  motions  of  the  Storm 

Grace  that  shall  mould  the  Maiden's  form 

By  silent  sympathy.  24 

"The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 

To  her;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place 

Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round. 

And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face.  30 

"And  vital  feelings  of  delight 

Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell; 

Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 

While  she  and  I  together  live 

Here  in  this  happy  dell. ' '  36 

Thus  Nature  spake. — The  work  was  done — 

How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run! 

She  died,  and  left  to  me 

This  heath,  this  calm,  and  quiet  scene; 

The  memory  of  what  has  been, 

And  never  more  will  be.  42 

A  SLUMBER  DID  MY  SPIRIT  SEAL 
A  Slumber  did  my  spirit  seal; 

I  had  no  human  fears: 
She  seemed  a  thing  that  could  not  feel 

The  touch  of  earthly  years. 

No  motion  has  she  now,  no  force; 

She  neither  hears  nor  sees; 
Rolled  round  in  earth's  diurnal  course, 

With  rocks,  and  stones,  and  trees. 

LUCY  GRAY 

OR,    SOLITUDE 

Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray: 
And,  when  I  crossed  the  wild, 


16 


24 


I  chanced  to  see  at  break  of  day 
The  solitary  child. 

No  mate,  no  comrade  Lucy  knew; 
She  dwelt  on  a  wide  moor, 
— The  sweetest  thing  that  ever  grew 
Beside  a  human  door! 

You  yet  may  spy  the  fawn  at  play, 
The  hare  upon  the  green; 
But  the  sweet  face  of  Lucy  Gray 
Will  never  more  be  seen. 

"To-night  will  be  a  stormy  night — 
You  to  the  town  must  go; 
And  take  a  lantern,  Child,  to  light 
Your  mother  through  the  snow." 

"That,  Father!  will  I  gladly  do: 
'Tis  scarcely  afternoon — 
The  minster-clock  has  just  struck  two. 
And  yonder  is  the  moon!  " 

At  this  the  Father  raised  his  hook. 
And  snapped  a  faggot-band; 
He  plied  his  work; — and  Lucy  took 
The  lantern  in  her  hand. 

Not  blither  is  the  mountain  roe: 
With  many  a  wanton  stroke 
Her  feet  disperse  the  powdery  snow, 
That  rises  up  like  smoke. 

The  storm  came  on  before  its  time: 
She  wandered  up  and  down; 
And  many  a  hill  did  Lucy  climb: 
But  never  reached  the  town. 

The  wretched  parents  all  that  night 
Went  shouting  far  and  wide; 
But  there  was  neither  sound  nor  sight 
To  serve  them  for  a  guide. 


At  daybreak  on  the  hill  they  stood 

That  overlooked  the  moor; 

And  thence  they  saw  the  bridge  of  wood, 

A  furlong  from  their  door.  40 

They  wept — and,  turning  homeward,  cried, 
"In  heaven  we  all  shall  meet ; ' ' 
— When  in  the  snow  the  mother  spied 
The  print  of  Lucy's  feet. 

Then  downwards  from  the  steep  hill's  edge 
They  tracked  the  footmarks  small; 
And  through  the  broken  hawthorn  hedge. 
And  by  the  long  stone-wall;  48 


32 


iSO 


THE  KOMANTIC  REVIVAL 


And  then  an  open  field  they  crossed: 
The  marks  were  still  the  same; 
They  tracked  them  on,  nor  ever  lost; 
And  to  the  bridge  they  came. 

They  followed  from  the  snowy  bank 

Those  footmarks,  one  by  one, 

Into  the  middle  of  the  plank; 

And  further  there  were  nonel  56 

— Yet  some  maintain  that  to  this  day 
She  is  a  living  child; 
That  you  may  see  sweet  Lucy  Gray 
Upon  the  lonesome  wild. 

O'er  rough  and  smooth  she  trips  along. 

And  never  looks  behind; 

And  sings  a  solitary  song 

That  whistles  in  the  wind.  6< 


THE  PEELUDE;  OR,  GROWTH  OF  A 
POET'S  MIND 

From  Book  I.    Childhood 

Fair  seed-time  had  my  soul,  and  I  grew  up 
Fostered  alike  by  beauty  and  by  fear: 
Much  favoured  in  my  birth-place,  and  no  less 
In  that  beloved  Valei  to  which  erelong 
We  were  transplanted ; — there  were  we  let  loose 
For  sports  of  wider  range.     Ere  I  had  told 
Ten    birth-days,    when    among    the    mountain 

slopes 
Frost,    and    the    breath    of    frosty    wind,    had 

snapped 
The  last  autumnal  crocus,   'twas  my  joy 
With  store  of  springes  o  'er  my  shoulder  hung  310 
To  range  the  open  heights  where  woodcocks  run 
Along  the  smooth  green  turf.    Through  half  the 

night, 
Scudding  away  from  snare  to  snare,  I  plied 
That  anxious  visitation; — moon  and  stars 
Were  shining  o'er  my  head.     I  was  alone. 
And  seemed  to  be  a  trouble  to  the  peace 
That  dwelt  among  them.    Sometimes  it  befell 
In  these  night  wanderings,  that  a  strong  desire 
O'rpowered  my  better  reason,  and  the  bird 
Which  was  the  captive  of  another's  toil  320 

Became  my  prey;  and  when  the  deed  was  done 
I  heard  among  the  solitary  hills 
Low  breathings  coming  after  me,  and  sounds 
Of  undistinguishable  motion,  steps 
Almost  as  silent  as  the  turf  they  trod. 

Nor  less,  when  spring  had  warmed  the  cul- 
tured Vale, 

t  Esthwaltp,  Lancashire,  where,   at  the  village  of 
IlawkKhoad,  Wordsworth  attended  school. 


Moved  we  as  plunderers  where  the  mother-bird 
Had   in   high   places   built   her    lodge;    though 

mean 
Our  object  and  inglorious,  yet  the  end 
Was  not  ignoble.    Oh!    when  I  have  hung      330 
Above  the  raven 's  nest,  by  knots  of  grass 
And  half-inch  fissures  in  the  slippery  rock 
But  ill  sustained,  and  almost  (so  it  seemed) 
Suspended  by  the  blast  that  blew  amain, 
Shouldering  the  naked  crag,  oh,  at  that  time 
While  on  the  perilous  ridge  I  hung  alone, 
With  what  strange  utterance  did  the  loud  dry 

wind 
Blow  through  my  ear !    the  sky  seemed  not  a  sky 
Of    earth — and   with   what    motion   moved    the 

clouds ! 

Dust  as  we  are,  the  immortal  spirit  grows      340 
Like  harmony  in  music;  there  is  a  dark 
Inscrutable  workmanship  that  reconciles 
Discordant  elements,  makes  them  cling  together 
In  one  society.    How  strange,  that  all 
The  terrors,  pains,  and  early  miseries. 
Regrets,  vexations,  lassitudes  interfused 
Within  my  mind,  should  e'er  have  borne  a  part. 
And  that  a  needful  part,  in  making  up 
The  calm  existence  that  is  mine  when  I 
Am  worthy  of  myself!     Praise  to  the  end!     350 
Thanks  to  the  means  which  Nature  deigned  to 

employ ; 
Whether  her  fearless  visitings,  or  those 
That  came  with  soft  alarm,  like  hurtless  light 
Opening  the  peaceful  clouds;  or  she  would  use 
Severer  interventions,  ministry 
More  palpable,  as  best  might  suit  her  aim. 

One  summer  evening  (led  by  her)  I  found 
A  little  boat  tied  to  a  willow  tree 
Within  a  rocky  cave,  its  usual  home.  359 

Straight  I  unloosed  her  chain,  and  stepping  in 
Pushed  from  the  shore.   It  was  an  act  of  stealth 
And  troubled  pleasure,  nor  without  the  voice 
Of  mountain-echoes  did  my  boat  move  on; 
Leaving  behind  her  still,  on  either  side. 
Small  circles  glittering  idly  in  the  moon, 
Until  they  melted  all  into  one  track 
Of  sparkling  light.  But  now,  like  one  who  rows, 
Proud  of  his  skill,  to  reach  a  chosen  point 
With  an  unswerving  line,  I  fixed  my  view 
Upon  the  summit  of  a  craggy  ridge,  370 

The  horizon 's  utmost  boundary ;  far  above 
Was  nothing  but  the  stars  and  the  grey  sky. 
She  was  an  elfin  pinnace ;  lustily 
I  dipped  my  oars  into  the  silent  lake, 
And,  as  T  rose  upon  the  stroke,  my  boat 
Went  heaving  through  the  water  like  a  swan ; 
When,  from  behind  that  craggy  steep  till  then 


WILLIAM  WOEDSWORTH 


421 


The  horizon's  bound,  a  huge  peak,  black  and 

huge, 
As  if  with  voluntary  power  instinct,  379 

Upreared  its  head.     I  struck  and  struck  again, 
And  growing  still  in  stature  the  grim  shape 
Towered  up  between  me  and  the  stars,  and  still. 
For  so  it  seemed,  with  purpose  of  its  own 
And  measured  motion  like  a  living  thing, 
Strode  after  me.    With  trembling  oars  I  turned, 
And  through  the  silent  water  stole  my  way 
Back  to  the  covert  of  the  willow  tree ; 
There  in  her  mooring-place  I  left  my  bark, — 
And  through  the  meadows  homeward  went,  in 

grave 
And  serious  mood;  but  after  I  had  seen         390 
That  spectacle,  for  many  days,  my  brain 
Worked  with  a  dim  and  undetermined  sense 
Of  unknown  modes  of  being;  o'er  my  thoughts 
There  hung  a  darkness,  call  it  solitude 
Or  blank  desertion.    No  familiar  shapes 
Eeraained,  no  pleasant  images  of  trees. 
Of  sea  or  sky,  no  colours  of  green  fields ; 
But  huge  and  mighty  forms,  that  do  not  lire 
Like  living  men,  moved  slowly  through  the  mind 
By  day,  and  were  a  trouble  to  my  dreams.      400 

Wisdom  and  Spirit  of  the  universe! 
Thou  Soul  that  art  the  eternity  of  thought 
That  givest  to  forms  and  images  a  breath 
And  everlasting  motion,  not  in  vain 
By  day  or  star-light  thus  from  my  first  dawn 
Of  childhood  didst  thou  intertwine  for  me 
The  passions  that  build  up  our  human  soul; 
Not  with  the  mean  and  vulgar  works  of  man, 
But  with  high  objects,  with  enduring  things — 
With  life  and  nature — purifying  thus  410 

The  elements  of  feeling  and  of  thought, 
And  sanctifying,  by  such  discipline. 
Both  pain  and  fear,  until  we  recognize 
A  grandeur  in  the  beatings  of  the  heart. 
Nor  was  this  fellowship  vouchsafed  to  me 
With  stinted  kindness.     In  November  days. 
When  vapours  rolling  down  the  valley  made 
A  lonely  scene  more  lonesome,  among  woods. 
At  noon  and  'mid  the  calm  of  summer  nights, 
When,  by  the  margin  of  the  trembling  lake,    420 
Beneath  the  gloomy  hills  homeward  I  went 
In  solitude,  such  intercourse  was  mine; 
Mine  was  it  in  the  fields  both  day  and  night. 
And  by  the  waters,  all  the  summer  long. 

And  in  the  frosty  season,  when  the  sun 
Was  set,  and  visible  for  many  a  mile 
The  cottage  windows  blazed   through   twilight 

gloom, 
I  heeded  not  their  summons:    happy  time 
It  was  indeed  for  all  of  us — for  me 
It  was  a  time  of  rapture!     Clear  and  loud     430 


The  village  clock  tolled  six, — I  wheeled  about, 
Proud  and  exulting  like  an  untired  horse 
That  cares  not  for  his  home.     All  shod  with 

steel, 
We  hissed  along  the  polished  ice  in  games 
Confederate,  imitative  of  the  chase 
And  woodland  pleasures, — the  resounding  horn, 
The  pack  loud  chiming,  and  the  hunted  hare. 
So  through  the  darkness  and  the  cold  we  flew, 
And  not  a  voice  was  idle;  with  the  din 
Smitten,  the  precipices  rang  aloud;  440 

The  leafless  trees  and  every  icy  crag 
Tinkled  like  iron;  while  far  distant  hills 
Into  the  tumult  sent  an  alien  sound 
Of  melancholy  not  unnoticed,  while  the  stars 
Eastward  were  sparkling  clear,  and  in  the  west 
The  orange  sky  of  evening  died  away. 
Not  seldom  from  the  uproar  I  retired 
Into  a  silent  bay,  or  sportively 
Glanced  sideway,  leaving  the  tumultuous  throng. 
To  cut  across  the  reflex  of  a  star  450 

That  fled,  and,  flying  still  before  me,  gleamed 
Upon  the  glassy  plain;  and  oftentimes, 
When  we  had  given  our  bodies  to  the  wind, 
And  all  the  shadowy  banks  on  either  side 
Came  sweeping  through  the  darkness,  spinning 

still 
The  rapid  line  of  motion,  then  at  once 
Have  I,  reclining  back  upon  my  hesls, 
Stopped  short ;  yet  still  the  solitary  cliffs 
Wheeled  by  me — even  as  if  the  earth  had  rolled 
With  visible  motion  her  diurnal  round!  460 

Behind  me  did  they  stretch  in  solemn  train, 
Feebler  and  feebler,  and  I  stood  and  watched 
Till  all  was  tranquil  as  a  dreamless  sleep. 

Ye  Presences  of  Nature  in  the  sky 
And  on  the  earth!     Ye  Visions  of  the  hills! 
And  Souls  of  lonely  places!    can  I  think 
A  vulgar  hope  was  yours  when  ye  employed 
Such  ministry,  when  ye,  through  many  a  year 
Haunting  me  thus  among  my  boyish  sports, 
On  caves  and  trees,  upon  the  woods  and  hills,     470 
Impressed,  upon  all  forms,  the  characters 
Of  danger  or  desire;  and  thus  did  make 
The  surface  of  the  universal  earth. 
With  triumph  and  delight,  with  hope  and  fear, 
Work  like  a  seal 

Not  uselessly  employed, 
Might  I  pursue  this  theme  through  every  change 
Of  exercise  and  play,  to  which  the  year 
Did  summon  us  in  his  delightful  round. 

From  Book  V 

There  was  a  Boy:  ye  knew  him  well,  ye  cliffs 
And  islands  of  Winander!2 — many  a  time 

2  Winandermere,  now  Windermere,  a  lake  in  West- 
moreland. 


422 


THE  EOMANTIC  REVIVAL 


At  evening,  when  the  earliest  stars  began 
To  move  along  the  edges  of  the  hills, 
Rising  or  setting,  would  he  stand  alone 
Beneath  the  trees  or  by  the  glimmering  lake,     369 
And  there,  with  fingers  interwoven,  both  hands 
Pressed  closely  palm  to  palm,  and  to  his  mouth 
Uplifted,  he,  as  through  an  instrument. 
Blew  mimic  hootings  to  the  silent  owls. 
That  they  might  answer  him;  and  they  would 

shout 
Across  the  watery  vale,  and  shout  again. 
Responsive  to  his  call,  with  quivering  peals, 
And  long  halloos  and  screams,  and  echoes  loud. 
Redoubled  and  redoubled,  concourse  wild 
Of  jocund  din;  and,  when  a  lengthened  pause 
Of  silence  came  and  baffled  his  best  skill,        380 
Then  sometimes,  in  that  silence  while  he  hung 
Listening,  a  gentle  shock  of  mild  surprise 
Has  carried  far  into  his  heart  the  voice 
Of  mountain-torrents;  or  the  visible  scene 
Would  enter  unawares  into  his  mind. 
With  all  its  solemn  imagery,  its  rocks, 
Its  woods,  and  that  uncertain  heaven,  received 
Into  the  bosom  of  the  steady  lake. 

This  Boy  was  taken  from  his  mates,  and  died 
In  childhood,  ere  he  was  full  twelve  years  old. 
Fair  is  the  spot,  most  beautiful  the  vale  391 

Where    he    was    born;    the    grassy    churchyard 

hangs 
Upon  a  slope  above  the  village-school. 
And  through  that  churchyard  when  my  way  has 

led 
On  summer-evenings,  I  believe  that  there 
A  long  half  hour  together  I  have  stood 
Mute,  looking  at  the  grave  in  which  he  lies! 

MY  HEART  LEAPS  UP  WHEN  I  BEHOLD 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky: 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began; 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man; 
So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old, 

Or  let  me  die! 
The  Child  is  father  of  the  Man; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety.s 

THE  SOLITARY  REAPER 
Behold  her,  single  in  the  field, 
Yon  solitary  Highland  Lass! 
Reaping  and  singing  by  herself; 
Stop  here,  or  gently  pass! 
Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain, 
And  sings  a  melancholy  strain; 
O  listen!    for  the  Vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound.  8 

s  religious  regard  for  nature 


No  Nightingale  did  ever  chant 

More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands 

Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt. 

Among  Arabian  sands: 

A  voice  so  thrilling  ne'er  was  heard 

In  spring-time  from  the  Cuckoo-bird, 

Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 

Among  the  farthest  Hebrides.  16 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings? — 

Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 

For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 

And  battles  long  ago : 

Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay. 

Familiar  matter  of  to-day? 

Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain. 

That  has  been,  and  may  be  again?  24 

Whate'er  the  theme,  the  Maiden  sang 

As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending; 

I  saw  her  singing  at  her  work. 

And  o'er  the  sickle  bending; — 

I  listened,  motionless  and  still; 

And,  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill 

The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore. 

Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more.  32 

TO  THE  CUCKOO 

0  blithe  New-comer!    I  have  heard, 

1  hear  thee  and  rejoice. 

0  Cuckoo!  shall  I  call  thee  Bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  Voice? 

While  I  am  lying  on  the  grass 

Thy  twofold  shout  I  hear. 

From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass, 

At  once  far  off,  and  near.  8 

Though  babbling  only  to  the  Vale, 
Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers, 
Thou  bringest  unto  me  a  tale 
Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  Spring! 

Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 

No  bird,  but  an  invisible  thing, 

A  voice,  a  mystery;  16 

The  same  whom  in  my  school-boy  days 

1  listened  to;  that  Cry 

Which  made  me  look  a  thousand  ways 
In  bush,  and  tree,  and  sky. 

To  seek  thee  did  I  often  rove 

Through  woods  and  on  the  green; 

And  thou  wert  still  a  hope,  a  love; 

Still  longed  for,' never  seen.  24 


WILLIAM  WOBDSWOETH 


433 


And  I  can  listen  to  thee  yet; 
Can  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen,  till  I  do  beget 
That  golden  time  again. 

O  blessed  Bird!    the  earth  we  pace 
Again  appears  to  be 
An  unsubstantial,  faery  place; 
That  is  fit  home  for  Thee ! 


32 


SHE    WAS    A    PHANTOM    OF    DELIGHT* 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  delight 

When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight; 

A  lovely  Apparition  sent 

To  be  a  moment's  ornament; 

Her  eyes  as  stars  of  Twilight  fair; 

Like  Twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair; 

But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 

From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  Dawn; 

A  dancing  Shape,  an  Image  gay, 

To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  way-lay.  10 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  Spirit,  yet  a  Woman  too! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin-liberty; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet; 

A  Creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature 's  daily  food ; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles.    20 

And  now  I  aee  with  eye  serene 

The  very  pulse  of  the  machine; 

A  Being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 

A  Traveller  between  life  and  death; 

The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will. 

Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill; 

A  perfect  Woman,  nobly  planned, 

To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command; 

And  yet  a  Spirit  still,  and  bright 

With  something  of  angelic  light.  30 

I  WANDERED  LONELY  AS  A  CLOUD 

1  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host,  of  golden  daffodils; 

Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees. 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze.  6 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay: 

•  Written  of  Mrs.  Wordsworth. 


Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 

Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance.  12 

The  waves  beside  them  danced;  but  they 

Out-did  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee: 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay, 

In  such  a  jocund  company: 

I  gazed — and  gazed — but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought:      18 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude; 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills. 

And  dances  with  the  daffodils.  24 


ODE   TO  DUTY 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God! 

O  Duty!    if  that  name  thou  love 

Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 

To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove; 

Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law 

When  empty  terrors  overawe: 

From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free:  7 

And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  humanity! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them ;  who,  in  love  and  truth, 
Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth: 
Glad  Hearts!    without  reproach  or  blot 
Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not : 
Oh!    if  through  confidence  misplaced 
They   fail,   thy   saving   arms,   dread  Power! 
around  them  cast.  16 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright. 
And  happy  will  our  nature  be, 
When  love  is  an  unerring  light. 
And  joy  its  own  security. 
And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 
Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold, 
Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed; 
Yet  seek  thy  firm  support,  according  to  their 
need.  24 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried, 
No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 
Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide, 
Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust: 
And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 
Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferred 
The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray ; 
But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if  T 
may.  32 


424 


THE  BOMANTIC  REVIVAL 


Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul, 

Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 

I  supplicate  for  thy  control; 

But  in  the  quietness  of  thought: 

Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires; 

I  feel  the  weight  of  chance-desires: 

My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name, 

I  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same.         40 

Stern  Lawgiver!    yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face: 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong; 
And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  through  Thee, 
are  fresh  and  strong,  48 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power! 
I  call  thee:    I  myself  commend 
Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour ; 
Oh,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end! 
Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise. 
The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice; 
The  confidence  of  reason  give; 
And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  Bondman  let  me 
live!  56 

TO  A  SKY-LARK 

(1805) 

Up  with  me!  up  with  me  into  the  clouds! 

For  thy  song,  Lark,  is  strong; 
Up  with  me,  up  with  me  into  the  clouds! 

Singing,  singing, 
"With  clouds  and  sky  about  thee  ringing. 

Lift  me,  guide  me  till  I  find 
That  spot  which  seems  so  to  thy  mind! 

I  have  walked  through  wildernesses  dreary 

And  to-day  my  heart  is  weary; 

Had  I  now  the  wings  of  a  Faery,  10 

Up  to  thee  would  I  fly. 

There  is  madness  about  thee,  and  joy  divine 

In  that  song  of  thine; 

Lift  me,  guide  me  high  and  high 

To  thy  banqueting-place  in  the  sky. 

Joyous  as  morning 
Thou  art  laughing  and  scorning; 
Thou  hast  a  nest  for  thy  love  and  thy  rest. 
And,  though  little  troubled  with  sloth. 
Drunken  Lark!    thou  would 'st  be  loth  20 

To  be  such  a  traveller  as  I. 
Happy,  happy  Liver, 

With  a  soul  as  strong  as  a  mountain  river 

Pouring  out  praise  to  the  Almighty  Giver, 

Joy  and  jollity  be  with  us  both! 


Alas!    my  journey,  rugged  and  uneven. 
Through    prickly    moors    or    dusty    ways    must 

wind ; 
But  hearing  thee,  or  others  of  thy  kind. 
As  full  of  gladness  and  as  free  of  heaven, 
I,  with  my  fate  contented,  will  plod  on,  30 

And  hope  for  higher  raptures,  when  life's  day 

is  done. 

TO  A  SKY-LARK 

(1825) 

Ethereal  minstrel!  pilgrim  of  the  sky! 
Dost  thou  despise  the  earth  where  cares  abound  ? 
Or,  while  the  wings  aspire,  are  heart  and  eye 
Both  with  thy  nest  upon  the  dewy  ground? 
Thy  nest  which  thou  canst  drop  into  at  will. 
Those    quivering   wings    composed,    that    music 
still!  G 

Leave  to  the  nightingale  her  shady  wood; 
A  privacy  of  glorious  light  is  thine; 
Whence  thou  dost  pour  upon  the  world  a  flood 
Of  harmony,  with  instinct  more  divine; 
Type  of  the  wise  who  soar,  but  never  roam; 
True    to    the    kindred    points    of    Heaven    and 
Home!  12 

ODE 

INTIMATIONS    OF    IMMORTALITY    FROM    RECOLLEC- 
TIONS   OF    EARLY    CHILDHOOD* 


There  was   a   time   when   meadow,   grove,   and 

stream. 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 
To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light. 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore; — 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may. 
By  night  or  day. 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no 
more. 


*  "To  that  dream-like  vividness  and  splendour 
which  Invest  objects  of  sight  in  cbiidhood, 
every  one,  I  believe,  If  he  would  look  back, 
could  bear  testimony,  and  I  need  not  dwell 
upon  It  here ;  but  having  in  the  poem  re- 
garded It  as  presumptive  evidence  of  a  prior 
state  of  existence,  I  think  it  right  to  protest 
against  a  conclusion,  which  has  given  pain  to 
some  good  and  i)iou8  p(M-sons,  that  I  meant 
to  inculcate  such  n  belief.  It  Is  far  too 
shadowy  a  notion  to  be  recommended  to  faith, 
as  more  than  an  element  in  our  instincts  of 
immortality ...  A  pre-existent  state  has 
entered  Into  the  populnr  creeds  of  many  na- 
tions; and,  among  all  persons  acquainted 
with  classic  literature,  Is  known  as  an  In- 
gredient In  Platonic  phllosopliy." — Extract 
from  Wordsworth's  note.  ("ompare  Henry 
Vaughan's  The  Retreat,  p.  223. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


4^5 


n 


10 


The  Rainbow  comes  and  goes, 
And  lovely  is  the  Rose, 
The  Moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare; 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair ; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth ; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  past  away  a  glory  from  the 
earth. 

m 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song, 
And  while  the  young  lambs  bound  20 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 
To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief; 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief, 

And  I  again  am  strong: 
The    cataracts  blow    their   trumpets   from   the 

steep ; 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong; 
I  hear  the  Echoes  through  the  mountains  throng, 
The  Winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep. 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay; 

Land  and  sea  '* 

Give  themselves  up  to  jollity. 

And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  Beast  keep  holiday; — 
Thou  Child  of  Joy, 
Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou 
happy  Shepherd-boy! 


Ye  blessed  Creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make ;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee; 

My  heart  is  at  your  festival,  40 

My  head  hath  its  coronal, 
The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel — I  feel  it  all. 

Oh  evil  day!    if  I  were  sullen 

While  Earth  herself  is  adorning, 
This  sweet  May-morning, 

And  the  Children  are  culling 
On  every  side, 

In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 

Fresh  flowers;  while  the  sun  shines  warm. 
And  the  Babe  leaps  up  on  his  Mother's  arm:— 

I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear!  51 

— But  there 's  a  Tree,  of  many,  one, 
A  single  Field  which  I  have  looked  upon. 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone : 

The  Pansy  at  my  feet 

Doth  the  same  tale  repeat: 
Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam! 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream? 


Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting: 

The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life 's  Star,      60 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 
And  Cometh  from  afar: 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness. 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home: 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  Boy, 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows. 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy;  '^ 

The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 

Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  Priest, 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended; 
At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away. 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

VI 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own; 

Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind, 

And,  even  with  something  of  a  Mother's  mind, 
And  no  unworthy  aim,  *^ 

The  homely  Nurse  doth  all  she  can 

To  make  her  Foster-child,  her  Inmate  Man, 
Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 

And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

vn 
Behold  the  Child  among  his  new-born  blisses, 
A  six  years'  Darling  of  a  pigmy  size! 
See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses. 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father 's  eyes !       90 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart. 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly -learned  art ; 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral; 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song: 
Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife ; 

But  it  will  not  be  long  1^0 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside. 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  Actor  cons  another  part ; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  "humorousi 

stage" 
With  all  the  Persons,  down  to  palsied  Age, 
That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitatior 

1  hamorsome 


426 


THE  BOMANTIC  REVIVAL 


vni 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  Soul's  immensity;  110 

Thou  best  Philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage,  thou  Eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep. 
Haunted  for  ever  by  the  eternal  mind, — 
Mighty  Prophet !     Seer  blest ! 
On  whom  those  truths  do  rest, 
"Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find. 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  Immortality 
Broods  like  the  Day,  a  Master  o'er  a  Slave,    120 
A  Presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by ; 
Thou  little  Child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height. 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife? 
Full  soon  thy  Soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight, 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight, 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life! 


IX 


130 


O  joy!  that  in  our  embers 
Is  something  that  doth  live, 
That  nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive! 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction;  not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest — 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  Childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest. 
With   new-fledged   hope    still   fluttering   in   his 
breast: — 
Not  for  these  I  raise  140 

The  song  of  thanks  and  praise; 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things. 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  Creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized, 
High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  Nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  Thing  surprised : 
But  for  those  first  affections. 
Those  shadowy  recollections,  160 

Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing; 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  Silence:    truths  that  wake. 

To  perish  never; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavour. 

Nor  Man  nor  Boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy,  160 

Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy! 


Hence  in  a  season  of  calm  weather 

Though  inland  far  we  be. 
Our  Souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 

Which  brought  us  hither, 

Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
And  see  the  Children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 


Then  sing,  ye  Birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song! 

And  let  the  young  Lambs  bound  170 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound! 
We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng, 

Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play. 

Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 

Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May! 
What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so 

bright 
Be  now  forever  taken  from  my  sight. 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 
Of  splendour  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower ; 

We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find  180 

Strength  in  what  remains  behind; 

In  the  primal  sympathy 

Which  having  been  must  ever  be; 

In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 

Out  of  human  suffering; 

In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death. 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

XI 

And  0,  ye  Fountains,  Meadows,  Hills,  and 

Groves, 
Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves! 
Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might; 
I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight  191 

To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 
I  love  the  Brooks  which  down  their  channels 

fret. 
Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they; 
The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  Day 

Is  lovely  yet; 
The  Clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  colouring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are 

won.  200 

Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live. 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears, 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 

(COMPOSED     UPON     WESTMINSTER 
BRIDGE,  September  3,  1802 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair: 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty: 


WILLIAM  WOBDSWOBTH 


427 


This  City  now  doth,  like  a  garment,  wear 

The  beauty  of  the  morning;  silent,  bare. 

Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres  and  temples  lie 

Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky; 

All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 

Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 

In  his  first  splendour,  valley,  rock,  or  hiU; 

Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep! 

The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will: 

Dear  God!  the  very  houses  seem  asleep; 

And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still! 


IT  IS  A  BEAUTEOUS  EVENING, 
CALM  AND  FKEE 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free. 

The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Nun 

Breathless  with  adoration;  the  broad  lun 

Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity; 

The  gentleness  of  heaven  broods  o'er  the  Sea: 

Listen!    the  mighty  Being  is  awake. 

And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 

A  sound  like  thunder — everlastingly. 

Dear  Child !i    dear  Girl!    that  walkest  with  me 

here, 
If  thou  appear  untouched  by  solemn  thought. 
Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine: 
Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom2  all  the  year; 
And  worship  'st  at  the  Temple 's  inner  shrine, 
God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 

ON   THE    EXTINCTION   OF   THE 
VENETIAN   REPUBLIC* 

Once  did  She  hold  the  gorgeous  east  in  fee; 
And  was  the  safeguard  of  the  west:    the  worth 
Of  Venice  did  not  fall  below  her  birth, 
Venice,  the  eldest  Child  of  Liberty. 
She  was  a  maiden  City,  bright  and  free; 
No  guile  seduced,  no  force  could  violate; 
And  when  she  took  unto  herself  a  Mate, 
She  must  espouse  the  everlasting  Sea,t 
And  what  if  she  had  seen  those  glories  fade, 
Those  titles  vanish,  and  that  strength  decay; 
Yet  shall  some  tribute  of  regret  be  paid 
When  her  long  life  hath  reached  its  final  day: 
Men  are  we,  and  must  grieve  when  even  the 

Shade 
Of  that  which  once  was  great,  is  passed  away. 

1  Wordsworth's  sister,  Dorothj. 

2  See  Luke  xvi,  22. 

•  Venice  threw  off  the  yoke  of  the  Eastern  Em- 
pire as  early  as  809  and  remained  a  republic 
or  an  oligarchy  until  conquered  by  Napoleon 
In  1797.  At  one  time  she  had  extensive 
possessions  and  colonies  in  the  Levant. 

tThe  ancient  Doges  annually,  on  Ascension  Day. 
threw  a  ring  into  the  Adriatic  in  formal 
token  of  this  espousal,  or  of  perpetual  do- 
minion. 


LONDON,  1802* 

Milton !  thou  should  'st  be  living  at  this  hoar : 
England  hath  need  of  thee;  she  is  a  fen 
Of  stagnant  waters:    altar,  sword,  and  pen. 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 
Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 
Of  inward  happiness.    We  are  selfish  men; 
Oh!    raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again; 
And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 
Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart: 
Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the 

sea: 
Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free, 
So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way, 
In  cheerful  godliness;  and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 

THE   WOELD    IS   TOO   MUCH   WITH   US 

The  world  is  too  much  with  as;  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  oar  powers: 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon! 
The  Sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon; 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers; 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune; 
It  moves  as  not.^Jreat  God !    I  'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  oatworn; 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 


AFTERTHOUGHT! 

I  thought  of  Thee,  my  partner  and  my  guide. 
As  being  past  away. — Vain  sympathies! 
For,  backward,  Duddon,  as  I  cast  my  eyes, 
I  see  what  was,  and  is,  and  will  abide; 
StiU  glides  the  Stream,  and  shall  forever  glide; 
The  Form  remains,  the  Function  never  dies; 
While  we,  the  brave,  the  mighty,  and  the  wise. 
We  Men,  who  in  our  mom  of  youth  defied 
The  elements,  must  vanish; — be  it  so! 
Enough,    if    something    from    our    hands    have 

power 
To  live,  and  act,  and  serve  the  future  hoar; 
And  if,  as  toward  the  silent  tomb  we  go. 
Through  love,  through  hope,  and  faith's  tran- 
scendent dower. 
We  feel  that  we  are  greater  than  we  know. 

t  Written  in  despondency  over  the  inert  attitude 
of  England  toward  the  hopes  and  ideals  of 
the  revolutionists  and  the  opponents  of 
Napoleon. 

{The  conclusion  of  a  series  of  sonnet^  to  the 
river   Duddon. 


428 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 
(1772-1834) 

KUBLA   KHAN* 

In  Xanadui  did  Kubla  Khanz 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree: 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 

Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 
So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round : 
And  here  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rills, 
Where  blossomed  many  an  incense-bearing  tree ; 
And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills,      10 
Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

But   oh!     that   deep  romantic   chasm   which 

slanted 
Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedarn  cover! 
A  savage  place !    as  holy  and  enchanted 
As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted 
By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover! 
And   from   this  chasm,   with   ceaseless   turmoil 

seething, 
As    if    this    earth    in    fast    thick    pants    were 

breathing, 
A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced: 
Amid  whose  swift  half-intermitted  burst         20 
Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail. 
Or  chafify  grain  beneath  the  thresher's  flail: 
And  'mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and  ever 
It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 
Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion 
Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river  ran, 
Then  reached  the  caverns  measureless  to  man. 
And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean: 
And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 
Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war!  30 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 

Floated  midway  on  the  waves; 

Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 

From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 
It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 
A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice! 

A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 

In  a  vision  once  I  saw: 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played,  40 

•  Coleridge  says  this  poem  was  composed  when 
he  had  fallen  asleep  Just  after  reading  from 
Marco  Polo  In  Purchas's  Pilgrimage  how  "In 
Xandu  did  Cublai  Can  build  a  stately  pal- 
ace," etc.  There  were  more  lines  which  he  failed 
to  record.  Charles  Lamb  spoke  of  the  poem 
as  "a  vision  which  he  [Coleridge]  repeats  so 
enchantingly  that  5t  irradiates  and  brings 
heaven  and  elysian  bowers  into  my  parlour 
when  he  sings  or  says  it." 

1  A   region    In   Tartary.  ,     2  Kubla    the    Cham,    or 

Emperor. 


Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

Could  I  revive  within  me 

Her  symphony  and  song, 
To  such  a  deep  delight  'twould  win  me. 
That  with  music  loud  and  long, 
I  would  build  that  dome  in  air. 
That  sunny  dome!    those  caves  of  ice! 
And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 
And  all  should  cry,  Beware!  Beware! 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair!  50 

Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice, 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread. 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed. 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 


THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MAEINERt 

IN  SEVEN  PAETS 
ARGUMENT 

How  a  Ship  having  passed  the  Line  was  driven 
by  Storms  to  the  cold  Country  towards  the  South 
Pole ;  and  how  from  thence  she  made  her  course 
to  the  Tropical  Latitude  of  the  Great  Pacific 
Ocean ;  and  of  the  strange  things  that  befell ;  and 
In  what  manner  the  Aneyent  Marlnere  came  back 
to  his  own  Country. 


Part  I. 

It  is  an  ancient  Mariner, 

And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three. 

"By  thy  long  gray  beard  and  glittering  eye, 

Now  wherefore  stopp'st  thou  met 

1-12.     An    ancient   Mariner    meeteth    three   Gal- 
lants bidden  to  a  wedding-feast,  and  detaineth  one. 


t  From   the   publication,    In    1798,    of   the    Lyrical 
Ballads,    the    joint    production    of    Coleridge 
and    Wordsworth,    may    be    dated    very    defi- 
nitely   the    recognition    of   the   new    spirit    in 
English  literature  which  Is  commonly  spoken 
of  as   the    Romantic    Hevival.      See   Kng.   Lit.. 
pp.    2.S2-235.      Coleridge,    In    the    fourteenth 
chapter  of  his  Biographia  Literaria,  writes  of 
the  occasion  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads  as  follows : 
"During  the  first  year  that  Mr.  Wordsworth  and 
I    were  neighbours,   our   conversations   turned   fre- 
quently on  the  two  cardinal  points  of  poetry,  the 
power  of  exciting  the  sympathy  of  the  reader  by  a 
faithful    adherence    to    the    truth    of    nature,    and 
the  power  of  giving  the  interest  of  novelty  by  the 
modifying   colours   of   the   Imagination.     The  sud- 
den  charm,    which    accidents   of   light   and   shade, 
which  moonlight  or  sunset,  diffused  over  a  known 
and  familiar  landscape,  appeared  to  represent  the 
practicability    of   combining  both.     These   are   the 
poetry    of   nature.      The    thought    suggested    itself 
(to  which  of  us  I  do  not  recollect)    that  a  series 
of   poems    might    he    composed   of   two    sorts       In 
the  one,  the  incidents  and  agents  were   to  be.   in 
part    at    least,    supernatural ;    and    the    excellence 
aimed  at  was  to  consist  in  the  interesting  of  the 
affections  bv  the  dramatic  truth  of  such  emotions 
as    would    naturally    accompany    such    situations, 
supposing  them  real.     And  real  In  this  sense  they 
have  been  to  every  human  being  who.  from  what- 
ever source  of  delusion,  has  at  any  time  believed 


SAMUEL  TAYLOB  COLEEIDGE 


The  Bridegroom's  doors  are  opened  wide, 
And  I  am   next  of  kin; 
The  guests  :;re  met,  the  feast  is  set: 
May'st  hear  the  merry  din." 

He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand, 
"There  was  a  ship,"  quoth  he.  10 

"Hold  off!    unhand  me,  gray -beard  loon!" 
Eftsoonsi  his  hand  dropt  he. 

He  holds  him  with  his  glittering  eye — 
The  Wedding-Guest   stood   still. 
And  listens  like  a  three  years'  child: 
The  Mariner  hath  his  will. 


The  Wedding-Guest  sat  on  a  stone: 
He  cannot  choose  but  hear; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man. 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner. 


20 


himself  under  supernatural  agency.  For  the 
second  class,  subjects  were  to  be  chosen  from 
ordinarv  life ;  the  characters  and  incidents  were 
to  be  such  as  will  be  found  in  every  village  and 
its  vicinity  where  there  is  a  meditative  and  feel- 
ing mind  to  seek  after  them,  or  to  notice  them 
when  they  present  themselves. 

"In  this  idea  originated  the  plan  of  the  Lyrical 
Ballads;  in  which  it  was  agreed  that  my  en- 
deavours should  be  directed  to  persons  and  char- 
acters supernatural,  or  at  least  romantic;  yet  so 
as  to  transfer  from  our  inward  nature  a  human 
interest  and  a  semblance  of  truth  sufficient  to 
procure  for  these  shadows  of  imagination  that 
willing  suspension  of  disbelief  for  the  moment, 
which  constitutes  poetic  faith.  Mr.  Wordsworth, 
on  the  other  hand,  was  to  propose  to  himself  as 
his  object,  to  give  the  charm  of  novelty  to  things 
of  every  dav.  and  to  excite  a  feeling  analogous  to 
the  supernatural,  by  awakening  the  mind's  atten- 
tion from  the  lethargy  of  custom,  and  directing  it 
to  the  loveliness  and  the  wonders  of  the  world 
before  us ;  an  inexhaustible  treasure,  but  for 
which,  in  consequence  of  the  film  of  familiarity 
and  selfish  solicitude,  we  have  eyes,  yet  see  not, 
ears  that  hear  not.  and  hearts  that  neither  feel 
nor  understand.  With  this  view  I  wrote  The 
Ancient  Mariner." 

The  poem  is  here  given  in  the  revised  text  of  1829. 
As  first  printed  in  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  the 
diction  and  spelling  were  considerably  more 
archaic,  as  the  .Argument,  which  was  not 
retained  in  the  later  edition,  shows.  Words- 
worth gives  the  following  information : 
"Much  the  greatest  part  of  the  story  was 
Mr.  Coleridge's  invention,  but  certain  parts 
I  suggested :  for  example,  some  crime  was 
to  be  committed  which  should  bring  upon 
the  Old  Navigator,  as  Coleridge  afterward  de- 
lighted to  call  him,  the  spectral  persecution, 
as  a  consequence  of  that  crime  and  his  own 
wanderings.  I  had  been  reading  in  Shel- 
vocke's  Voyages  a  day  or  two  l)efore,  that, 
while  doubling  Cape  Horn,  they  frequently 
saw  albatrosses  in  that  latitude,  the  largest 
sort  of  sea-fowl,  some  extending  their 
wings  twelve  or  thirteen  feet.  'Suppose.'  said 
I.  'you  represent  him  as  having  killed  one 
of  these  birds  on  entering  the  South  Sea. 
and  that  the  tutelary  spirits  of  these  re- 
gions take  upon  them  to  avenge  the  crime." 
The  incident  was  thought  fit  for  the  purpose 
and  adopted  accordingly."  Wordsworth  also 
furnished  several  lines  of  the  poem,  espe- 
cially  15-16.   226-227. 

1  at  once 


' '  The  ship  was  cheered,  the  harbour  cleared, 

Merrily  did  we  drop 

Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill. 

Below   the  lighthouse  top. 

The  sun  came  up  upon  the  left, 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he! 
And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  nght 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

Higher  and  higher  every  day, 
Till  over  the  mast  at  noon — "  30 

The  Wedding-Guest  here  beat  his  breast. 
For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 

The  bride  hath  paced  into  the  hall, 
Bed  as  a  rose  is  she; 
Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes 
The  merry  minstrelsy. 

The  Wedding-Guest  he  beat  his  breast. 

Yet  he  cannot  choose  but  hear; 

And  thus  spahe  on  that  ancient  man, 

The   bright-eyed   Mariner.  40 

"And  now  the  Storm-blast  came,  and  he 
Was  tyrannous  and  strong: 
He   struck   with    his   o'ertaking   wings. 
And   chased   us   south   along. 

With  sloping  masts  and  dipping  prow, 

As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 

Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe. 

And  forward  bends  his  head, 

The  ship  drove  fast,  loud  roared  the  blast. 

And  southward  aye  we  fled.  50 

And  now  there  came  both  mist  and  snow. 
And  it  grew^  wondrous  cold: 
And  ice,  mast-high,  came  floating  by. 
As  green  as  emerald. 

And  through  the  drifts  the  snowy  clifts 
Did  send  a  dismal  sheen: 
Nor  shapes  of  men  nor  beasts  we  ken — 
The  ice  was  all  between. 


13-21.  The  Wedding-Guest  is  spell-bound  by  the 
eye  of  the  old  seafaring  man,  and  constrained  to 
hear  his  tale. 

21-30.  The  Mariner  tells  how  the  ship  sailed 
southward  with  a  good  wind  and  fair  weather,  till 
it  reached  the  line. 

Sl-40.  The  Wedding  Guest  heareth  the  bridal 
music  :  but  the  Mariner  continueth  his  tale. 

41-50.  The  ship  driven  by  a  storm  toward  the 
south  pole. 

51-62.  The  land  of  ice.  and  of  fearful  sounds, 
where  no  living  thing  was  to  be  seen. 


430 


THE  KOMANTIC  REVIVAL 


The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there, 
The  ice  was  all  around:  60 

It  cracked  and  growled,  and  roared  and  howled, 
Like  voices  in  a  8wound!2 

At  length  did  cross  an  Albatross, 
Thorough  the  fog  it  came; 
As  if  it  had  been  a  Christian  soul. 
We  hailed  it  in  God's  name. 

It  ate  the  food  it  ne'er  had  eat,3 

And  round  and  round  it  flew. 

The  ice  did  split  with  a  thunder-fit; 

The  helmsman  steered  us  through!  70 

And  a  good  south  wind  sprung  up  behind; 
The  Albatross  did  follow. 
And  every  day,  for  food  or  play, 
Came  to  the  mariner's  hollo! 

In  mist  or  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud, 

It  perched  for  vespers  nine;* 

Whiles  all  the  night,  through  fog-smoke  white, 

Glimmered  the  white  moon-shine." 

"God  save  thee,   ancient  Mariner! 

From  the  fiends,  that  plague  thee  thus! —      80 

Why  look'st  thou  sol" — "With  my  cross-bow 

1  shot  the  Albatross. 

Part  II. 

"The  Sun  now  rose  upon  the  right: 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he, 
Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

And  the  good  south  wind  still  blew  behind. 
But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow, 
Nor  any  day  for  food  or  play 
Came  to  the  mariner's  hollo! 

And  I  had  done  a  hellish  thing, 

And  it  would  work    'era  woe:  '^'-"-'Ki 

63-70.  Till  a  great  sea  bird,  called  the  Alba- 
tross, came  through  the  snow-fog,  and  was  received 
with  great  Joy  and  hospitality. 

71-78.  And  lo  !  the  Albatross  proveth  a  bird  of 
good  omen,  and  followeth  the  ship  as  It  returned 
northward  through  fog  and  tloating  Ice. 

79-82.  The  ancient  Mariner  Inhospitably  kllleth 
the  pious  bird  of  good  omen. 

8.1-96.  His  shipmates  cry  out  against  the  an- 
cient Mariner,  for  killing  the  bird  of  good  luck. 

07-102.  Put  when  the  fog  cleared  off,  they  Jus- 
tify the  same,  and  thus  malte  themselves  accom- 
plices in  the  crime. 

103-106.  The  fair  breeze  continues:  the  ship 
enters  the  Pacific  Ocean,  and  sails  northward,  even 
till  it  reaches  the  Line. 

2  Bwoon.    dream 

8  "The  marineres  gave  It  biscult-worms"  (1798  ed.) 
4  nine  evenlngrs 


For  all  averred,  I  had  killed  the  bird 
That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 
Ah  wretch!    said  they,  the  bird  to  slay, 
That  made  the  breeze  to  blow! 

Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God's  own  head. 

The  glorious  Sun  uprist:-* 

Then  all  averred,  I  had  killed  the  bird 

That  brought  the  fog  and  mist.  100 

'Twas  right,  said  they,  such  birds  to  slay, 

That  bring  the  fog  and  mist. 

The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  flew, 

The  furrow  followed  free; 

We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 

Into  that  silent  sea. 

Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropt  down, 

'Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be; 

And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 

The  silence  of  the  sea!  110 

All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky, 
The  bloody  Sun,  at  noon. 
Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand, 
No  bigger  than  the  Moon. 

Day  after  day,  day  after  day, 
We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion; 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 

Water,   water,   everywhere. 

And  all  the  boards  did  shrink;  120 

Water,  water,  everywhere. 

Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 

The  very  deep  did  rot:     O  Christ! 
That  ever  this  should  be! 
Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs 
Upon  the  slimy  sea. 

About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout 

The  death-fires  danced  at  night; 

The  water,  like  a  witch's  oils, 

Burnt  green,  and  blue  and  white.  130 

And  some  in  dreams  assured  were 
Of  the  Spirit  that  plagued  us  so ; 
Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  followed  ua 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 

107-118.     The  ship  hath  been  suddenly  becalmed. 

119-130.     And     the     Albatross     begins     to     be 
avenged. 

1. 11 -138.  A  Spirit  had  followed  them;  one  of 
the  invisible  inhabitants  of  this  planet,  neither 
departed  souls  nor  angels :  concerning  whom  the 
lenrned  Jew,  .Tosephus.  and  the  Platonic  Constan- 
Mnopolitan.  Michael  Psellus.  mav  be  consulted. 
They  are  very  numerous,  and  there  Is  no  climate 
or  element  without  one  or  more. 
s  Properly  a  present  tense ;  cp.  p.  61,  note  16. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


431 


140 


And  every  tongue,  through  utter  drought, 
Was  withered  at  the  root; 
We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than  if 
We  had  been  choked  with  goot. 

Ah!    well-a-day!    what  evil  looks 
Had  I  from  old  and  young! 
Instead  of  the  cross,  the  Albatross 
About  my  neck  was  hung. 


Part  HI. 

"There  passed  a  weary  time.     Each  throat 

Was  parched,  and  glazed  each  eye. 

A  weary  time!    a  weary  time! 

How  glazed  each  weary  eye! — 

When   looking  westward,   I  beheld 

A  something  in  the  sky. 

At  first  it  seemed  a  little  speck, 

And  then  it  seemed  a  mist;  150 

It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at  last 

A  certain  shape,  I  witt.« 

A  speck,  a  mist,  a  shape,  I  wist! 
And  still  it  neared  and   neared: 
As  if  it  dodged  a  water-sprite. 
It  plunged  and  tacked  and  veered. 

With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked. 
We  could  nor  laugh,  nor  wail; 
Through  utter  drought  all  'dumb  we  stood ! 
I  bit  my  arm,  I  sucked  the  blood,  160 

And  cried,  A  sail!    a  lail! 

With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked, 
Agape  they  heard  me  call: 
Gramercy!^  they  for  joy  did  grin. 
And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew  in. 
As  they  were  drinking  all. 

'See!    see!'    (I  cried)   'she  tacks  no  more! 

Hither  to  work  us  weal. 

Without  a  breeze,  without  a  tide. 

She  steadies  with  upright  keel ! '  170  j 

139-142.     The  shipmates,   in  their  sore  distress.  [ 
would  fain  throw   the   whole  guilt  on  the  ancient  I 
Mariner :  In  sign  whereof  they  hang  the  dead  sea- 
bird  round  his  neck. 

143-156.  The  ancient  Mariner  beholdeth  a  sign 
In  the  element  afar  off. 

157-163.  At  its  nearer  approach,  it  seemeth  him 
to  be  a  ship  :  and  at  a  dear  ransom  he  freeth  his 
speech  from  the  bonds  of  thirst. 

164-166.     A  flash  of  Joy. 

167-176.     And  horror  follows.     For  can  it  be  a 
ship  that  comes  onward  without  wind  or  tide? 
8 1   knew    (but  apparently   confused   in  form   and 
meaning  with  the  old  participial  adverb  y-tcis, 
"surely"). 
1  great    thanks 


The  western  wave  vaa  all  aflame. 

The  day  was  weU-nigh  done! 

Almost  upon  the  western  wave 

Rested  the  broad  bright  Sun; 

When  that  strange  shape  drove  suddenly 

Betwixt  us  and  the  Sun. 

And  straight  the  Sun  was  flecked  with  bars, 
(Heaven's  Mother  send  us  grace!) 
As  if  through  a  dungeon-grate  he  peered 
With  broad  and  burning  face.  180 

Alas!   (thought  I,  and  my  heart  beat  loud) 
How  fast  she  nears  and  nears! 
Are  those  her  sails  that  glance  in  the  Sun, 
Like  restless  gossameresf 

Are  those  her  ribs  through  which  the  Sun 

Did  peer,  as  through  a  grate? 

And  is  that  Woman  all  her  crewt 

Is  that  a  Death?    and  are  there  two? 

Is  Death  that  woman's  mate? 

Her  lips  were  red,  her  looks  were  free,  190 

Her  locks  were  yellow  as  gold: 

Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy. 

The  Night-mare,  Life-in-Death,  was  she, 

Who  thicks  man's  blood  with  cold. 

The  naked  hulk  alongside  came. 

And  the  twain  were  casting  dice; 

*  The  game  is  done !    I  've  won !    I  've  won ! ' 

Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice. 

The  Sun's  rim  dips;    the  stars  rush  out. 
At  one  stride  comes  the  dark;  200 

With  far-heard  whisper,  o'er  the  sea, 
Oflf  shot  the  speetre-bark. 

We  listened  and  looked  sideways  up! 

Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a  cup. 

My  life-blood  seemed  to  sip! 

The  stars  were  dim,  and  thick  the  night. 

The    steersman's    face    by    his    lamp    gleamed 

white; 
From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip — 
Till  clomb  above  the  eastern  bar 
The  horned  Moon,  with  one  bright  star  210 

Within  the  nether  tip. 


177-186.  It  seemeth  him  but  the  skeleton  of  a 
ship.  And  Its  ribs  are  seen  as  bars  on  the  face  of 
the  setting  Sun. 

187-194.  The  Spectre-Woman  and  her  Death- 
mate,  and  no  other  on  board  the  skeleton-ship. 
Like  vessel,  like  crew  ! 

195-198.  Death  and  Life-in-Death  have  diced 
for  the  ship's  crew,  and  she  (the  latter)  wlnneth 
the  ancient  Mariner. 

199-202.  No  twilight  within  the  courts  of  the 
Sun. 

203-223.     At  the  rising  of  the  Moon,  one  after 


432 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 


One  after  one,  by  the  star-dogged  Moon, 
Too  quick  for  groan  or  sigh. 
Each  turned  his  face  with  a  ghastly  pang. 
And  cursed  me  with  his  eye. 

Four  times  fifty  living  men, 
(And  I  heard  nor  sigh  nor  groan) 
With  heavy  thump,  a  lifeless  lump, 
They  dropped  down  one  by  one. 

The  souls  did  from  their  bodies  fly, —         220 

They  fled  to  bliss  or  woe! 

And  every  soul,  it  passed  me  by. 

Like  the  whizz  of  my  cross-bow ! ' ' — 

Part  IV. 

"I  fear  thee,  ancient  Mariner! 

I  fear  thy  skinny  hand 

And  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and  brown, 

As  is  the  ribbed  sea-sand. 

I  fear  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye. 
And  thy  skinny  hand,  so  brown." — 
"Fear  not,   fear  not,  thou  Wedding-Guest! 
This  body  dropt  not  down.  231 

Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone. 
Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea! 
And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on 
My  soul  in  agony. 

The  many  men,  so  beautiful! 

And  they  all  dead  did  lie: 

And  a  thousand  thousand  slimy  things 

Lived  on;    and  so  did  I. 

I  looked  upon  the  rotting  sea,  240 

And  drew  my  eyes  away; 

I  looked  upon  the  rotting  deck. 

And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 

I  looked  to  heaven,  and  tried  to  pray; 
But  or  ever  a  prayer  had  gusht, 
A  wicked  whisper  came,  and  made 
My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 

I  closed  my  lips,  and  kept  them  close. 
And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat; 
For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea  and  the 
sky  250 

another  bin  shipmatps  drop  down  dead.  Bnt  Llfe- 
ln-I)eath  begins  her  work  on  tbe  ancient  Mariner. 

224-23.'i.  The  Wedding-Guest  feareth  that  a 
Spirit  Is  talking  to  him  :  but  the  anelent  Mariner 
aasnreth  him  of  his  bodily  life,  and  proceedeth  to 
relate  his  horrible  penance. 

2.30-2.^2  He  deflplseth  the  creatures  of  the 
calm,  and  envleth  that  they  should  live,  and  so 
many  lie  dead. 


Lay  like  a  load  on  my  weary  eye, 
And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet. 

The  cold  sweat  melted  from  their  limbs, 
Nor  rot  nor  reek  did  they: 
The  look  with  which  they  looked  on  me 
Had  never  passed  away. 

An  orphan's  curse  would  drag  to  hell 

A  spirit  from  on  high ; 

But  oh!    more  horrible  than  that 

Is  a  curse  in  a  dead  man's  eye!  260 

Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I  saw  that  curse. 

And  yet  I  could  not  die. 

The  moving  Moon  went  up  the  sky, 
And  nowhere  did  abide; 
Softly  she  was  going  up. 
And  a  star  or  two  beside — 


Her  beams  bemocked  the  sultry  main. 

Like  April  hoar-frost  spread; 

But  where  the  ship's  huge  shadow  lay. 

The  charmed  water  burnt  alway 

A  still  and  awful  red. 


270 


280 


Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship, 

I  watched  the  water-snakes: 

They  moved  in  tracks  of  shining  white, 

And  when  they  reared,  the  elfish  light 

Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 

Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

I  watched  their  rich  attire: 

Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black. 

They  coiled  and  swam;    and  every  track 

Was  a  flash  of  golden  fire. 

O  happy  living  things!     no  tongue 

Their  beauty  might  declare: 

A  spring  cf  love  gushed  from  my  heart, 

And  I  blessed  them  unaware: 

Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me, 

And  I  blessed  them  unaware. 

The  selfsame  moment  I  could  pray; 
And  from  my  neck  so  free 


253-262.  But  the  curse  llveth  for  him  In  the 
eye  of  the  dead  men. 

263-271.  In  his  loneliness  and  fixedness  he 
yearneth  towards  the  Journeying  Moon,  and  the 
stars  that  still  sojourn,  yet  still  move  onward  ;  and 
everywhere  the  blue  sky  belongs  to  them,  and  is 
their  appointed  rest,  and  their  native  country  and 
their  own  natural  homes,  which  they  enter  un 
announced,  as  lords  that  are  <'ertnlnly  expected, 
and  yet  there  Is  a  silent  Joy  at  their  arrival. 

272-281.  By  the  light  of  the  Moon  he  beholdeth 
(lOd's  creatures  of  the  great  calm. 

282-28.'?.     Their  beauty  and  their  happiness. 

284-287.     He  blesseth  them  In  his  heart. 

288-291.     The  spell  begins  to  break. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLEEIDGE 


433 


290 


300 


310 


The  Albatross  fell  off,  and  sank 
Like  lead  into  the  sea. 


Part  V. 

"Oh  sleep!    it  is  a  gentle  thing, 
Beloved  from  pole  to  pole! 
To  Mary  Queen  the  praise  be  given! 
She  sent   the  gentle  sleep  from  Heaven, 
That  slid  into  my  soul. 

The  sillys  buckets  on  the  deck, 

That  had  so  long  remained, 

I  dreamt  that  they  were  filled  with  dew; 

And  when  I  awoke,  it  rained. 

My  lips  were  wet,  my  throat  was  coid, 
My  garments  all  were  dank; 
Sure  I  had  drunken  in  my  dreams. 
And  still  my  body  drank. 

I  moved,  and  could  not  feel  my  limbs: 
I  was  so  light — almost 
I  thought  that  I  had  died  in  sleep, 
And  was  a  blessed  ghost. 

And  soon  I  heard  a  roaring  wind: 
It  did  not  come  anear: 
But  with  its  sound  it  shook  the  sails. 
That  were  so  thin  and  sere. 

The  upper  air  burst  into  life! 
And  a  hundred  fire-flags  sheen, 
To  and  fro  they  were  hurried  about! 
And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out, 
The  wan  stars  danced  between. 


And  the  coming  wind  did  roar  more  loud. 
And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge; 
And    the    rain    poured    down    from    one    black 
cloud;  320 

The  Moon  was  at  its  edge. 

The  thick  black  cloud  was  cleft,  and  still 
The  Moon  was  at  its  side: 
Like   waters   shot   from   some   high   crag, 
The  lightning  fell  with  never  a  jag, 
A  river  steep  and  wide. 

202-308.  By  grace  of  the  holy  Mother,  the 
ancient  Mariner  is  refreshed  witli  rain. 

309-326.  He  heareth  sounds  and  seeth  strange 
sights  and  commotions  in  the  slty  and  the  element. 

327-376.  The  t)odies  of  the  ship's  crew  are  in- 
spired, and  the  ship  moves  on  :  but  not  by  the 
souls  of  the  men,  nor  by  demons  of  earth  or  mid- 
dle air,  but  by  a  blessed  troop  of  angelic  spirits, 
sent  down  by  the  invocation  of  the  guardian  saint. 
8  Perhaps  "nseless?'* :  but  the  original  meaning 
"blessed"  will  fit  very  well. 


The  loud  wind  never  reached  the  ship, 

Yet  now  the  ship  moved  on! 

Beneath   the   lightning   and   the   Moon 

The  dead  men  gave  a  groan.  330 

They  groaned,  they  stirred,  they  all  uprose, 
Nor  spake,  nor  moved  their  eyes; 
It  had  been  strange,  even  in  a  dream. 
To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise. 

The  helmsman  steered,  the  ship  moved  on; 

Yet  never  a  breeze  up  blew: 

The  mariners  all   'gan  work  the  ropes, 

Where  they  were  wont  to  do; 

They  raised  their  limbs  like  lifeless  tools — 

We  were  a  ghastly  crew.  340 

The  body  of  my  brother's  son 
Stood  by  me,  knee  to  knee: 
The  body  and  I  pulled  at  one  rope 
But  he  said  nought  to  me." — 

'  *  I  fear  thee,  ancient  Mariner ! ' ' — 
"Be  calm,  thou  Wedding-Guest! 
'Twas  not  those  souls  that  fled  in  pain. 
Which  to  their  corses  came  again, 
But  a  troop  of  spirits  blest: 


dawned — they     dropped 


their 
350 


For    when     it 

arms, 

And  clustered  round  the  mast; 
Sweet  sounds  rose  slowly  through  their  mouths, 
And  from  their  bodies  passed. 

Around,  around,  flew   each  sweet  sound, 
Then  darted  to  the  Sun; 
Slowly  the  sounds  came  back  again. 
Now  mixed,  now  one  by  one. 

Sometimes  a-dropping  from  the  sky 

I  heard  the  sky-lark  sing; 

Sometimes  all  little  birds  that  are,  360 

How  they  seemed  to  fill  the  sea  and  air 

With  their  sweet  jargoning! 

And  now  'twas  like  all  instruments, 
Now  like  a  lonely  flute; 
And  now  it  is  an  angel's  song, 
That  makes  the  heavens  be  mute. 

It  ceased;    yet  stUl  the  sails  made  on 

A  pleasant  noise  till  noon, 

A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 

In  the  leafy  month  of  June,  370 

That  to  the  sleeping  woods  aU  night 

Singeth  a  quiet  tune. 

Till  noon  we  quietly  sailed  on, 
Yet  never  a  breeze  did  breathe: 
Slowly  and  smoothly  went  the  ship, 
Moved  onward  from  beneath. 


434 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 


Under  the  keel  nine  fathom  deep, 

From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 

The  spirit  slid;    and  it  was  he 

That  made  the  ship  to  go.  380 

The  sails  at  noon  left  off  their  tune, 

And  the  ship  stood  still  also. 

The  Sun,  right  up  above  the  mast, 

Had  fixed  her  to  the  ocean: 

But  in  a  minute  she  'gan  stir,  nhd  M 

"With  a  short  uneasy  motion — 

Backwards  and  forwards  half  her  length 

With  a  short  uneasy  motion. 

Then  like  a  pawing  horse  let  go, 

She  made  a  sudden  bound:  390 

It  flung  the  blood  into  my  head, 

And  I  fell  down  in  a  swound. 

How  long  in  that  same  fit  I  lay, 
I  have  not  to  declare; 
But  ere  my  living  life  returned, 
I  heard  and  in  my  soul  discerned 
Two  voices  in  the  air. 

'Is  it  he?'  quoth  one,  *Is  this  the  man? 
By  him  who  died  on  cross, 
With  his  cruel  bow  he  laid  full  low  400 

The  harmless  Albatross. 

The  spirit  who  bideth  by  himself 
In  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 
He  loved  the  bird  that  loved  the  man 
Who  shot  him  with  his  bow.' 

The  other  was  a  softer  voice, 

As  soft  as  honey-dew: 

Quoth  he,  'The  man  hath  penance  done, 

And  penance  more  will  do.' 

Part  VI. 

FIEST  VOICE 

"  'But  tell  me,  tell  me!    speak  again,  410 

Thy  soft  response  renewing — 
What  makes  that  ship  drive  on  so  fast? 
What  is  the  ocean  doing?' 

377-392.  The  lonesome  Spirit  from  the  south- 
pole  carries  on  the  ship  as  far  as  the  Line,  in 
obedience  to  the  angelic  troop,  but  still  requlreth 
vengeance. 

393-409.  The  Polar  Spirit's  fellow-demons,  the 
invisible  inhabitnnts  of  the  element,  take  part  in 
his  wrong ;  and  two  of  them  relate  one  to  the 
other,  that  penance  long  and  heavy  for  the  an- 
cient Mariner  hath  been  accorded  to  the  Polar 
Spirit,  who  returneth  southward. 

410-429.  The  Mariner  hath  been  cast  into  a 
trance  ;  for  the  angelic  power  cniiseth  the  vessel 
to  drive  northward  faster  than  human  life  could 
endure. 


SECOND  VOICE 

'Still  as  a  slave  before  his  lord. 
The  ocean  hath  no  blast; 
His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 
Up  to  the  Moon  is  cast — 

If  he  may  know  which  way  to  go; 
For  she  guides  him  smooth  or  grim. 
See,  brother,  see!     how  graciously 
She  looketh  down  on  him.' 


FIRST  VOICE 

'But  why  drives  on  that  ship  so  fast. 
Without  or  wave  or  wind?' 


SECOND  VOICE 

'The  air  is  cut  away  before, 
.\nd  closes  from  behind. 

Fly,  brother,  fly!    more  high,  more  high! 
Or  we  shall  be  belated: 
For  slow  and  slow  that  ship  will  go. 
When  the  Mariner's  trance  is  abated.* 


420; 


430 


I  woke,  and  we  were  sailing  on 

As  in  a  gentle  weather: 

'Twas  night,  calm  night,  the  Moon  was  high, 

The  dead  men  stood  together. 

All  stood  together  on  the  deck. 
For  a  charnel-dungeon  fitter: 
All  fixed  on  me  their  stony  eyes, 
That  in  the  Moon  did  glitter. 

The  pang,  the  curse,  with  which  they  died, 
Had  never  passed  away: 

I  could  not  draw  my  eyes  from  theirs,         440 
Nor  turn  them  up  to  pray. 

And  now  this  spell  was  snapt:     once  more, 

I  viewed  the  ocean  green, 

And  looked  far  forth,  yet  little  saw 

Of  what  had  else  been  Been — 

Like  one,  that  on  a  lonesome  road 

Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread. 

And  having  once  turned  round  walks  on, 

And  turns  no  more  his  head; 

Because  he  knows,  a  frightful  fiend  450 

Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 

But  soon  there  breathed  a  wind  on  me. 
Nor  sound  nor  motion  made: 


430-441.     The  supernatural  motion  is  retarded  : 
the  Mariner  awakes,  and  his  penance  begins  anew. 
442-463.     The  curse  Is  finally  expiated. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLEBIDGE 


4S5 


460 


470 


Its  path  was  not  upon  the  sea, 
In  ripple  or  in  shade. 

It  raised  my  hair,  it  fanned  my  cheek 
Like  a  meadow-gale  of  spring — 
It  mingled  strangely  with  my  fears, 
Yet  it  felt  like  a  "welcoming. 

Swiftly,  swiftly  flew  the  ship, 
Yet  she  sailed  softly  too: 
Sweetly,  sweetly  blew  the  breeze — 
On  me  alone  it  blew. 

Oh!    dream  of  joy!    is  this  indeed 
The  light-house  top  I  seef 
Is  this  the  hillf    is  this  the  kirkf 
Is  this  mine  own  countreet 

We  drifted  o'er  the  harbour-bar, 
And  I  with  sobs  did  pray — 
'O  let  me  be  awake,  my  Grod! 
Or  let  me  sleep  alway.' 

The  harbonr-bay  was  clear  as  glass, 
So  smoothly  it  was  strewn! 
And  on  the  bay  the  moonlight  lay, 
And  the  shadow  of  the  Moon. 

The  rock  shone  bright,  the  kirk  no  less. 
That   stands  above  the  rock: 
The  moonlight  steeped  in  silentness 
The  steady  weathercock. 

And  the  bay  was  white  with  silent  light 
Till  rising  from  the  same, 
Full  many  shapes,  that  shadows  were, 
In  crimson  colours  came. 

A  little  distance  from  the  prow 
Those  crimson  shadows  were: 
I  turned  my  eyes  upon  the  deck — 
Oh,  Christ!    what  saw  I  there! 

Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat, 
And,  by  the  holy  rood!^ 
•A  man  all  light,  a  seraph-man. 
On  every  corse  there  stood. 

This  aeraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand: 
It  was  a  heavenly  sight! 
They  stood  as  signals  to  the  land, 
Each  one  a  lovely  light* 

This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand, 
No  voice  did  they  impart — 
No  voice;    but  oh!    the  silence  sank 
Like  music  on  my  heart. 


464-479.  The  ancient  Mariner  beholdeth  his  na- 
tive country. 

480-499.  The  angelic  spirits  leave  the  dead 
bodies  and  appear  in  their  own  forms  of  light. 

»crow 


480 


490 


But  soon  I  heard  the  dash  of  oars,  ^00 

I  heard  the  Pilot's   cheer: 

My  head  was  turned  perforce  away. 

And  I  saw  a  boat  appear. 

The  Pilot  and  the  Pilot's  boy, 

I  heard  them  coming  fast: 

Dear  Lord  in  Heaven!    it  was  a  joy 

The  dead  men  could  not  blast. 

I  saw  a  third — I  heard  his  voice: 

It  is  the  Hermit  good! 

He  singeth  loud  his  godly  hymns  BIO 

That  he  makes  in  the  wood. 

Hell  shrieve  my  soul,  he'll  wash  away 

The  Albatross's  blood. 


Part  VIL 

"This  Hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood 
Which   slopes  down   to   the  sea. 
How  loudly  his  sweet  voice  he  rears! 
He  loves  to  talk  with  marineres 
That  come  from  a  far  countree. 

He  kneels  at  morn,  and  noon,  and  eve — 
He   hath   a   cushion  plump:  520 

It  is  the  moss  that  whoUy  hides 
The  rotted  old  oak  stump. 

The  skiff -boat  neared:    I  heard  them  talk, 
'Why,  this  is  strange,  I  trow! 
Where  are  those  lights  so  many  and  fair, 
That  signal  made  but  nowf 

'  Strange,  by  my  faith !  '  the  Hermit  said — 

'  And  they  answered  not  our  cheer ! 

The  planks  looked  warped !    and  see  those  sails. 

How  thin  they  are  and  sere!  530 

I  never  saw  anght  like  to  them. 

Unless  perchance  it  were 

Brown  skeletons  of  leaves  that  lag 
My  forest -brook  along; 
When   the  ivy-todio  is  heavy  with   snow. 
And  the  owlet  whoops  to  the  wolf  below, 
That  eats  the  she-wolf's  young.' 

'Dear  Lord!    it  hath  a  fiendish  look' — 
(The  Pilot  made  reply) 

'  I  am  a- feared. ' — *  Push  on,  push  on ! '         540 
Said  the  Hermit  cheerily. 

The  boat  came  closer  to  the  ship, 
But  I  nor  spake  nor  stirred; 
The  boat  came  close  beneath  the  ship. 
And  straight  a  sound  was  heard. 

513-545.     The  Hermit  of  the  Wood  approachetb 
the  ship  with  wonder. 
10  ivy-busb 


436 


THE  BOMANTIC  REVIVAL 


Under  the  water  it  rumbled  on, 
Still  louder  and  more  dread: 
It  reached  the  ship,  it  split  the  bay; 
The  ship  went  down  like  lead. 


550 


Stunned  by  that  loud  and  dreadful  sound. 

Which  sky  and  ocean  smote, 

Like  one  that  hath  been  seven  days  drowned 

My  body  lay  afloat; 

But  swift  as  dreams,  myself  I  found 

Within  the  Pilot's  boat. 

Upon  the  whirl,  where  sank  the  ship, 
The  boat  spun  round  and  round; 
And  all  was  still,  save  that  the  hill 
Was  telling  of  the  sound. 

I  moved  my  lips — the  Pilot  shrieked  560 

And  fell  down  in  a  fit; 

The  holy  Hermit  raised  his  eyes, 

And  prayed  where  he  did  sit. 

I  took  the  oars:  The  Pilot's  boy, 

Who  now  doth  crazy  go. 

Laughed  loud  and  long,  and  all  the  while 

His  eyes  went  to  and  fro. 

*Ha!    ha! '  quoth  he,  'full  plain  I  see, 

The  Devil  knows  how  to  row.' 

And  now,  all  in  my  own  countree,  570 

I  stood  on  the  firm  land! 
The  Hermit  stepped  forth  from  the  boat. 
And  scarcely  he  could  stand. 

*  O  shrieve  me,  shrieve  me,  holy  man ! ' 
The  Hermit  crossed  his  brow. 
'Say  quick,'  quoth  he,  'I  bid  thee  say — 
What  manner  of  man  art  thou?' 

Forthwith  this  frame  of  mine  was  wrenched 
With  a  woful  agony. 

Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale;  580 

And  then  it  left  me  free. 

Since  then,  at  an  uncertain  hour, 
That  agony  returns: 
And  till  ray  ghastly  tale  is  told. 
This  heart  within  me  burns. 

I  pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land; 
I  have  strange  power  of  speech; 
That  moment  that  his  face  I  see. 


546-540.     The  ship  suddenly  slnketh. 

5.50-573.  The  ancient  Mariner  is  saved  in  tlie 
Pllofg  boat. 

574-581.  The  anrlent  Mariner  earnestly  en- 
treateth  the  Hermit  to  shrieve  iiim  ;  and  the  pen- 
ance of  life  fnllH  on  him. 

5S2-625.  And  ever  and  anon  throughout  his 
future  life  an  agony  conHtrnlnetli  him  lo  travel 
from  land  to  land  and  to  teach,  by  his  own  exam- 
ple, love  and  reverence  to  all  things  that  God 
m«de  and  lovetb. 


I  know  the  man  that  must  hear  me: 

To  him  my  tale  I  teach.  590 

What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that  door! 

The  wedding-guests  are  there: 

But  in  the  garden-bower  the  bride 

And  bride-maids  singing  are: 

And  hark  the  little  vesper  bell, 

Which  biddeth  me  to  prayer! 

O  Wedding-Guest!    this  soul  hath  been 

Alone  on  a  wide  Avide  sea: 

So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  himself 

Scarce  seemed  there  to  be.  600 

O  sweeter  than  the  marriage-feast, 
'Tis  sweeter  far  to  me. 
To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 
With  a  goodly  company! — 

To  walk  together  to  the  kirk. 

And  all  together  pray. 

While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends. 

Old  men,  and  babes,  and  loving  friends 

And  youths  and  maidens  gay! 

Farewell,  farewell!    but  this  I  tell  610 

To   thee,    thou    Wedding-Guest! 
He  prayeth  well,  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small; 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us. 
He  made  and  loveth  all. ' ' 

The  Mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright, 

Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar, 

Is  gone;    and  now  the  Wedding-Guest         620 

Turned  from  the  bridegroom 's  door. 

He  went  like  one  that  hath  been  stunned. 
And   is  of  sense  forlorn: 
A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man. 
He  rose  the  morrow  morn. 


CHRISTABEL* 

Part  the  First 

'Tis  the  middle  of  night  by  the  castle  clock, 
And  the  owls  have  awakened  the  crowing  cock. 

To— whit ! Tu— whoo ! 

.^nd  hark,  again!     the  crowing  cock, 
How  drowsily  it  crew. 

•  Written  In  1797,  and  published  In  1816,  when 
a  second  part  was  added,  though  "thnn* 
parts  yet  to  come"  were  never  written, 
'rhe  first  part  circulated  in  manuscript  and 
had  considerable  influence,  especially  In  the 
matter  of  form,  on  Scott  and  other  poets.  See 
Eny.  Lit.,  pp.  243,  262, 


SAMUEL,  TAYLOR  COLEBIDGE 


437 


Sir  Leoline,  the  Baron  rich, 

Hath  a  toothless  mastiff,  which 

From  her  keunel  beneath  the  rock 

Maketh   answer  to   the  clock, 

Four  for  the  quarters,  and  twelve  for  the  hour; 

Ever  and  aye,  by  shine  and  shower,  H 

Sixteen  short  howls,  not  over  loud; 

Some  say,  she  sees  my  lady's  shroud. 

Is  the  night  chilly  and  dark? 

The  night  is  chilly,  but  not  dark. 

The  thin  gray  cloud  is  spread  on  high, 

It  covers  but  not  hides  the  sky. 

The  moon  is  behind,  and  at  the  full; 

And  yet  she  looks  both  small  and  dull. 

The  night  is  chill,  the  cloud  is  gray;  20 

'Tis  a  month  before  the  month  of  May, 

And  the  Spring  comes  slowly  up  this  way. 

The  lovely  lady,  Christabel, 

Whom  her  father  loves  so  well, 

What  makes  her  in  the  woods  so  late, 

A  furlong  from  the  castle  gatet 

She  had  dreams  all  yesternight 

Of   her  own   betrothed   knight; 

And  she  in  the  midnight  wood  will  pray 

For  the  weal  of  her  lover  that's  far  away.     30 

She  stole  along,  she  nothing  spoke, 

The  sighs  she  heaved  were  soft  and  low, 

And  naught  was  green  upon  the  oak 

But  moss  and  rarest  mistletoe: 

She  kneels  beneath  the  huge  oak  tree. 

And  in  silence  prayeth  she. 

The  lady  sprang  up  suddenly. 

The   lovely  lady,   Christabel! 

It  moaned  as  near,  as  near  can  be, 

But  what  it  is  she  cannot  tell. —  40 

One  the  other  side  it  seems  to  be, 

Of  the  huge,  broad-breasted,  old  oak  tree. 

The  night  is  elull;    the  forest  bare; 

Is  it  the  wind  that  moaneth  bleak  f 

There  is  not  wind  enough  in  the  air 

To  move  away  the  ringlet  curl 

From  the  lovely  lady's  cheek — 

There  is  not  wind  enough  to  twirl 

The  one  red  leaf,  the  last  of  its  clan. 

That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it  can,  60 

Hanging  so  light,  and  hanging  so  high. 

On  the  topmost  twig  that  looks  up  at  the  sky. 

Hush,  beating  heart  of  Giristabel! 
Jesu,  Maria,  shield  her  well! 
She  folded  hei  arms  beneath  her  cloak, 
And  stole  to  the  other  side  of  the  oak. 
What  sees  she  there? 


There  she  sees  a  damsel  bright, 

Drest  in  a  silken  robe  of  white, 

That  shadowy  in  the   moonlight   shone;  60 

The  neck  that  made  the  white  robe  wan. 

Her  stately  neck,  and  arms  were  bare; 

Her  blue-veined  feet  unsandal'd  were. 

And  wildly  glittered  here  and  there 

The    gems   entangled   in   her   hair. 

I  guess,   'twas  frightful  there  to  see 

A  lady  so  richly  clad  as  she — 

Beautiful  exceedingly! 


Mary  mother,  save  me  now! 

(Said  Christabel,)  And  who  art  thouf 


70 


The  lady  strange  made  answer  meet. 
And  her  voice  was  faint  and  sweet: — 
Have  pity  on  my  sore  distress, 
I   scarce  can  speak   for  weariness: 
Stretch  forth  thy  hand,  and  have  no   fear! 
Said  Christabel,   How  camest   thou   here? 
And  the  lady,  whose  voice  was  faint  and  sweet. 
Did  thus  pursue  her  answer  meet: 

My  sire  is  of  a  noble  line, 

And  my  name  is  Geraldine:  80 

Five  warriors  seized  me  yestermorn, 

Me,  even  me,  a  maid  forlorn: 

They  choked  my  cries  with  force  and  fright, 

And  tied  me  on  a  palfrey  white. 

The  palfrey  was  as  fleet  as  wind. 

And  they  rode  furiously  behind. 

They  spurred  amain,  their  steeds  were  white: 

And   once   we  crossed   the  shade   of   night. 

As  sure  as  Heaven  shall  rescue  me, 

I  have  no  thought  what  men  they  be;  90 

Nor  do  I  know  how  long  it  is 

(For  I  have  lain  entranced  I  wis) 

Since  one,   the  tallest   of  the  five, 

Took  me  from  the  palfrey's  back, 

A  weary  woman,  scarce  alive. 

Some  muttered  words  his  comrades  spoke: 

He  placed  me  underneath  this  oak; 

He  swore  they  would  return  with  haste; 

Whither  they  went  I  cannot  tell — 

I  thought  I  heard,  some  minutes  past,         100 

Sounds  as  of  a  castle  bell. 

Stretch   forth  thy  hand   (thus  ended  she), 

And  help  a  wretched  maid  to  flee. 

Then  Christabel  stretched  forth  her  hand, 

And  comforted  fair  Geraldine: 

O  well,  bright  dame!    may  you  command 

The  service  of  Sir  Leoline; 

And  gladly  our  stout  chivalry 

Will  he  send  forth  and  friends  withal 

To  guide  and  guard  you  safe  and  free         HO 

Home  to  your  noble  father's  hall. 


438 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 


She  rose:    and  forth  with  steps  they  passeil 

That  strove  to.be,  and  were  not,  fast. 

Her  gracious  stars  the   lady  blest, 

And  thus  spake  on  sweet  Christabel: 

All  our  household  are  at  rest, 

The  hall  as  silent  as  the  cell; 

Sir  Leoline  is  weak  in  health. 

And  may  not  well  awakened  be, 

But  we  will  move  as  if  in  stealth,  120 

And  I  beseech  your  courtesy, 

This  night,  to  share  your  couch  with  me. 

They  crossed  the  moat,  and  Christabel 

Took  the  key  that  fitted  well; 

A   little   door   she   opened   straight. 

All  in  the  middle  of  the  gate; 

The  gate  that  was  ironed  within  and  without, 

Where  an  army  in  battle  array  had  marched 

out. 
The  lady  sank,  belike  through  pain. 
And  Christabel  with  might  and  main  130 

Lifted  her  up,  a  weary  weight. 
Over  the  threshold  of  the  gate: 
Then  the  lady  rose  again. 
And  moved,  as  she  were  not  in  pain.* 

So  free  from  danger,  free  from  fear, 

They  crossed  the  court;  right  glad  they  were. 

And  Christabel  devoutly  cried 

To  the  lady  by  her  side. 

Praise  we  the  Virgin  all  divine 

Who  hath  rescued  thee  from  thy  distress!      140 

Alas,  alas!    said  Geraldine, 

I  cannot  speak  for  weariness. 

So  free  from  danger,  free  from  fear. 

They  crossed  the  court:    right  glad  they  were. 

Outside  her  kennel,  the  mastiff  old 

Lay  fast  asleep,  in  moonshine  cold. 

The  mastiff  old  did  not  awake. 

Yet  she  an  angry  moan  did  make! 

And  what  can  ail  the  mastiff  bitch  I 

Never  till  now  she  uttered  yell  160 

Beneath  the  eye  of  Christabel. 

Perhaps  it  is  the  owlet's  scritch: 

For  what  can  ail  the  mastiff  bitch! 

They  passed  the  hall,  that  echoes  still, 

Pass  as  lightly  as  you  will! 

The  brands  were  flat,  the  brands  were  dying, 

Amid  their  own  white  ashes  lying; 

But  when  the  lady  pa88e<l,  there  came 

A  tongue  of  light,  a  fit  of  flame; 

And   Christabel  saw  the  lady's  eye,  160 

And  nothing  else  saw  she  thereby, 

•  ThrosholdH  were  often  blessed  to  keep  out  evil 
spirits.  The  malign  character  of  the  super- 
natural Geraldine  is  clearly  hinted  at  here 
and   in  the   lines   that  follow. 


Save  the  boss  of  the  shield  of  Sir  Leoline  tall. 
Which  hung  in  a  murky  old  niche  in  the  wall. 
O  softly  tread,  said  Christabel, 
My  father  seldom  sleepeth  well. 

Sweet  Christabel  her  feet  doth  bare, 

And  jealous  of  the  listening  air 

They  steal  their  way  from  stair  to  stair, 

Now  in  glimmer,  and  now  in  gloom, 

And  now  they  pass  the  Baron 's  room,  17t» 

As  still  as  death,  with  stifled  breath! 

And  now  have  reached  her  chamber  door; 

And  now  doth  Geraldine  press  down 

The  rushes  of  the  chamber  floor. 

The  moon  shines  dim  in  the  open  air. 

And  not  a  moonbeam  enters  here. 

But  they  without  its  light  can  see 

The  chamber  carved  so  curiously, 

Carved  with  figures  strange  and  sweet. 

All  made  out  of  the  carver's  brain,  180 

For  a  lady's  chamber  meet; 

The  lamp  with  twofold  silver  chain 

Is   fastened  to   an  angel's   feet. 

The  silver  lamp  burns  dead  and  dim; 

But  Christabel  the  lamp  will  trim. 

She  trimmed  the  lamp,  and  made  it  bright. 

And  left  it  swinging  to  and  fro, 

While  Geraldine,  in  wretched   plight. 

Sank  down  upon  the  floor  below. 

0  weary  lady,  Geraldine,  190 

1  pray  you,  drink  this  cordial  wine! 
It  is  a  wine  of  virtuous  powers; 
My  mother  made  it  of  wild  flowers. 

And  will  your  mother  pity  me, 

Who  am  a  maiden  most  forlorn? 

Christabel  answered — Woe  is  me! 

She  died  the  hour  that  I  was  born. 

I  have  heard  the  gray-haired  friar  tell 

How  on  her  death-bed  she  did  say, 

That  she  should  hear  the  castle-bell  200 

Strike  twelve  upon  my  wedding-day. 

0  mother  dear!    that  thou  wert  here! 

1  would,  said  Geraldine,  she  were! 

But  soon  with  altered  voice,  said  she — 

"Off,  wandering  mother!     Peak  and  pineli 

I  have  power  to  bid  thee  flee." 

Alas!     what  ails  poor  Gerahlincf 

Why  stares  she  with  unsettled  eye? 

Can  she  the  bodiless  dead  espyf 

And  why  with  hollow  voice  cries  she,  210 

"Off,  woman,  off!    this  hour  is  mine — 

Though  thou  her  guardian  spirit  be. 

Off,  woman,  off!     'tis  given  to  me." 

1  Cp.  Macbeth  I,  Hi,  23. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLEBIDGE 


439 


Then  Christabel  knelt  by  the  lady's  side, 
And  raised  to  heaven  her  eyes  so  blue — 
"Alas!"  said  she,  "this  ghastly  ride — 
Dear   lady !     it  hath  wildered  you ! ' ' 
The  lady  wiped  her  moist  cold  brow, 
And  faintly  said,  "  'tis  over  now!" 

Again  the  wild-flower  wine  she  drank: 
Her  fair  large  eyes    'gan  gUtter  bright, 
And  from  the  floor  whereon  she  sank. 
The  lofty  lady  stood  upright: 
She  was  most  beautiful  to  see. 
Like  a  lady  of  a  far  countree. 

And  thus  the  lofty  lady  spake — 
"All  they  who  live  in  the  upper  sky, 
Do  love  you,  holy  Christabel! 
And  you  love  them,  and  for  their  sake 
And  for  the  good  which  me  befel, 
Even  I  in  my  degree  will  try, 
Fair  maiden,  to  requite  you  weU. 
But  now  unrobe  yourself;    for  I 
Must  pray,  ere  yet  in  bed  I  lie." 

Quoth  Christabel,  So  let  it  be! 
And  as  the  lady  bade,  did  she. 
Her  gentle  limbs  did  she  undress, 
And  lay  down  in  her  loveliness. 

But  through  her  brain  of  weal  and  woe 
So  many  thoughts  moved  to  and  fro. 
That  vain  it  were  her  lids  to  close; 
So  half-way  from  the  bed  she  rose, 
And  on  her  elbow  did  recline 
To  look  at  the  lady  Geraldine. 

Beneath  the  lamp  the  lady  bowed, 
And  slowly  rolled  her   eyes  around; 
Then  drawing  in  her  breath  aloud, 
Like  one  that  shuddered,  she  unbound 
The  cincture   from   beneath   her   breast: 
Her  silken  robe,  and  inner  vest, 
Dropt  to  her  feet,  and  full  in  view, 

Behold!    her  bosom  and  half  her  side 

A  sight  to  dream  of,  not  to  tell! 

O  shield  her!    shield  sweet  Christabel! 

Yet  Geraldine  nor  speaks  nor  stirs; 
Ah!     what   a   stricken   look   was   hers! 
Deep  from  within  she  seems  half-way 
To  lift  some  weight  with  sick  assay, 
And  eyes  the  maid  and  seeks  delay; 
Then  suddenly,  as  one  defied, 
Collects  herself  in  scorn  and  pride, 
And  lay  down  by  the  Maiden's  side! — 
And  in  her  arms  the  maid  she  took, 

Ah   wel-a-day! 
And  with  low  voice  and  doleful  look 

These  words  did  say: 


220 


230 


240 


250 


260 


"In  the  touch  of  this  bosom  tiiere  worketh  a 

spell, 
WTiich  is  lord  of  thy  utterance,  Christabel! 
Thou  knowest  to-night,  and  wilt  know  to-mor- 
row, 
This  mark  of  my  shame,  this  seal  of  my  sorrow ; 
But  vainly  thou  warrest,  270 

For  this  is  alone  in 
Thy  power  to  declare, 

That  in  the  dim  forest 
Thou  heard 'st  a  low  moaning, 
And  found 'st  a  bright  lady,  surpassingly  fair; 
And   didst   bring  her  home   with   thee  in   love 

and  in  charity. 
To  shield  her  and  shelter  her  from  the  damp 


Thb  Conclusion  to  Pakt  thb  First 

It  was  a  lovely  sight  to  see 

The  lady  Christabel,   when   she  280 

Was  praying  at  the  old  oak  tree. 

Amid  the  jagged  shadows 

Of  mossy  leafless  boughs. 

Kneeling  in  the  moonlight. 

To  make  her  gentle  vows; 
Her  slender  palms  together  prest, 
Heaving  sometimes  on  her  breast; 
Her  face  resigned  to  bliss  or  bale — 
Her  face,  oh  call  it  fair  not  pale, 
And  both  bine  eyes  more  bright  than  clear,     290 
Each  about  to  have  a  tear. 

With  open  eyes  (ah  woe  is  me!) 

Asleep,  and  dreaming  fearfully, 

Fearfully  dreaming,  yet,  I  wis. 

Dreaming  that  alone,  which  is — 

O  sorrow  and  shame!    Can  this  be  she. 

The  lady,  who  knelt  at  the  old  oak  treet 

And  lo!     the  worker  of  these  harms. 

That  holds  the  maiden  in  her  arms. 

Seems  to  slumber  still  and  mild,  300 

As  a  mother  with  her  child. 

A  star  hath  set,  a  star  hath  risen, 

O  Geraldine!    since  arms  of  thine 

Have  been  the  lovely  lady's  prison. 

O  Geraldine!    one  hour  was  thine — 

Thou'st  had  thy  will!     By  tairn  and  rill, 

The  night-birds  all  that  hour  were  still, 

But  now  they  are  jubilant  anew. 

From  cliff  and  tower,  tu — whoo!    tu — whoo! 

To — ^whoo!     tu — whoo!     from  wood   and   fell! 


And  see!    the  lady  Christabel 
Gathers  herself  from  out  her  trance; 
Her  limbs  relstx,  her  countenance 
Grows  sad  and  soft;    the  smooth  thin  lids 
Close  o'er  her  eyes!    and  tears  she  sheds- 


311 


440 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 


Large  tears  that,  leave  the  lashes  bright! 
And  oft  the  while  she  seems  to  smile 
As  infants  at  a  sudden  light! 

Yea,  she  doth  smile,  and  she  doth  weep, 

Like  a  youthful  hermitess,  320 

Beauteous  in  a  wilderness, 

Who,  praying  always,  prays  in  sleep. 

And,  if  she  move  unquietly. 

Perchance,   'tis  but  the  blood  so  free 

Comes  back  and  tingles  in  her  feet. 

No  doubt,  she  hath  a  vision  sweet. 

What  if  her  guardian  spirit   'twere. 

What  if  she  knew  her  mother  near? 

But  this  she  knows,  in  joys  and  woes, 

That  saints  will  aid  if  men  will  call:  330 

For  the  blue  sky  bends  over  all! 

FRANCE:     AN   ODE* 


Ye  Clouds!    that  far  above  me  float  and  pause, 
Whose  pathless  march  no  mortal  may  control! 
Ye  Ocean  Waves !     that,  whereso  'er  ye  roll, 
Yield  homage  only  to  eternal  laws! 
Ye    Woods!     that    listen    to    the    night-bird's 
singing, 
Midway    the   smooth   and  perilous   slope   re- 
clined. 
Save  when  your  own  imperious  branches  swing- 
ing, 
Have  made  a  solemn  music  of  the  wind! 
Where,  like  a  man  beloved  of  God, 
Through  glooms,  which  never  woodman  trod,   10 

How  oft,  pursuing  fancies  holy. 
My    moonlight    way    o'er    flowering    weeds    I 
wound, 
Inspired  beyond  the  guess  of  folly. 
By   each    rude   shape   and   wild   unconquerable 

sound ! 
O  ye  loud  Waves!    and  O  ye  Forests  high! 

And  O  ye  Clouds  that  far  above  me  soared! 
Thou  rising  sun!    thou  blue  rejoicing  Sky! 
Yea,  every  thing  that  is  and  will  be  free! 
Bear  witness  for  me,  wheresoe'er  ye  be. 
With  what  deep  worship  I  have  still  adored 
The  spirit  of  divinest  Liberty.  21 


When    France    in    wrath    her    giant-limbs    up- 
reared. 
And  with  that  oath  which  smote  air,  earth 

and  sea. 
Stamped  her  strong  foot  and  said  she  would 
be  free, 

•Written    In    1798;    called    forth    by    the    French 
invasion  of  Switzerland. 


Bear  witness  for  me,  how  I  hoped  and  feared! 
With  what  a  joy  my  lofty  gratulation 

Unawed  I  sang,  amid   a  slavish  band : 
And   when   to   whelm   the   disenchanted   nation. 

Like  fiends  embattled  by  a  wizard's  wand. 
The  Monarchs  marched  in  evil  day,  30 

And  Britain   joined   the   dire  array ; 

Though  dear  her  shores  and  circling  ocean. 
Though  many  friendships,  many  youthful  loves 

Had  swoln  the  patriot  emotion 
And  flung  a  magic  light  o'er  all  her  hills  and 

groves ; 
Yet  still  my  voice,  unaltered,  sang  defeat 

To  all  that  braved  the  tyrant-quelling  lance. 
And  shame  too  long  delayed  and  vain  retreat! 
For  ne'er,  O  Liberty!  with  partial  aim  39 
I  dimmed  thy  light  or  damped  thy  holy  flame; 

But  blessed  the  pseans  of  delivered  France, 
And  hung  my  head  and  wept  at  Britain 's  name. 


lU 


"And   what,"    I    said,    "though    Blasphemy's 
loud  scream 
With  that  sweet  music  of  deliverance  strove! 
Though  all  the  fierce  and  drunken  passions 
wove 
A    dance   more   wild    than   e'er    was   maniac's 
dream !  i 
Ye  storms,  that  round  the  dawning  east  as- 
sembled. 
The  Sun2  was  rising,  though  ye  hid  his  light ! ' ' 
And  when  to  soothe  my  soul,  that  hoped  and 
trembled. 
The    dissonance    ceased,    and    all    seemed   calm 
and  bright;  50 

When    France    her    front    deep-scarred    and 

gory 
Concealed  with  clustering  wreaths  of  glory; 

When,  insupportably  advancing. 
Her    arm    made    mockery    of    the    warrior's 
ramp; 
While  timid  looks  of  fury  glancing, 
Domestic  treason,  crushed  beneath  her  fatal 
stamp. 
Writhed  like  a  wounded  dragon  in  his  gore; 
Then  I  reproached  my  fears  that  would  not 
flee; 
"And  soon,"  I  said,  "shall  Wisdom  teach  her 

lore 

In  the  low  huts  of  them  that  toil  and  groan ; 

And,  conquering  by  her  happiness  alone,       61 

Shall  France  compel  the  nations  to  be  free. 

Till   Love   and   Joy  look   round,  and   call   the 

earth  their  own." 

1  Alludln;;    to    the    excesses    that    attended    the 

French  Revolution. 

2  Liberty 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


441 


IV 

Forgive  me,  Freedom!  O  forgive  those  dreams! 
1  hear  thy  voice,  I  hear  thy  loud  lament, 
From  bleak  Helvetia 's3  icy  caverns  sent — 
I    hear     thy    groans    upon    her    blood-stained 
streams! 
Heroes,  that  for  your  pea(ieful  country  per- 
ished. 
And  ye,  that  fleeing,  spot  your  mountain  snows 
With  bleetling  wounds;     forgive  me,   that   I 
cherished  ''^ 

One  thought  that  ever  blessed  your  cruel  foes! 
To  scatter  rage  and  traitorous  guilt 
Where  Peace  her  jealous  home  had  built; 
A  patriot-race  to  disinherit 
Of  all  that  made  their  stormy  wilds  so  dear; 

And   with   inexpiable   spirit 
To   taint   the  bloodless  freedom   of   the   moun- 
taineer— 
O    France,    that    mockest    Heaven,    adulterous, 
blind, 
And  patriot  only  in  pernicious  toils! 
Are    these    thy    boasts.    Champion    of    human 
kind!  ^'^ 

To  mix  with  Kings  in  the  low  lust  of  sway, 
Yell  in  the  hunt,  and  share  the  murderous  prey; 
To  insult  the  shrine  of  Liberty  with  spoils 
From  freemen  torn ;  to  tempt  and  to  betray  1 

V 

The  Sensual  and  the  Dark  rebel  in  vain, 
Slaves   by   their   own    compulsion!      In   mad 

game 
They  burst  their  manacles  and  wear  the  name 
Of  Freedom,  graven  on  a  heavier  chain! 
O   Liberty!     with   profitless   endeavour 
Have  I  pursued  thee,  many  a  weary  hour;     90 
But  thou  nor  swell  'st  the  victor 's  strain  nor 


Didst    breathe    thy    soul    in    forms    of    human 
power. 
Alike  from  all,  howe'er  they  praise  thee, 
(Nor  prayer,  nor  boastful  name  delays  thee) 

Alike  from  Priestcraft's  harpy  minions, 
And  factious  Blasphemy's  obscener  slaves. 
Thou  speedest  on  thy  subtle  pinions. 
The  guide  of  homeless  winds,  and  playmate  of 

the  waves! 

And    there    I    felt    thee! — on   that    sea-cliff's 
verge, 
Whose  pines,  scarce  travelled  by  the  breeze 
above,  ^^^ 

Had  made  one  murmur  with  the  distant  surge! 
Yes,  while  I  stood  and  gazed,  my  temples  bare. 
And  shot  my  being  through  earth,  sea  and  air, 
Possessing  all  things  with  intensest  love, 
O  Liberty!     my  spirit  felt  thee  there. 
3  Switzerland's 


HYMN  BEFORE  SUNRISE  IN  THE  VALE 
OF  CHAMOUNI* 

Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning-star 
In  his  steep  course!    So  long  he  seems  to  pause 
On  thy  bald  awful  head,  O  sovran  Blanc! 
The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 
Rave  ceaselessly;    but  thou,  most  awful  Form! 
Eisest   from  forth  thy  silent   sea  of  pines, 
How   silently!      Around   thee   and   above 
Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantial,  black. 
An  ebon  mass:    methinks  thou  piercest  it. 
As  with  a  wedge!     But  when  I  look  again,     10 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine, 
Thy  habitation  from   eternity! 

0  dread  and  silent  Mount!     I  gazed  upon  thee, 
Till   thou,  still   present   to   the  bodily   sense, 
Didst  vanish   from  my  thought:     entranced  in 

prayer 

1  worshipped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody, 
So  sweet,  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it. 
Thou,   the  meanwhile,   wast   blending  with  my 

Thought, 
Yea,  with  my  Life  and  Life's  own  secret  joy: 
Till  the  dilating  Soul,  enrapt,  transfused,  21 

Into  the  mighty  vision  passing — there 
As    in    her    natural    form,    swelled    vast    to 

Heaven ! 

Awake,  my  soul!    not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest!    not  alone  these  swelling  tears. 
Mute  thanks  and  secret  ecstasy!     Awake. 
Voice  of  sweet  song!    Awake,  my  heart,  awake! 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my  Hymn. 

Thou    first    and    chief,    sole    sovereign    of    the 

Vale! 
O  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night. 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars,         31 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky  or  when  they  sink: 
Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn. 
Thyself  Earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald:    wake,  O  wake,  and  utter  praise! 
Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  Earth? 
Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light! 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams! 


And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad! 
Who   called   you    forth   from   night   and   utter 
death,  ■*<> 

From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 
Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  rocks. 
For  ever  shattered  and  the  same  for  ever! 

•  This  rather  Osslanlc  poem  has  been  perhaps 
iinduly  admired.  Coleridge  never  was  at 
rhamouni :  his  immediate  model  was  a  poem 
by  the  German  poetess  Frederike  Brun. 


442 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 


Who   gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 

Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your 

joy. 
Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam? 
And  who  commanded    (and  the  silence   came), 
Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have  rest? 

Ye  lee-falls!     ye  that  from  the  mountain's 

brow 
Adown  eaiormous  ravines  slope  amain —         50 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice. 
And    stopped    at    once    amid    their    maddest 

plunge ! 
Motionless  torrents!    silent  cataracts! 
Who    made    you    glorious    as    the     Gates    of 

Heaven 
Beneath   the  keen   full  moon?     Who  bade   the 

sun 
Clothe  you  with  rainbows?     Who,  Avith   living 

flowers 
Of    loveliest    blue,    spread    garlands    at    your 

feet?— 
God!    let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations, 
Answer!    and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God! 
God!     sing  ye  meadow-streams   with   gladsome 

voice!  60 

Ye   pine-groves,   with   your    soft   and    soul-like 

sounds ! 
And  they  too  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of  snow. 
And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  God! 

Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost! 
Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest! 
Ye  eagles,  play-mates  of  the  mountain-storm! 
Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds! 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  element! 
Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise! 

Thou  too,  hoar  Mount!    with  thy  sky-point- 
ing peaks,  70 
Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  unheard. 
Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the  pure 

serene 
Into  the  depth  of  clouds,  that  veil  thy  breast — 
Thou  too  again,  stupendous  Mountain!    thou 
That  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  bowed  low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 
Slow   travelling  with   dim   eyes   suffused   with 

tears, 
Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapoury  cloud, 
To  rise  before  me — Rise,  O  ever  rise,  79 

Rise  like  a  cloud  of  incense  from  the  Earth! 
Thou  kingly  Spirit  throned  among  the  hills. 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  Earth  to  Heaven, 
Great  Hierarch!     tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God. 


THE  KNIGHT'S  TOMB 
Where  is  the  grave  of  Sir  Arthur  O'Kellyn? 
Where  may  the  grave  of  that  good  man  be?— 
By    the    side    of    a   spring,    on    the   breast    of 

Helvellyn,! 
Under  the  twigs  of  a  young  birch  tree! 
The  oak  that  in  summer  Avas  sweet  to  hear. 
And  rustled  its  leaves  in  the  fall  of  the  year. 
And  whistled  and  roared  in  the  winter  alone, 
Is  gone, — and  the  birch  in  its  stead  is  grown. — 
The  Knight's  bones  are  dust. 
And  his  good  sword  rust; — 
His  soul  is  with  the  saints,  I  trust. 

SONG 
From  Zapolta,  Act  II,  Scene  I 

A  sunny  shaft  did  I  behold, 

From  sky  to  earth  it   slanted: 
And  poised  therein  a  bird  so  bold — 

Sweet  bird,  thou  wert  enchanted! 

He  sunk,  he  rose,  he  twinkled,  he  trolled 
Within  that  shaft  of  sunny  mist; 

His  eyes  of  fire,  his  beak  of  gold. 
All  else  of  amethyst! 

And  thus  he  sang:     Adieu!    adieu! 
Love's  dreams  prove  seldom  true. 
The  blossoms  they  make  no  delay; 
The  sparkling  dew-drops  will  not  stay. 
Sweet  month  of  May, 
We  must  away; 
Far   far  away! 
Today!   today! 

YOUTH  AND  AGE* 

Verse,  a  breeze  mid  blossoms  straying. 
Where  Hope  clung  feeding,  like  a  bee — 
Both  were  mine!    Life  went  a-maying 
With  Nature,  Hope,  and  Poesy, 
When  I  was  young! 

When  I  was  young? — Ah,  woeful  When! 
Ah!  for  the  change  'twixt  Now  and  Then! 
This  breathing  house  not  built  with  hands. 
This  body  that  does  me  grievous  wrong, 
O'er  aery  cliffs  and  glittering  sands,  10 

How  lightly  then  it  flashed  along: — 
Like  those  trim  skiffs,  unknown  of  yore. 
On  winding  lakes  and  rivers  wide, 
That  ask  no  aid  of  sail  or  oar, 
That  fear  no  spite  of  wind  or  tide! 
Nought  cared  this  body  for  wind  or  weather 
When  Youth  and  I  lived  in't  together. 

1 A  mountain   in   Cumberland. 

•  A    first    fouph    draft    of    this    poem    was    callod 

"Area   Spontanea,"  and  the  whole  still   reads 

like  a  musical  Improvisntion. 


SIR  WALTEB  SCOTT 


443 


Flowers  are  lovely;    Love  is  flower-like; 
Friendship  is  a  sheltering  tree ; 
O!    the  joys,  that  came  clown  shower-like, 
Of  Friendship,  Love,  and  Liberty,  21 

Ere  I  was  old! 

Ere  I  was  old?    Ah  woeful  Ere, 

Which  tells  me,  Youth's  no  longer  here^. 

0  Youth!  for  years  so  many  and  sweet, 
'Tis  known,  that  Thou  and  I  were  one, 
I'll  think  it  but  a  fond  conceit — 
It  cannot  be  that  Thou  art  gone! 
Thy  vesper-bell  hath  not  yet  toU'd: — 
And  thou  wert  aye  a  masker  bold!  30 
What  strange  disguise  hast  now  put  on, 
To  male  believe,  that  thou  art  gone? 

1  see  these  locks  in  silvery  slips. 
This  drooping  gait,  this  altered  size: 
But  Spring-tide  blossoms  on  thy  lips. 
And  tears  take  sunshine  from  thine  eyes! 
Life  is  but  thought:    so  think  I  will 
That  Youth  and  I  are  house-mates  stilL 

Dew-drops  are  the  gems  of  morning, 

But  the  tears  of  mournful  eve!  40 

Where  no  hope  is,  life  's  a  warning 

That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve, 

When  we  are  old: 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve 
With  oft  and  tedious  taking-leave, 
Like  some  poor  nigh-related  guest. 
That  may  not  rudely  be  dismist; 
Yet   hath   out-stay 'd   his  welcome  while. 
And  tells  the  jest  without  the  smile. 

WORK  WITHOUT  HOPEf 

All  Nature  seems  at  work.     Slugs  leave  their 

lair — 
The  bees  are  stirring — birds  are  on  the  wing — 
And   Winter  slumbering  in  the  open  air. 
Wears  on  his  smiling  face  a  dream  of  Spring! 
And  I  the  while,  the  sole  unbusy  thing, 
Nor  honey  make,  nor  pair,  nor  build,  nor  sing. 

Yet  well  I  ken  the  banks  where  amaranths 

blow, 
Have  traced  the  fount  whence  streams  of  nectar 

flow. 
Bloom,  O  ye  amaranths!    bloom  for  whom  ye 

may, 
For   me   ye   bloom    not!      Glide,   ri<?h   streams. 

away! 
With    lips    unbrightened,    wreathless    brow,    I 

stroll : 

t  Written  In  1827:  the  mournful  Ay  de  mi  of  a 
man  confronted  by  age  and  sickness  and 
looking  back  over  a  life  of  defeated  hopes 
and   wasted  opportunities. 


And  would  you  learn  the  spells  that  drowse  my 

soul? 
Work  without  Hope  draws  nectar  in  a  sieve, 
And  Hope  without  an  object  cannot  live. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 
(I771-I832) 

LOCHINVAR* 

From  Marmion,  Canto  V 

Oh!    young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west, 
Through  all  the  wide  Border  his  steed  was  the 

best; 
And  save  his  good  broadsword  he  weapons  had 

none. 
He  rode  all  unarmed  and  he  rode  all  alone. 
So  faithful  in  love  an<l  so  dauntless  in  war, 
There     never     was     knight     like     the     young 

Lochinvar.  6 

He  stayed  not  for  brake  and  he  stopped  not  for 

stone. 
He  swam  the  Eske  river  where  ford  there  was 

none. 
But  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate 
The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late: 
For  a  laggard  in  love  and  a  dastard  in  war 
Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  Hall,  13 

Among  bridesmen,  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers, 

and  all: 
Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his 

sword, — 
For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never  a 

word, — 
'  Oh !    come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war. 
Or     to     dance     at    our    bridal,    young    Lord 

Lochinvar?' —  18 

'I    long   wooed    your    daughter,    my    suit    you 

denied ; 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway.i  but  ebbs  like  its 

tide— 
And   now   am   I   come,   with  this  lost   love  of 

mine. 
To   lead   but   one   measure,   drink   one  cup   of 

wine. 
There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more  lovely  by 

far. 
That    would    gladly    be    bride    to    the    young 

Lochinvar. '  24 

1  Solway  Firth,  noted  for  its  swift  tides. 

•  Compare    Katharine  Jaffra!/.   p.    79.   upon    which 

Scott   'in   a   very   slight  degree   founded"   the 

present   ballad. 


444 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 


The  brifle  kissed  the  goblet:    the  knight  took 

it  up, 
He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down 

the  cup. 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked  up  to 

sigh, 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips  and  a  tear  in  her  eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand  ere   her  mother   could 

bar, — 
'  Now     tread     we     a     measure ! '     said     young 

Lochinvar.  30 

So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face, 

That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard2  did  grace; 

While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did 
fume. 

And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his  bonnet^ 
and  plume; 

And  the  bride-maidens  whispered  '  'Twere  bet- 
ter by  far 

To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with  young 
Lochinvar. '  36 

One  touch  to  her  hand  and  one  word  in  her  ear, 
When    they    reached    the    hall-door,    and    the 

charger  stood  near; 
So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 
So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung! 
'  She  is  won !    we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bush,  and 

scaur;* 
They'll   have   fleet   steeds   that   follow,'    quoth 

young  Lochinvar.  42 

There    was    mounting    'mong    Graemes    of    the 

Netherby  clan; 
Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode 

and  they  ran: 
There    was    racing    and    chasing    on    Cannobie 

Lee, 
But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did  they 

see. 
So   daring  in  love  and  so  dauntless   in   war. 
Have    ye    e'er    heard    of    gallant    like    young 

Lochinvar?  48 


SOLDIER,  REST! 
Fbom  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,  Canto  I 

Soldier,  rest!    thy  warfare  o'er, 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking! 
Dream  of  battled  fields  no  more, 

Days  of  danger,  nights  of  waking. 
In  our  isle's  enchanted  hall. 

Hands  unseen  thy  couch  are  strewing,         6 
Fairy  strains  of  music  fall, 


2  A    brisk    dance. 


s  cap 


4  cliff 


Every  sense   in  slumber   dewing. 
Soldier,  rest!     thy  warfare  o'er, 
Dream   of  fighting  fields  no   more; 
Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking, 
Morn  of  toil,  nor  night  of  waking.  12 

No  rude  sound  shall  reach  thine  ear, 

Armour's   clang,   or   war-steed   champing, 
Trump  nor  pibroch  summon  here 

Mustering  clan  or  squadron  tramping. 
Yet  the  lark 's  shrill  fife  may  come 

At  the  daybreak  from  the  fallow,  18 

And  the  bittern  sound  his  drum, 

Booming  from  the  sedgy  shallow. 
Ruder   sounds   shall  none  be  near, 
Guards  nor  warders  challenge  here, 
Here's  no  war-steed's  neigh  and  chamj)ing, 
Shouting  clans  or  squadrons  stamping.  24 

Huntsman,  rest!    thy  chase  is  done; 

While  our  slumbrous  spells  assail  ye, 
Dream  not,  with  the  rising  sun. 

Bugles  here  shall  sound  reveille. 
Sleep!    the  deer  is  in  his  den; 

Sleep!    thy  hounds  are  by  thee  lying:         30 
Sleep!    nor  dream  in  yonder  glen 

How  thy  gallant  steed  lay  dying. 
Huntsman,  rest!    thy  chase  is  done; 
Think  not  of  the  rising  sun. 
For  at  dawning  to  assail  ye 
Here  no  bugles  sound  reveille.  36 

CORONACHS 

From  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,  Canto  III 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain, 

He  is  lost  to  the  forest, 
Like  a  summer-dried  fountain, 

When  our  need  was  the  sorest. 
The  font,  reappearing. 

From  the  rain-drops  shall  borrow. 
But  to  us  comes  no  cheering. 

To  Duncan  no  morrow!  8 


The  hand  of  the  reaper 

Takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary, 
But  the  voice  of  the  weeper 

Wails  manhood  in  glory. 
The  autumn  winds  rushing 

Waft  the  leaves  that  are  searest, 
But  our  flower  was  in  flushing. 

When  blighting  was  nearest. 


16 


Fleet  foot  on  the  correi.o 
Sage  counsel   in   cumber.^ 

« A    Hlfblnnd    dirge. 

6  A  hollow  hillside,  resort  of  game. 

7  trouble 


SIB  WALTER  SCOTT 


445 


24 


Red  hand  in  the  foray, 

How  sound  is  thy  slumber! 
Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain, 

Like  the  foam  on  the  river. 
Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain. 

Thou  art  gone,  and  forever! 

THE  BATTLE  OF  BEAL'  AN  DUINE* 
From  the  Lady  of  the  Lake,  Canto  VI 

The  Chieftain  reared  his  form  on  high. 

And  fever's  fire  was  in  his  eye; 

But  ghastly,  pale,  and  livid  streaks  340 

Chequered  his  swarthy  brow  and  cheeks. 

— ' '  Hark,  Minstrel !    I  have  heard  thee  play. 

With  measure  bold,  on  festal  day. 

In  yon  lone  isle, — again  where  ne'er 

Shall  harper  play,  or  warrior  hear! — 

That  stirring  air  that  peals  on  high, 

O'er  Dermid's  raeei  our  victory. — 

Strike  it! — and  then,  (for  well  thou  canst,) 

Free  from  thy  minstrel  spirit  glanced, 

Fling  me  the  picture  of  the  fight,  350 

When  met  my  clan  the  Saxons  might. 

I'll  listen,  till  my  fancy  hears 

The  clang  of  swords,  the  crash  of  spears! 

These  grates,  these  walls,  shall  vanish  then. 

For  the  fair  field  of  fighting  men. 

And  my  free  spirit  burst  away. 

As  if  it  soared  from  battle  fray." 

The  trembling  Bard  with  awe  obeyed, — 

Slow  on  the  harp  his  hand  he  laid ; 

But  soon  remembrance  of  the  sight  360 

He  witnessed  from  the  mountain  's  height. 

With  what  old  Bertrams  told  at  night. 

Awakened  the  full  power  of  song, 

And  bore  him  in  career  along; — 

As  shallop  launched  on  river's  tide. 

That  slow  and  fearful  leaves  the  side, 

But,  when  it  feels  the  middle  stream, 

Drives  downward  swift  as  lightning's  beam. 

"The  Minstrel  came  once  more  to  view 
The  eastern  ridge  of  Benvenue,  370 

For  ere  he  parted,  he  would  say 
Farewell  to  lovely  Loch  Achray — 
Where  shall  he  find,  in  foreign  land, 
So  lone  a  lake,  so  sweet  a  strand! — 
There  is  no  breeze  upon  the  fern, 
No  ripple  on  the  lake, 

•  Ro<1prlok  Dhn.  a  maraudin<»  rhlpftain  of  th«> 
Highland  Clan-Alpine,  having  hppn  wounded 
In  combat  with  the  disguised  Kine:  of  Soot- 
land,  lies  dying  in  prison,  while  thp  Mlnstrpl, 
Allan-hanp  reritps  to  him  thp  storv  of  the 
conflict  between  bis  clan  and  the  forces  of 
the  king.  The  Minstrel's  tale  ben-ins  at  line 
369 :  he  speaks  of  himself  in  the  third  person. 

'  'The    Campbells.  s  One     of     the     king's 

2  Lowland  men. 


Upon  her  eyrie  nods  the  erne,* 

The  deer  has  sought  the  brake; 
The  small  birds  will  not  sing  aloud, 

The  springing  trout  lies  still,  380 

So  darkly  glooms  yon  thunder  cloud, 
That  swathes,  as  with  a  purple  shroud, 

Benledi's  distant  hill. 
Is  it  the  thunder's  solemn  sound 

That  mutters  deep  and  dread. 
Or  echoes  from  the  groaning  ground 

The  warrior's  measured  tread? 
Is  it  the  lightning's  quivering  glance 

That  on  the  thicket  streams, 
Or  do  they  flash  on  spear  and  lance  390 

The  sun's  retiring  beams! — 
I  see  the  dagger-crest  of  Mar,5 
I  see  the  Moray 's^  silver  star. 
Wave  o'er  the  cloud  of  Saxon  war. 
That  up  the  lake  comes  winding  far! 
To  hero  bounes  for  battle-strife, 

Or  bard  of  martial  lay, 
'Twere  worth  ten  years  of  peaceful  life, 

One  glance  at  their  array! 

' '  Their  light-armed  archers  far  and  near    400 

Surveyed  the  tangled  ground, 
Their  centre  ranks,  with  pike  and  spear, 

A  twilight  forest  frowned. 
Their  barded^  horsemen,  in  the  rear, 

The  stern  battalias  crowned. 
No  cymbal  clashed,  no  clarion  rang, 

Still  were  the  pipe  and  drum; 
Save  heavy  tread,  and  armour's  clang, 

The  sullen  march  was  dumb. 
There  breathed  no  wind  their  crests  to  shake. 
Or  wave  their  flags  abroad;  410 

Scarce  the  frail  aspen  seemed  to  quake, 

That  shadowed  o'er  their  road. 
Their  vaward^  scouts  no  tidings  bring, 

Can  rouse  no  lurking  foe, 
Nor  spy  a  trace  of  living  thing, 

Save  when  they  stirred  the  roe; 
The  host  moves,  like  a  deep-sea  wave. 
Where  rise  no  rocks  its  pride  to  brave. 

High-swelling,  dark,  and  slow.  420 

The  lake  is  passed,  and  now  they  gain 
A  narrow  and  a  broken  plain. 
Before  the  Trosachs'io  rugged  jaws: 
And  here  the  horse  and  spearmen  pause. 
While,  to  explore  the  dangerous  glen, 
Dive  through  the  pass  the  archer-men. 

"At  once  there  rose  so  wild  a  yell 
Within  that  dark  and  narrow  dell. 


*  eag'e 

5  A    Lowland    leader. 

6  prenared 

7  armed    with    plate-ar- 

mor 

8  battle    prray 

9  vanward 


10  The  roueh  moun- 
tains and  nass  in 
the  Highland"  he- 
t  w  e  e  n  Lochs 
Katrine  and  .Ach- 
ray. 


446 


THE  fiOMANTIC  REVIVAL 


As  all  the  fiends  from  heaven  that  fell 
Had  pealed  the  banner-cry  of  hell!  430 

Forth  from  the  pass  in  tumult  driven, 
Like  ehaflf  before  the  wind  of  heaven, 

The  archery  appear: 
For  life!  for  life!   their  plight  they  ply — 
And  shriek,  and  shout,  and  battle-cry, 
And  plaids  and  bonnets  waving  high, 
And  broadswords  flashing  to  the  sky. 

Are  maddening  in  the  rear. 
Onward  they  drive,  in  dreadful  race. 

Pursuers  and  pursued;  440 

Before  that  tide  of  flight  and  chase. 
How  shall  it  keep  its  rooted  place. 

The  spearmen's  twilight  wood? — 
'Down,  down,'  cried  Mar,  'your  lances  down! 

Bear  back  both  friend  and  foe ! ' — 
Like  reeds  before  the  tempest's  frown, 
That  serried  grove  of  lanees  brown 

At  once  lay  levelled  low; 
And  closely  shouldering  side  to  side. 
The  bristling  ranks  the  onset  bide. —  450 

'We'll  quell  the  savage  mountaineer. 

As  their  Tinchelii  cows  the  game! 
They  come  as  fleet  as  forest  deer. 

We'll  drive  them  back  as  tame.' — 

"Bearing  before  them,  in  their  course. 
The  relics  of  the  archer  force, 
Like  wave  with  crest  of  sparkling  foam, 
Eight  onward  did  Clan-Alpine  come. 
Above  the  tide,  each  broadsword  bright 
Was  brandishing  like  beam  of  light,  460 

Each  targe  was  dark  below; 
And  with  the  ocean's  mighty  swing, 
When  heaving  to  the  tempest 's  wing, 
They  hurled  them  on  the  foe. 
I  heard  the  lance's  shivering  crash, 
As  when  the  whirlwind  rends  the  ash; 

I  heard  the  broadsword 's  deadly  clang, 
As  if  an  hundred  anvils  rang! 

But  Moray  wheeled  his  rearward  rank 

Of  horsemen  on  Clan-Alpine's  flank, —  470 

'My  banner-man,  advance! 
I  see,'  he  cried,  'their  column  shake. 
Now,  gallants!   for  your  ladies'  sake, 

Upon  them  with  the  lance ! ' — 
The  horsemen  dashed  among  the  rout. 

As  deer  break  through  the  broom ; 
Their  steeds  are  stout,  their  swords  are  out, 

They  soon  make  lightsome  room. 
Clan-Alpine's  best  are  backward  borne — 

Where,  where  was  Roderick  then !  480 

One  blast  upon  his  bugle-horn 

Were  worth  a  thousand  men. 
And  refluent  through  the  pass  of  fear 

The  battle 's  tide  was  poured ; 

II  A  circle  of  huntpr^  surrounding  game. 


Vanished  the  Saxon's  struggling  spear, 

Vanished  the  mountain-sword. 
As  Braeklinn  's  chasm,  so  black  and  steep, 

Receives  her  roaring  linn,i2 
As  the  dark  caverns  of  the  deep 

Suck  the  wild  whirlpool  in,  490 

So  did  the  deep  and  darksome  pa«s 
Devour  the  battle 's  mingled  mass : 
None  linger  now  upon  the  plain, 
Save  those  who  ne'er  shall  fight  again. 

' '  Now  westward  rolls  the  battle 's  din, 
That  deep  and  doubling  pass  within. — 
Minstrel,  away!   the  work  of  fate 
Is  bearing  on :  its  issue  wait. 
Where  the  rude  Trosachs'  dread  defile 
Opens  on  Katrine's  lake  and  isle. —  500 

Gray  Benvenue  I  soon  repassed, 
Loch  Katrine  lay  beneath  me  cast. 
The  sun  is  set ; — the  clouds  are  met, 

The  lowering  scowl  of  heaven 
An  inky  hue  of  livid  blue 
To  the  deep  lake  has  given; 
Strange  gusts  of  wind  from  mountain  glen 
Swept  o'er  the  lake,  then  sunk  agen. 
I  heeded  not  the  eddying  surge, 
Mine  eye  but  saw  the  Trosachs'  gorge,  510 

Mine  ear  but  heard  the  sullen  sound, 
Which  like  an  earthquake  shook  the  ground, 
And  spoke  the  stern  and  desperate  strife 
That  parts  not  but  with  parting  life, 
Seeming,  to  minstrel  ear,  to  toll 
The  dirge  of  m.any  a  passing  soul. 
Nearer  it  comes — the  dim-wood  glen 
The  martial  flood  disgorged  agen. 

But  not  in  mingled  tide; 
The  plaided  warriors  of  the  North  520 

High  on  the  mountain  thunder  forth 

And  overhang  its  side; 
While  by  the  lake  below  appears 
The  dark'ning  cloud  of  Saxon  spears. 
At  weary  bay  each  shattered  band, 
Eying  their  foemen,  sternly  stand; 
Their  banners  stream  like  tattered  sail, 
That  flings  its  fragments  to  the  gale. 
And  broken  arms  and  disarray 
Marked  the  fell  havoc  of  the  day.  530 

"Viewing  the  mountain's  ridge  askance, 
The  Saxon  stood  in  sullen  trance, 
Till  Moray  pointed  with  his  lance, 

And  cried — 'Behold  yon  isle! — 
See!  none  are  left  to  guard  its  strand. 
But  women  weak,  that  wring  the  hand : 
'Tis  there  of  yore  the  robber  band 

Their  booty  wont  to  pile; — 

12  waterfall 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


447 


My  purse,  with  bonnet-pieces  8tore,i3 

To  him  wilU*  swim  a  bow-shot  o  'er,  540 

And  loose  a  shallop  from  the  shore. 

Lightly  we'll  tame  the  war-wolf  then, 

Lords  of  his  mate,  and  brood,  and  den.' — 

Forth  from  the  ranks  a  spearman  sprung. 

On  earth  his  casque  and  corslet  rung, 

He  plunged  him  in  the  wave: — 
All  saw  the  deed — the  purpose  knew, 
And  to  their  clamours  Benvenue 

A  mingled  echo  gave; 
The  Saxons  shout,  their  mate  to  cheer,  650 

The  helpless  females  scream  for  fear, 
And  yells  for  rage  the  mountaineer. 
'Twas  then,  as  by  the  outcry  riven. 
Poured  down  at  once  the  lowering  heaven; 
A  whirlwind  swept  Loch  Katrine's  breast. 
Her  billows  reared  their  snowy  crest. 
Well  for  the  swimmer  swelled  they  high, 
To  mar  the  Highland  marksman's  eye; 
For  round  him  showered,  'mid  rain  and  hail, 
The  vengeful  arrows  of  the  Gael.i^ —  560 

In  vain. — He  nears  the  isle — and  lo! 
His  hand  is  on  a  shallop 's  bow. 
Just  then  a  flash  of  lightning  came. 
It  tinged  the  waves  and  strand  with  flame; — 
I  marked  Duncraggan's  widowed  dame,i6 
Behind  an  oak  I  saw  her  stand, 
A  naked  dirk  gleamed  in  her  hand: — 
It  darkened, — but  amid  the  moan 
Of  waves,  I  heard  a  dying  groan ; — 
Another  flash! — the  spearman  floats  570 

A  weltering  corse  beside  the  boats. 
And  the  stern  matron  o  'er  him  stood. 
Her  hand  and  dagger  streaming  blood. 

* '  '  Revenge !  revenge ! '  the  Saxons  cried, 

The  Gaels'  exulting  shout  replied. 

Despite  the  elemental  rage, 

Again  they  hurried  to  engage; 

But,  ere  they  closed  in  desperate  fight. 

Bloody  with  spurring  came  a  knight. 

Sprung  from  his  horse,  and  from  a  crag,        580 

Waved  'twixt  the  hosts  a  milk-white  flag. 

Clarion  and  trumpet  by  his  side 

Rung  forth  a  truce-note  high  and  wide. 

While,  in  the  Monarch's  name,  afar 

A  herald's  voice  forbade  the  war, 

For  Bothwell  's  lord,i7  and  Roderick  bold, 

Were  both,  he  said,  in  captive  hold. ' ' — 

But  here  the  lay  made  sudden  stand, 
The  harp  escaped  the  Minstrel's  hand! 

13  gold  coins    (stamped  with  the  king's  head)   in 

plenty. 

14  who  will 

15  Highlander 

i«  Widow    of    the    Duncan    mourned    for    in    the 

Coronach  on  p.  444. 
17  Douglas,  an  exile,  to  whom  Roderick  Dhu  had 

given  shelter. 


Oft  had  he  stolen  a  glance,  to  spy  590 

How  Roderick  brooked  his  minstrelsy: 

At  first,  the  Chieftain,  to  the  chime. 

With  lifted  hand  kept  feeble  time; 

That  motion  ceased, — ^yet  feeling  strong 

Varied  his  look  as  changed  the  song; 

At  length,  no  more  his  deafened  ear 

The  minstrel  melody  can  hear; 

His  face  grows  sharp, — his  hands  are  clenched. 

As  if  some  pang  his  heart-strings  wrenched ; 

Set  are  his  teeth,  his  fading  eye  600 

Is  sternly  fixed  on  vacancy; 

Thus,  motionless  and  moanless,  drew 

His  parting  breath,  stout  Roderick  Dhu! — 

Old  Allan-bane  looked  on  aghast. 

While  grim  and  still  his  spirit  passed; 

But  when  he  saw  that  life  was  fled, 

He  poured  his  wailing  o  'er  the  dead. 


JOCK  OF  HAZELDEAN 

' '  Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladie  ? 

Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide? 
I  '11  wed  ye  to  my  youngest  son, 

And  ye  sail  be  his  bride : 
And  ye  sail  be  his  bride,  ladie, 

Sae  comely  to  be  seen" — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

*  *  Now  let  this  wilf  u '  grief  be  done, 

And  dry  that  cheek  so  pale; 
Young  Frank  is  chief  of  Errington 

And  lord  of  Langley-dale ; 
His  step  is  first  in  peaceful  ha', 

His  sword  in  battle  keen" — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 


16 


' '  A  chain  of  gold  ye  tall  not  lack, 

Nor  braid  to  bind  your  hair; 
Nor  mettled  hound,  nor  managedi  hawk, 

Nor  palfrey  fresh  and  fair; 
And  you,  the  foremost  o'  them  a'. 

Shall  ride  our  forest  queen." — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 


24 


The  kirk  was  decked  at  morning-tide. 

The  tapers  glimmered  fair; 
The  priest  and  bridegroom  wait  the  bride, 

And  dame  and  knight  are  there. 
They  sought  her  baith  by  bower  and  ha ' ; 

The  ladie  was  not  seen! 
She 's  o  'er  the  Border  and  awa ' 

Wi'  Jock  of  Hazeldean.  32 

1  trained 


448 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 


PROUD   MAISIE 

From  The  Heart  of  Midlothian 

Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood, 

Walking  so  early; 
Sweet  Robin  sits  on  the  bush, 

Singing  so  rarely. 

"Tell  me,  thou  bonny  bird. 

When  shall  I  marry  me?" 
"When  six  braw2  gentlemen 

Kirkward  shall  carry  ye. "  8 

' '  Who  makes  the  bridal  bed, 

Birdie,  say  truly?" 
' '  The  gray-headed  sexton 

That  delves  the  grave  duly. 

' '  The  glow-worm  o  'er  grave  and  stone 

Shall  light  thee  steady; 
The  owl  from  the  steeple  sing 

'Welcome,  proud  lady.'  "      ;'.  16 

COUNTY    GUY 
From  Quentin  Durward 

Ah !   County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh, 

The  sun  has  left  the  lea. 
The  orange  flower  perfumes  the  bower, 

The  breeze  is  on  the  sea. 
The  lark  his  lay  who  thrilled  all  day 

Sits  hushed  his  partner  nigh: 
Breeze,  bird,  and  flower  confess  the  hour, 

But  where  is  County  Guy?  8 

The  village  maid  steals  through  the  shade 

Her  shepherd's  suit  to  hear; 
To  beauty  shy  by  lattice  high, 

Sings  high-born  Cavalier. 
The  star  of  Love,  all  stars  above, 

Now  reigns  o'er  earth  and  sky; 
And  liigh  and  low  the  influence  know — 

But  where  is  County  Guy?  16 

BONNY  DUNDEE* 

To  the  Lords  of  Convention    'twas  Claver'se 

who  spoke, 
"Ere   the   King's   crown   shall    fall   there   are 

crowns  to  be  broke ; 
So  let  each  Cavalier  who  loves  honour  and  me, 

2  brave,  fine  ^ 

•  John  Graham  of  Claverhouse.  Viscount  Dundee, 
In  support  of  James  II.  withstood  the  Scotch 
rovonanters.  defied  the  Convontlon.  or  Scotch 
Parliament.  which  had  accepted  KInc 
William,  and  marched  out  of  Kdlnburch  with 
a  few  faithful  followers  in  1680,  thus 
creatine  the  "Jacobite"  nnrty.  He  met  tl>e 
povernraent  forces  at  Kllllocrankle  and  'if 
fonted  them,  but  was  kilb'd  In  t»ie  batl'c 
Bee  Macaulay's  account  of  that  battle  in  the 
present  volume. 


Come  follow  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my  can, 
Come  saddle  your  horses  and  call  up  your 

men ; 
Come  open  the  West  Port  and  let  me  gang 

free, 
And  it's  room  for  the  bonnets  of  Bonny 

Dundee!"  8 

Dundee  he  is  mounted,  he  rides  up  the  street, 
The  bells  are  rung  backward,3  the  drums  they 

are  beat; 
But  the  Provost,*  douce^  man,  said,  "Just  e'en 

let  him  be, 
The  Gude  Town  is  weel  quit  of  that  Deil  of 

Dundee. ' ' 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

As  he  rode  down  the  sanctified  bends  of  the 

Bow,6 
Ilk  carline^  was  flytings  and  shaking  her  pow;» 
But    the    young   plants    of    grace    they    looked 

couthie  and  slee,io 
Thinking,    luck    to    thy    bonnet,    thou    Bonny 

Dundee!  16 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

With    sour-featured    Whigs    the   Grassmarketii 

was  crammed 
As  if  half  the  West  had  set  tryst  to  be  hanged ; 
There  was  spite  in  each  look,  there  was  fear  in 

each  e'e. 
As   they   watched    for   the   bonnets    of    Bonny 

Dundee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc.  » 

These  cowls  of  Kilmarnockiz  had  spits  and  had 
spears. 

And  lang-hafted  gulUesis  to  kill  Cavaliers; 

But  they  shrunk  to  close-headsi*  and  the  cause- 
way was  free. 

At  the  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee.  24 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

He   spurred   to   the   foot   of   the   proud   Castle 

rock,i5 
.And  with  the  gay  Gordon  he  gallantly  spoke; 
"Let  Mons  Megi«  and  her  marrowsi^  speak  twa 

words  or  three. 


3  reversing    the    chimes 

(as  nn  alarm) 

4  Mayor 
T)  se<late 

II  w  I  n  d  i  n  g  8    of    Bow 

street 
T  each    old   woman 
8  scolding 

10  gracious  and  sly 

1 1  Tlie    place    of    execu- 

tion     (see     Midlo- 
thian, chap.   II). 


12  hoods    made    at    Kil- 

marnock (here  used 
for  the  wearers, 
Presbyterians) 

13  knives 

14  blind  alleys 

15  The     site     of     Edin- 

burgh Castle,  then 
held  by  the  Duke 
of  Gordon. 

lA  nickname  of  a  can- 
non 

17  mates 


LOED  BYRON 


449 


For  the  love  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee. ' ' 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

The    Gordon    demands   of    him    which    way    he 

goes — 
"Where'er  shall  direct  me  the  shade  of  Mont 

rose! 18 
Your  Grace  in  short  space  shall  hear  tidings 

of  me, 
Or  that  low  lies  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee.     32 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

"There   are   hills   beyond   Pentland    and   lands 

beyond  Forth, 
If  there's  lords  in  the  Lowlands,  there's  chiefs 

in  the  North ; 
There  are  wild   Duniewassalsio  three  thousand 

times  three. 
Will    cry    haigh!     for    the    bonnet    of    Bonny 

Dundee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

"There's   brass   on   the   target   of   barkenedso 

bull-hide ; 
There's    steel    in    the    scabbard    that    dangles 

beside ; 
The  brass  shall  be  burnished,  the  steel  shall  flash 

free. 
At  a  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee.        40 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

"Away  to  the  hills,  to  the  caves,  to  the  rocks — 
Ere  I  own  an  usurper,  I'll  couch  with  the  fox; 
And  tremble,  false  Whigs,  in  the  midst  of  your 

glee, 
You  have  not  seen  the  last  of  my  bonnet  and 

me!" 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

He   waved   his   proud   hand   and   the   trumpets 

were  blown, 
The  kettle-drums  clashed  and  the  horsemen  rode 

on, 
Till  on  Ravelston  's  cliffs  and  on  Clermiston  's  lea 
Died  away  the  wild  war-notes  of  Bonny  Dun- 
dee. 48 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my  can, 
Come  saddle  the  horses  and  call  up  the  men. 
Come  open  your  gates  and  let  me  gae  free, 
For    its    up    with   the    bonnets    of    Bonny 
Dundee ! 

HERE'S  A  HEALTH  TO  KING  CHARLES 
From  Woodstock 

Bring  the  bowl  which  you  boast. 
Fill  it  up  to  the  brim; 


18  A     royalist 
in   1650. 


executed 


19  gentlemen 

degree 

20  tanned 


of    minor 


'Tis  to  him  we  love  most, 

And  to  all  who  love  him. 
Brave  gallants,  stand  up. 

And  avaunt  ye,  base  carles! 
Were  there  death  in  the  cup. 

Here 's  a  health  to  King  Charles. 

Though  he  wanders  through  dangers, 

Unaided,  unknown. 
Dependent  on  strangers. 

Estranged  from  his  own ; 
Though  't  is  under  our  breath, 

Amidst  forfeits  and  perils. 
Here's  to  honour  and  faith. 

And  a  health  to  King  Charles  1 

Let  such  honours  abound 

As  the  time  can  afford, 
The  knee  on  the  ground. 

And  the  hand  on  the  sword; 
But  the  time  shall  come  round 

When,  'mid  Lords,  Dukes,  and  Earls, 
The  loud  trumpet  shall  sound. 

Here 's  a  health  to  King  Charles. 


LORD  BYRON 
(1768-1824) 

From  ENGLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  RE- 
VIEWERS* 

WTien   Vice   triumphant   holds   her   sov 'reign 
sway. 
Obeyed  by  all  who  nought  beside  obey; 
When  Folly,  frequent  harbinger  of  crime, 
Bedecks  her  cap  with  bells  of  every  Clime; 
Wlien  knaves  and  fools  combined  o'er  all  pre- 
vail, 30 
And  weigh  their  Justice  in  a  Golden  Scale; 
E  'en  then  the  boldest  start  from  public  sneers. 
Afraid  of  Shame,  unknown  to  other  fears. 
More  darkly  sin,  by  Satire  kept  in  awe. 
And    shrink    from    Ridicule,    though    not    from 
Law. 

Such  is  the  force  of  Wit !   but  not  belong 
To  me  the  arrows  of  satiric  song; 
The  royal  vices  of  our  age  demand 
A  keener  weapon,  and  a  mightier  hand  . 
Still  there  are  follies,  e'en  for  me  to  chase,    40 

•  This  satire  is  In  part  a  retort  which  Byron  was 
stung  Into  making  by  the  ridicule  with  which 
the  Edinburgh  Review  in  January,  1808,  re- 
ceived his  youthful  volume  of  verses.  Hours 
of  Idleness;  though  he  had  before  planned  a 
satirical  poem  upon  contemporary  English 
poets.  In  later  years  he  regretted  his  sever- 
ity, and  especially  his  treatment  of  Francis 
.Teffrey,  the  editor  of  the  .iournal.  whom  he 
had  wrongly  suspected  of  writing  the  offending 
article.      See  Eny.  Lit.,  p.   246. 


450 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 


And  yield  at  least  amusement  in  the  race: 
Laugh  when  I  laugh,  I  seek  no  other  fame, 
The  cry  is  up,  and  scribblers  are  my  game : 
Speed,  Pegasus! — ^ye  strains  of  great  and  small. 
Ode!   Epic!   Elegy! — have  at  you  all! 
I,  too,  can  scrawl,  and  once  upon  a  time 
I  poured  along  the  town  a  flood  of  rhyme, 
A  schoolboy  freak,  unworthy  praise  or  blame; 
1  printed— older  children  do  the  same.  49 

'Tis  pleasant,  sure,  to  see  one's  name  in  print; 
A  Book 's  a  Book,  altho '  there 's  nothing  in 't. 
Not  that  a  Title's  sounding  charm  can  save 
Or  scrawl  or  scribbler  from  an  equal  grave: 
This  Lambi  must  own,  since  his  patrician  name 
Failed    to    preserve    the    spurious    farce    from 

shame. 
No  matter,  George  continues  still  to  write, 
Tho'  now  the  name  is  veiled  from  public  sight. 
Moved  by  the  great  example,  I  pursue 
The  self -same  road,  but  make  my  own  review : 
Not  seek  great  Jeffrey 's,  yet  like  him  will  be      60 
Self -constituted  Judge  of  Poesy. 

A  man  must  serve  his  time  to  every  trade 
Save  Censure — Critics  all  are  ready  made. 
Take  hackneyed  jokes  from  Miller,-  got  by  rote. 
With  just  enough  of  learning  to  misquote; 
A  mind  well  skilled  to  find,  or  forge  a  fault; 
A  turn  for  punning — call  it  Attic  salt;3 
To  Jeffrey  go,  be  silent  and  discreet, 
His  pay  is  just  ten  sterling  pounds  per  sheet: 
Fear  not  to  lie,  'twill  seem  a  sharper  hit;        70 
Shrink  not  from  blasphemy,  'twill  pass  for  wit; 
Care  not  for  feelings— pass  your  proper  jest. 
And  stand  a  Critic,  hated  yet  caressed. 

And  shall  we  own  such  judgment!  no — as  soon 
Seek  rcscs  in  December — ice  in  June; 
Hope  constancy  in  wind,  or  corn  in  chaff, 
Believe  a  woman  or  an  epitaph, 
Or  any  other  thing  that 's  false,  before 
You  trust  in  Critics,  who  themselves  are  sore; 
Or  yield  one  single  thought  to  be  misled  80 

By  Jeffrey  "s  heart,  or  Lamb 's  Boeotian  head.* 
To    these    young    tyrants,    by    themselves    mis- 
placed. 
Combined  usurpers  on  the  Throne  of  Taste; 
To  these,  when  Authors  bend  in  humble  awe. 
And  hail  their  voice  as  Truth,  their  word  as 

Law; 
While    these   are   Censors,    'twould   be   sin    to 
spare ; 

1  George   (wn   of  Sir   Penlston)    Lamb,  auihor  of 

an  UDHUccessful  farce. 

2  "Joe"  Miller,  an  18th  century  actor  and  the  re- 

puted author  of  a  famouH  compilation  of  JcHtM. 

3  wit 

*  The  IkcotlauH  wore  pruverbiul  for  dulueKS. 


While  such  are  Critics,  why  should  I  forbear? 

Behold!   in  various  throngs  the  scribbling 

crew. 
For  notice  eager,  pass  in  long  review : 
Each  spurs  his  jaded  Pegasus  apace. 
And  Rhyme  and  Blank  maintain  an  equal  race; 
Sonnets  on  sonnets  crowd,  and  ode  on  ode; 
And  Tales  of  Terror^  jostle  on  the  road; 
Immeasurable  measures  move  along;* 
For  simpering  Folly  loves  a  varied  song,         1">0 
To  strange,  mysterious  Dulness  still  the  friend, 
Admires  the  strain  she  cannot  comprehend. 
Thus  Lays   of   Minstrels — may  they  be   the 

last!  — 
On  half-strung  harps  whine  mournful  to  the 

blast, 
While  mountain  spirits  prate  to  river  sprites, 
That  dames  may  listen  to  the  sound  at  nights; 
And  goblin  brats,  of  Gilpin  Horner's  brood,« 
Decoy  young  Border-nobles  through  the  wood. 
And  skip  at  every  step.  Lord  knows  how  high, 
And    frighten   foolish   babes,   the  Lord   knows 

why;  160 

While  high-born  ladies  in  their  magic  cell, 
Forbidding  Knights  to  read  who  cannot  spell. 
Despatch  a  courier  to  a  wizard's  grave, 
And  fight  with  honest  men  to  shield  a  knave. 

Next   view   in  state,  proud  prancing  on   his 
roan, 
The  golden-crested  haughty  Marmion, 
Now  forging  scrolls,  now  foremost  in  the  fight. 
Not  quite  a  Felon,  yet  but  half  a  Knight, 
The  gibbet  or  the  field  prepared  to  grace — 
A  mighty  mixture  of  the  great  and  base.        170 
And  think 'st  thou,  Scott!  by  vain  conceit  per- 
chance, 
On  public  taste  to  foist  thy  stale  romance. 
Though  Murray  with  his  Miller^  may  combine 
To  yield  thy  muse  just  half-a-crown  per  line? 
No !  when  the  sons  of  song  descend  to  trade, 
Their  bays  are  sear,  their  former  laurels  fade; 
Let  such  forego  the  poet's  sacred  name. 
Who  rack  their  brains  for  lucre,  not  for  fame: 
Still  for  stern  Mammon  may  they  toil  in  vain! 
And  sadly  gaze  on  gold  they  cannot  gain!       180 
Such  be  their  meed,  such  still  the  just  reward 
Of  prostituted  Muse  and  hireling  bard! 
For  this  we  spurn  Apollo's  venal  son,* 
And  bid  a  long  *  *  good  night  to  Marmion. ' '» 

r.  By  "Monk"  Lewis  (Enp-  T.H.,  204). 

« Scott's  Lay  of  the  Laxt  Minstrel  (1805)  grew 
out  of  a  BUKKeHtion  for  a  ballad  derived  from 
an  absurd  old  Border  legend  of  Gilpin  Horner. 

7  Publishers. 

8  1.  e..  this  bought  Orpheus  (Scott) 
It  Marmion.  line  860. 

*  This  Is  a  sneer  at  the  new  anapestic  metres. 
8cc  liny.  Lit.,  p.  243. 


LOKD  BYEON 


451 


These  are  the  themes  that  claim  our  plaudits 

now; 
These  are  the  Banls  to  whom  the  Muse  must 

bow ; 
While  Milton,  Dryden.  Pope,  alike  forgot, 
Resign  their  hallowed  Bays  to  Walter  Scott. 

The  time  has  been,  when  yet  the  Muse  was 

young,  1*^ 

When  Homer  swept  the  lyre,  and  Maroio  sung. 
An  Epicii  scarce  ten  centuries  could  claim, 
While   awe-struck   nations   hailed    the   magic 

name: 

The  work  of  each  immortal  Bard  appears 
The  single  wonder  of  a  thousand  years. 
Empires  have  mouldered  from  the  face  of  earth. 
Tongues  have  expired  with  those  who  gave  them 

birth, 
Without  the  glory  such  a  strain  can  give, 
As  even  in  ruin  bids  the  language  live. 
Not  so  with  us,  though  minor  Bards,  content. 
On  one  great  work  a  life  of  labour  spent :       200 
With  eagle  pinion  soaring  to  the  skies, 
Behold  the  Ballad-monger  Southey  rise!  -» 

To  him  let  Camoens,  Milton,  Tasso  yield. 
Whose    annual    strains,    like    armies,    take    the 

field.i2 
First  in  the  ranks  see  Joan  of  Arc  advance, 
The    scourge    of    England    and    the    boast    of 

France ! 
Though  burnt  by  wicked  Bedfordis  for  a  witch, 
Behold  her  statue  placed  in  Glory's  niche; 
Her  fetters  burst,  and  just  released  from  prison, 
A  virgin  Phoenix  from  her  ashes  risen.  210 

Next  see  tremendous  Thalaba  come  on, 
Arabia's  monstrous,  wild,  and  wond'rous  son; 
Domdaniel'si*  dread  destroyer,  who  o'erthrew 
More  mad  magicians  than  the  world  e'er  knew. 
Immortal  Hero!   all  thy  foes  o'ercome. 
For  ever  reign — the  rival  of  Tom  Thumb  I^^ 
Since  startled  Metre  fled  before  thy  face, 
Well  wert  thou  doomed  the  last  of  all  thy  race! 
Well  might  triumphant  Genii  bear  thee  hence, 
Illustrious  conqueror  of  common  sense!  220 

Now,  last  and  greatest,  Madoc  spreads  his  sails, 
Caciquei«  in  Mexico,  and  Prince  in  Wales; 
Tells  us  strange  tales,  as  other  travellers  do, 
More  old  than  Mandeville's,i"  and  not  so  true. 
Oh,  Southey!  Southey!  cease  thy  varied  song! 

10  Virgil 

11  Object  of  '"claim." 

12  Southey's  Joan  of  Arc,  1796  :   Thalaba   the  De- 

atrofier,   1801:  Madoc   (in   two  parts:   Madoc 
in  Wales,  Madoc  in  Aztlan).  1805. 

13  John   Plantagenet,    the  general    of   the    English 

forces  In  France. 
1*  In    Arabian    tales,    a    cavern    where    magicians 

were   schooled. 
1  •"•  The  hero  of  a  farce  bv  Fielding. 

16  chieftain 

1 7  See  p.   63. 


A  bard  may  chaunt  too  often  and  too  long ; 
As  thou  art  strong  in  verse,  in  mercy  spare! 
A  fourth,  alas!  were  more  than  we  could  bear. 
But  if,  in  spite  of  all  the  world  can  say, 
Thou  still  wilt  verseward  plod  thy  weary  way; 
If  still  in  Berkley-Ballads  most  uncivil,  231 

Thou  wilt  devote  old  women  to  the  devil,i8 
The  babe  unborn  thy  dread  intent  may  rue: 
' '  God  help  thee, ' '  Southey,  and  thy  readers  too. 

Next  comes  the  duU  disciple  of  thy  school, 
That  mild  apostate  from  poetic  rule. 
The  simple  Wordsworth,  framer  of  a  lay 
As  soft  as  evening  in  his  favourite  May, 
Who  warns  his  friendia  "to  shake  off  toil  and 
trouble,  239 

And  quit  his  books,  for  fear  of  growing  double' ' ; 
Who,  both  by  precept^o  and  example,  shows 
That  prose  is  verse,  and  verse  is  merely  prose: 
Convincing  all,  by  demonstration  plain. 
Poetic  souls  delight  in  prose  insane ; 
And  Christmas  stories  tortured  into  rhyme 
Contain  the  essence  of  the  true  sublime. 
Thus,  when  he  tells  the  tale  of  Betty  Foy, 
The  idiot  mother  of  "an  idiot  Boy", 
A  moon-struck,  silly  lad,  who  lost  his  way. 
And,  like  his  bard,  confounded  night  with  day; 
So  close  on  each  pathetic  part  he  dwells,       251 
And  each  adventure  so  sublimely  tells. 
That  all  who  view  the  "idiot  in  his  glory'* 
Conceive  the  Bard  the  hero  of  the  story. 

Shall  gentle  Coleridge  pass  unnoticed  here, 
To  turgid  Ode  and  tumid  stanza  dear  f 
Though  themes  of  innocence  amuse  him  best, 
Yet  still  Obscurity 's  a  welcome  guest. 
If  Inspiration  should  her  aid  refuse 
To  him  who  takes  a  Pixy  for  a  mu8e,2i  260 

Yet  none  in  lofty  numbers  can  surpass 
The  bard  who  soars  to  elegize  an  ass : 
So  well  the  subject  suits  his  noble  mind. 
He  brays,  the  Laureate  of  the  long-eared  kind. 


MAID  OF  ATHENS,  EBE  WE  PART 

Zwrj  fiov,  (Toj  o7aTwi 

Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part, 
Give,  oh,  give  me  back  my  heart! 
Or,  since  that  has  left  my  breast. 
Keep  it  now,  and  take  the  rest! 

18  In   Southey's  ballad.   The  Old  Woman  of  Berk- 

eleii     the    old    woman    is   carried   off   by    the 
Devil. 

19  In  The  Tables  Turned. 

20  In  his  preface  to  Lyrical  Ballads. 

21  In  Honon  of  the  Pixies,  containing  "Lines  to  a 

Young  Ass." 

1  "My  life,  I  love  you." 


452 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 


Hear  my  vow  before  I  go, 

Zonj  fiov,  aas  ayarrw.  6 

By  those  tresses  imconfined, 

Wooed  by  each  ^-Egean  wind; 

By  those  lids  whose  jetty  fringe 

Kiss  thy  soft  cheeks'  blooming  tinge; 

By  those  wild  eyes  like  the  roe, 

Zanj  /Jiov,  (Tttj  ayairu.  12 

By  that  lip  I  long  to  taste; 

By  that  zone-encircled  waist; 

By  all  the  token-flowers  that  tell 

What  words  can  never  speak  so  well; 

By  love's  alternate  joy  and  woe, 

Zwij  fiov,  (ras  ayavw.  18 

Maid  of  Athens!   I  am  gone: 

Think  of  me,  sweet !  when  alone. 

Though  I  fly  to  Istambol,2 

Athens  holds  my  heart  and  soul ; 

Can  I  cease  to  love  thee?     No! 

ZwTj  fiov,  <raj  ayaxw.  24 


SHE  WALKS  IN  BEAUTY 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 

Of  cloudless   climes  and  starry  skies; 

And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes: 

Thus  mellowed  to  that  tender  light 

Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies.  6 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 
Had  half  impaired  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face; 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 

How  pure,  how  dear,  their  dwelling-place.     12 

And  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  that  brow, 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent. 
The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow. 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 
A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, . 

A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent!  18 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  SENNACHERIB* 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the 

fold, 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and 

gold; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars  on 

the  sea. 
When    the    blue    wave    rolls    nightly    on    deep 

Galilee.  4 

2  roo8tantlnopl« 
•  II   Kinpn.  xlx,  35. 


Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Summer  is 

green. 
That  host   with   their  banners  at   sunset  were 

seen: 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Autumn  hath 

blown, 
That    host    on    the   morrow    lay    withered   and 

strown.  8 

For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings  on  the 

blast. 
And   breathed    in   the   face   of   the   foe   as   he 

passed ; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  waxed  deadly  and 

chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and  for  ever 

grew  still!  12 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril  all  wide, 
But  through  it  there  rolled  not  the  breath  of  his 

pride ; 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on  the 

turf. 
And    cold    as    the    spray    of    the    rock-beating 

surf.  16 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale, 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow,  and  the  rust  on  his 

mail: 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone. 
The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown.       20 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in  their  wail, 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the 

sword. 
Hath   melted   like   snow   in   the  glance  of   the 

Lord!  24 


SO   WE'LL  GO  NO  MORE  A  ROVING 

So  we'll  go  no  more  a  roving 

So  late  into  the  night, 
Though  the  heart  be  still  as  loving, 

And  the  moon  be  still  as  bright. 


For  the  sword  outwears  its  sheath. 
And  the  soul  wears  out  the  breast. 

And  the  heart  must  pause  to  breathe, 
And  love  itself  have  rest. 

Though  the  night  was  made  for  loving, 
And  the  day  returns  too  soon. 

Yet  we  '11  go  no  more  a  roving 
By  the  light  of  the  moon. 


LOBD  BYEON 


453 


STANZAS  WKITTEN  ON   THE  ROAD  BE- 
TWEEN FLOEENCE  AND  PISA 

Oh,  talk  not  to  me  of  a  name  great  in  story; 
The  days   of  our  youth   are  the  days  of  our 

glory; 
And    the    myrtle    and    ivy    of    sweet    two-and- 

twenty 
Are    worth    aU    your    laurels,    though    ever    so 

plenty,  4 

What  are  garlands  and  crowns  to  the  brow  that 
is  wrinkled  f 

'Tis  but  as  a  dead  flower  with  May-dew  be- 
sprinkled. 

Then  away  with  all  such  from  the  head  that  is 
hoary ! 

What  care  I  for  the  wreaths  that  can  anly  give 
glory !  8 

Oh,    Fame! — if    I    e'er    took    delight    in    thy 

praises, 
'Twas  less  for  the  sake  of  thy  high-sounding 

phrases, 
Than  to  see  the  bright  eyes  of  the  dear  one 

discover. 
She  thought  that  I  was  not  unworthy  to  love 

her.  12 

There  chiefly  I  sought  thee,  there  only  I  found 
thee; 

Her  glance  was  the  best  of  the  rays  that  sur- 
round thee; 

When  it  sparkled  o'er  aught  that  was  bright  in 
my  story, 

I  knew  it  was  love,  and  I  felt  it  was  glory.       16 

TO   THOMAS   MOOBE* 

My  boat  is  on  the  shore, 

And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea; 
But,  before  I  go,  Tom  Moore, 

Here's  a  double  health  to  thee! 

Here 's  a  sigh  to  those  who  love  me. 
And  a  smile  to  those  who  hate; 

And,  whatever  sky 's  above  me, 

Here's  a  heart  for  every  fate.  8 

Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me, 

Yet  it  still  shall  bear  me  on ; 
Though  a  desert  should  surround  me. 

It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 

Were't  the  last  drop  in  the  well. 

As  I  gasped  upon  the  brink. 
Ere  my  fainting  spirit  fell, 

'Tis  to  thee  that  I  would  drink.  16 

•  The  first  stanza  of  this  poem  was  written  In 
1816.  when  Byron  left  England  for  the  last 
time, 


With  that  water,  as  this  wine. 

The  libation  I  would  pour 
Should  be — peace  with  thine  and  mine, 

And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore,  20 

SONNET    ON   CHILLON 

Eternal  Spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind.!   — 

Brightest  in  dungeons.  Liberty!  thou  art, 

For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart— 

The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can  bind ;     ^ 

And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consigned-^^'*^ '^j^^^j^jno' 

To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  dayless  gloom. 

Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdom. 

And  Freedom 's  fame  finds  wings  on  every jiind^^^ 

Chillon !  t  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place,  ^~^'^^''-. .  ^ 

And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar — for  't  was  trod,  1.5^-/- 

Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace  vt't^rJL^ 

Worn,  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  so.d,  I        ^-*>''<< 

By  Bonnivard!     May  none  those  marks  efface!  "^ 

For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God.  j 

THE  PBISONEE  OF  CHILLONt 

My  hair  is  gray,  but  not  with  years. 
Nor  grew  it  white 
In  a  single  night. 
As  men 's  have  grown  from  sudden  fears ; 
My  limbs  are  bowed,  though  not  with  toU, 

But  rusted  with  a  vile  repose. 
For  they  have  been  a  dungeon 's  spoil. 

And  mine  has  been  the  fate  of  those 
To  whom  the  goodly  earth  and  air 
Are  banned,  and  barred — forbidden  fare;         10 
But  this  was  for  my  father's  faith 
I  suffered  chains  and  courted  death; 
That  father  perished  at  the  stake 
For  tenets  he  would  not  forsake; 
And  for  the  same  his  lineal  race 
In  darkness  found  a  dwelling-place; 
We  were  seven — who  now  are  one. 

Six  in  youth,  and  one  in  age. 
Finished  as  they  had  begfun, 

t  This  French  word  has  no  very  marked  ac- 
cent on  either  syllable.  Byron  usually  ac- 
cents  the  first. 

%  Francois  de  Bonivard  was  a  republican  of 
Geneva  who  resisted  the  domination  of  the 
Duke  of  Savoy  and  was  imprisoned  for  six 
years  (1530-1536)  in  the  castle  of  Chillon, 
on  the  Lake  of  Geneva  (Leman).  When  the 
castle  was  captured  by  his  republican 
friends,  he  was  released.  Byron  has  greatly 
idealized  the  character  and  has  invented  the 
circumstance  of  the  Imprisonment  and  death 
of  the  brothers.  The  poem  was  composed  In 
two  days.  Of  it  Dr.  F.  I.  Carpenter  writes : 
"There  is  very  little  action :  there  Is  very 
little  ornament :  the  narrative  evolves  from 
within,  and  is  presented  with  high  dramatic 
fidelity,  and  with  subtle  gradation  and  pro- 
gression. The  situation  in  Itself  is  bare  and 
simple :  the  art  with  which  the  poet  develops 
it  is  masterly  Who  else,  except  Dante  per- 
haps, as  in  the  Ugolino  episode  llnfemo  33], 
could  do  so  much  with  so  little?" 


454 


THE  EOMANTIC  REVIVAL 


Proud  of  Persecution's  rage; 
One  in  fire,  and  two  in  field 
Their  belief  with  blood  have  sealed, 
Dying  as  their  father  died, 
For  the  God  their  foes  denied; 
Three  were  in  a  dungeon  cast, 
Of  whom  this  wreck  is  left  the  last. 

There  are  seven  pillars  of  Gothic  mould, 
In  Chillon's  dungeons  deep  and  old, 
There  are  seven  columns,  massy  and  gray. 
Dim  with  a  dull  imprisoned  ray, 
A  sunbeam  which  hath  lost  its  way 
And  through  the  crevice  and  the  cleft 
Of  the  thick  wall  is  fallen  and  left; 
Creeping  o  'er  the  floor  so  damp. 
Like  a  marsh 's  meteor  lamp : 
And  in  each  pillar  there  is  a  ring. 

And  in  each  ring  there  is  a  chain ; 
That  iron  is  a  cankering  thing. 

For  in  these  limbs  its  teeth  remain. 
With  marks  that  will  not  wear  away. 
Till  I  have  done  with  this  new  day, 
Which  now  is  painful  to  these  eyes, 
Which  have  not  seen  the  sun  so  rise 
For  years — I  cannot  count  them  o'er, 
I  lost  their  long  and  heavy  score. 
When  my  last  brother  drooped  and  died, 
And  I  lay  living  by  his  side. 

They  chained  us  each  to  a  column  stone. 
And  we  were  three — yet,  each  alone; 
We  could  not  move  a  single  pace. 
We  could  not  see  each  other's  face, 
But  with  that  pale  and  livid  light 
That  made  us  strangers  in  our  sight: 
And  thus  together — yet  apart. 
Fettered  in  hand,  but  joined  in  heart, 
'Twas  still  some  solace,  in  the  dearth 
Of  the  pure  elements  of  earth. 
To  hearken  to  each  other's  speech. 
And  each  turn  comforter  to  each 
With  some  new  hope,  or  legend  old. 
Or  song  heroically  bold ; 
But  even  these  at  length  grew  cold. 
Our  voices  took  a  dreary  tone, 
An  echo  of  the  dungeon  stone, 

A  grating  sound,  not  full  and  free, 
As  they  of  yore  were  wont  to  be; 
It  might  be  fancy,  but  to  me 
They  never  sounded  like  our  own. 

I  was  the  eldest  of  the  three, 
And  to  uphold  and  cheer  the  rest 
I  ought  to  do — and  did  my  best — 

And  each  did  well  in  his  degree. 
The  youngest,  whom  my  father  loved, 

Because  our  mother's  brow  was  given 

To  him,  with  eyes  as  blue  as  heaven — 


30 


40 


50 


60 


70 


For  him  my  soul  was  sorely  moved; 
And  truly  might  it  be  distressed 
To  see  such  bird  in  such  a  nest; 
For  he  was  beautiful  as  day — 

(When  day  was  beautiful  to  me  80 

As  to  young  eagles,  being  free) — 

A  polar  day,  which  will  not  see 
A  sunset  till  its  summer's  gone. 

Its  sleepless  summer  of  long  light. 
The  snow-clad  offspring  of  the  sun : 

And  thus  he  was  as  pure  and  bright, 
And  in  his  natural  spirit  gay, 
With  tears  for  nought  but  others'  ills, 
And  then  they  flowed  like  mountain  rills. 
Unless  he  could  assuage  the  woe  90 

Which  he  abhorred  to  view  below. 


The  other  was  as  pure  of  mind, 
But  formed  to  combat  with  his  kind; 
Strong  in  his  frame,  and  of  a  mood 
Which  'gainst  the  world  in  war  had  stood, 
And  perished  in  the  foremost  rank 

With  joy: — but  not  in  chains  to  pine: 
His  spirit  withered  with  their  clank, 

I  saw  it  silently  decline — 

And  so  perchance  in  sooth  did  mine: 
But  yet  I  forced  it  on  to  cheer 
Those  relics  of  a  home  so  dear. 
He  was  a  hunter  of  the  hills. 

Had  followed  there  the  deer  and  wolf; 

To  him  this  dungeon  was  a  gulf, 
And  fettered  feet  the  worst  of  ills. 


100 


Lake  Leman  lies  by  Chillon's  walls: 
A  thousand  feet  in  depth  below 
Its  massy  waters  meet  and  flow; 
Thus  much  the  fathom-line  was  sent  HO 

From  Chillon's  snow-white  battlement, 

Which  round  about  the  wave  inthrals: 
A  double  dungeon  wall  and  wave 
Have  made — and  like  a  living  grave. 
Below  the  surface  of  the  lake 
The  dark  vault  lies  wherein  we  lay : 
We  heard  it  ripple  night  and  day ; 

Sounding  o  'er  our  heads  it  knocked ; 
And  I  have  felt  the  winter's  spray 
Wash  through  the  bars  when  winds  were  high 
And  wanton  in  the  happy  sky ; 

And  then  the  very  rock  liath  rocked, 

And  I  have  felt  it  shake,  unshocked. 
Because  I  could  have  smiled  to  see 
The  death  that  would  have  set  me  free. 

I  said  my  nearer  brother  pined, 

I  said  his  mighty  heart  declined, 

He  loathed  and  put  away  his  food ; 

It  was  not  that  'twas  coarse  and  rude, 

For  we  were  used  to  hunter  'a  fare,  130 


121 


LOED  BYRON 


455 


And  for  the  like  had  little  care : 
The  milk  drawn  from  the  mountain  goat 
Was  changed  for  water  from  the  moat, 
Our  bread  was  such  as  captives'  tears 
Have  moistened  many  a  thousand  years, 
Since  man  first  pent  his  fellow  men 
Like  brutes  within  an  iron  den ; 
But  what  were  these  to  us  or  himf 
These  wasted  not  his  heart  or  limb ; 
My  brother 's  soul  was  of  that  mould 
Which  in  a  palace  had  grown  cold, 
Had  his  free  breathing  been  denied 
The  range  of  the  steep  mountain's  side; 
But  why  delay  the  truth? — he  died. 
I  saw,  and  could  not  hold  his  head. 
Nor  reach  his  dying  hand — nor  dead, — 
Though  hard  I  strove,  but  strove  in  vain 
To  rend  and  gnash  my  bonds  in  twain. 
He  died,  and  they  unlocked  his  chain, 
And  scooped  for  him  a  shallow  grave 
Even  from  the  cold  earth  of  our  cave. 
I  begged  them  as  a  boon  to  lay 
His  corse  in  dust  whereon  the  day 
Might  shine — it  was  a  foolish  thought, 
But  then  within  my  brain  it  wrought, 
That  even  in  death  his  freeborn  breast 
In  such  a  dungeon  could  not  rest. 
I  might  have  spared  my  idle  prayer — 
They  coldly  laughed,  and  laid  him  there: 
The  flat  and  turfless  earth  above 
The  being  we  so  much  did  love; 
His  empty  chain  above  it  leant, 
Such  murder's  fitting  monument! 

But  he,  the  favourite  and  the  flower. 

Most  cherished  since  his  natal  hour, 

His  mother's  image  in  fair  face. 

The  infant  love  of  all  his  race. 

His  martyred  father's  dearest  thought, 

My  latest  care,  for  whom  I  sought 

To  hoard  my  life,  that  his  might  be 

Less  wretched  now,  and  one  day  free; 

He,  too,  who  yet  had  held  untired 

A  spirit  natural  or  inspired — 

He,  too,  was  stuck,  and  day  by  day 

Was  withered  on  the  stalk  away. 

Oh,  God!    it  is  a  fearful  thing 

To  see  the  human  soul  take  wing 

In  any  shape,  in  any  mood: 

I've  seen  it  rushing  forth  in  blood, 

I've  seen  it  on  the  breaking  ocean 

Strive  with  a  swoln  convulsive  motion, 

I've  seen  the  sick  and  ghastly  bed 

Of  Sin  delirious  with  its  dread: 

But  these  were  horrors — this  was  woe 

Unmixed  with  such — but  sure  and  slow: 

He  faded,  and  so  calm  and  meek. 

So  softly  worn,  so  sweetly  weak, 


140 


150 


160 


170 


180 


190 


200 


So  tearless,  yet  so  tender,  kind, 

And  grieved  for  those  he  left  behind; 

With  all  the  while  a  cheek  whose  bloom 

Was  as  a  mockery  of  the  tomb. 

Whose  tints  as  gently  sunk  away 

As  a  departing  rainbow's  ray; 

An  eye  of  most  transparent  light, 

That  almost  made  the  dungeon  bright ; 

.\nd  not  a  word  of  murmur,  not 

A  groan  o'er  his  untimely  lot, — 

A  little  talk  of  better  days, 

A  little  hope  my  own  to  raise, 

For  I  was  sunk  in  silence — lost 

In  this  last  loss,  of  all  the  most; 

And  then  the  sighs  he  would  suppress 

Of  fainting  nature's   feebleness, 

More  slowly  drawn,  grew  less  and  less: 

I  listened,  but  I  could  not  hear ; 

I  called,  for  I  was  wild  with  fear: 

I  knew  't  was  hopeless,  but  my  dread 

Would  not  be  thus  admonished; 

I  called,  and  thought  I  heard  a  sound — 

I  burst  my  chain  with  one  strong  bound,      210 

And  rushed  to  him: — I  found  him  not, 

I  only  stirred  in  this  black  spot, 

I  only  lived,  I  only  drew 

The  accursed  breath  of  dungeon-dew; 

The  last,  the  sole,  the  dearest  link 

Between  me  and  the  eternal  brink, 

Which  bound  me  to  my  failing  race, 

Was  broken  in  this  fatal  place. 

One  on  the  earth,  and  one  beneath — 

My  brothers — both  had  ceased  to  breathe: 

I  took  that  hand  which  lay  so  still, 

Alas!    my  own  was  full  as  chill; 

I  had  not  strength  to  stir,  or  strive, 

But  felt  that  I  was  stiU  alive — 

A  frantic  feeling,  when  we  know 

That  what  we  love  shall  ne'er  be  so. 

I  know  not  why 

I  could  not  die, 
I  had  no  earthly  hope — but  faith, 
And  that  forbade  a  selfish  death. 


220 


830 


What  next  befell  me  then  and  there 
I  know  not  well — I  never  knew — 

First  came  the  loss  of  light,  and  air, 
And  then  of  darkness  too: 

I  had  no  thought,  no  feeling — none — 

Among  the  stones  I  stood  a  stone, 

And  was,   scarce   conscious  what  I  wist, 

ks  shrubless  crags  within  the  mist; 

For  all  was  blank,  and  bleak,  and  gray; 

It  was  not  night,  it  was  not  day; 

It  was  not  even  the  dungeon-light, 

So  hateful  to  my  heavy  sight, 

But  vacancy  absorbing  space. 

And  fixedness  without  a  place; 


240 


456 


THE  KOMANTIC  REVIVAL 


250 


260 


There  were  no  stars,  no  earth,  no  time, 
No  check,  no  change,  no  good,  no  crime, 
But  silence,  and  a  stirless  breath 
"Which  neither  was  of  life  nor  death; 
A  sea  of  stagnant  idleness. 
Blind,  boundless,  mute,  and  motionless! 

A  light  broke  in  upon  my  brain, — 

It  was  the  carol  of  a  bird; 
It  ceased,  and  then  it  came  again. 

The  sweetest  song  ear  ever  heard. 
And  mine  was  thankful  till  my  eyes 
Ran  over  with  the  glad  surprise. 
And  they  that  moment  could  not  see 
I  was  the  mate  of  misery; 
But  then  by  dull  degrees  came  back 
My  senses  to  their  wonted  track; 
I  saw  the  dungeon  walls  and  floor 
Close  slowly  round  me  as  before, 
I  saw  the  glimmer  of  the  sun 
Creeping  as  it  before  had  done. 
But  through  the  crevice  where  it  came 
That  bird  was  perched,  as  fond  and  tame, 

And  tamer  than  upon  the  tree; 
A  lovely  bird,  with  azure  wings. 
And  song  that  said  a  thousand  things, 

And  seemed  to  say  them  all  for  me!         270 
I  never  saw  its  like  before, 
I  ne  'er  shall  see  its  likeness  more : 
It  seemed  like  me  to  want  a  mate, 
But  was  not  half  so  desolate. 
And  it  was  come  to  love  me  when 
None  lived  to  love  me  so  again, 
And  cheering  from  my  dungeon's  brink. 
Had  brought  me  back  to  feel  and  think. 
I  know  not  if  it  late  were  free. 

Or  broke  its  cage  to  perch  on  mine,  280 

But  knowing  well  captivity. 

Sweet  bird!    I  could  not  wish  for  thine! 
Or  if  it  were,  in  winged  guise, 
A  visitant  from  Paradise; 

For — Heaven  forgive  that  thought!    the  while 
Which  made  me  both  to  weep  and  smile — 
I  sometimes  deemed  that  it  might  be 
My  brother's  soul  come  down  to  me; 
But  then  at  last  away  it  flew. 
And  then  'twas  mortal  well  I  knew,  290 

For  he  would  never  thus  have  flown, 
And  left  me  twice  so  doubly  lone. 
Lone  as  the  corse  within  its  shroud, 
Lone  as  a  solitary  cloud, — 

A  single  cloud  on  a  sunny  day. 
While  all  the  rest  of  heaven  is  clear, 
A  frown  upon  the  atmosphere, 
That  hath  no  business  to  appear 

When  skies  are  blue,  and  earth  is  gay. 

A  kind  of  change  came  in  my  fate,  300 

My  keepers  grew  compassionate; 


310 


320 


I  know  not  what  had  made  them  so, 
They  were  inured  to  sights  of  woe. 
But  so  it  was: — my  broken  chain 
With  links  unfastened  did  remain, 
And  it  was  liberty  to  stride 
Along  my  cell  from  side  to  side. 
And  up  and  down,  and  then  athwart, 
And  tread  it  over  every  part ; 
And  round  the  pillars  one  by  one, 
Returning  where  my  walk  begun, 
Avoiding  only,  as  I  trod. 
My  brothers'  graves  without  a  sod; 
For  if  I  thought  with  heedless  tread 
My  step  profaned  their  lowly  bed, 
My  breath  came  gaspingly  and  thick. 
And  my  crushed  heart  fell  blind  and  sick. 


I  made  a  footing  in  the  wall. 

It  was  not  therefrom  to  escape, 
For  I  had  buried  one  and  all 

Who  loved  me  in  a  human  shape; 
And  the  whole  earth  would  henceforth  be 
A  wider  prison  unto  me: 
No  child,  no  sire,  no  kin  had  I, 
No  partner  in  my  misery; 
I  thought  of  this,  and  I  was  glad. 
For  thought  of  them  had  made  me  mad ; 
But  I  was  curious  to  ascend 
To  my  barred  windows,  and  to  bend 
Once  more,  upon  the  mountains  high,  330 

The  quiet  of  a  loving  eye. 

I  saw  them,  and  they  were  the  same. 

They  were  not  changed  like  me  in  frame; 

I  saw  their  thousand  years  of  snow 

On  high — their  wide  long  lake  below. 

And  the  blue  Rhone  in  fullest  flow; 

I  heard  the  torrents  leap  and  gush 

O'er  channelled  rock  and  broken  bush; 

T  saw  the  white-walled  distant  town. 

And  whiter  sails  go  skimming  down;  340 

And  then  there  was  a  little  isle. 

Which  in  my  very  face  did  smile, 

The  only  one  in  view; 
A  small  green  isle,  it  seemed  no  more, 
Scarce  broader  than  my  dungeon  floor, 
But  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees. 
And  o'er  it  blew  the  mountain  breeze, 
And  by  it  there  were  waters  flowing. 
And  on  it  there  were  young  flowers  growing, 

Of  gentle  breath  and  hue.  350 

The  fish  swam  by  the  castle  wall, 
.4nd  they  seemed  joyous  each  and  all; 
The  eagle  rode  the  rising  blast, 
Mcthought  he  never  flew  so  fast 
As  then  to  me  he  seemed  to  fly; 
And  then  new  tears  came  in  my  eye, 
And  I  felt  troubled — and  would  fain 


LOBD  BYfiON 


457 


360 


370 


380 


I  had  not  left  my  recent  chain; 
And  when  I  did  descend  again, 
The  darkness  of  my  dim  abode 
Fell  on  me  as  a  heavy  load; 
It  was  as  is  a  new-dug  grave, 
Closing  o  'er  one  we  sought  to  save, — 
And  yet  my  glance,  too  much  opprest, 
Had  almost  need  of  such  a  rest. 

It  might  be  months,  or  years,  or  days, 

I  kept  no  count,  I  took  no  note, 
I  had  no  hope  my  eyes  to  raise. 

And  clear  them  of  their  dreary  mote; 
At  last  men  came  to  set  me  free; 

I  asked  not  why,  and  recked  not  where; 
It  was  at  length  the  same  to  me, 
Fettered  or  fetterless  to  be, 

I  learned  to  love  despair. 
And  thus  when  they  appeared  at  last, 
And  all  my  bonds  aside  were  cast, 
These  heavy  walls  to  me  had  grown 
A  hermitage — and  all  my  own! 
And  half  I  felt  as  they  were  come 
To  tear  me  from  a  second  home: 
With  spiders  I  had  friendship  made. 
And  watched  them  in  their  sullen  trade. 
Had  seen  the  mice  by  moonlight  play. 
And  why  should  I  feel  less  than  they? 
We  were  all  inmates  of  one  place. 
And  I,  the  monarch  of  each  race. 
Had  power  to  kill — yet,  strange  to  tell! 
In  quiet  we  had  learned  to  dwell; 
My  very  chains  and  I  grew  friends. 
So  much  a  long  communion  tends 
To  make  us  what  we  are: — even  I 
Begained  my  freedom  with  a  sigh. 


From  CHILDE  HAEOLD 

Waterloo.    From  Caxto  III* 

21 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gathered  then 
Her  Beauty  and  her  Chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave 

men; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily;    and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft  eyes  looked  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again, 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage-bell; 

But  hush!    hark!    a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a 
rising  knell! 

•  Three  days  before  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  on 
the  eve  of  the  battle  of  Quatre-Bras,  the 
Duchess  of  Richmond  gave  a  ball  in  Brus- 
sels, which  was  attended  by  Wellington  and 
other   British   officers. 


390 


22 

Did  ye  not  hear  it? — No;    'twas  but  the  wind, 

Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street; 

On  with  the  dance!    let  joy  be  unconfined; 

No  sleep  till  morn,  when  Youth  and  Pleasure 
meet 

To  chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  flying  feet — 

But   hark! — that   heavy   sound  breaks   in   once 
more. 

As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat; 

And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before! 
Arm!    Arm!    it  is — it  is — the  cannon's  open- 
ing roar! 

23    . 

Within  a  windowed  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sate  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain ;i  he  did  hear 
That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  festival. 
And  caught  its  tone  with  Death 's  prophetic  ear ; 
And  when  they  smiled  because   he   deemed  it 

near, 
His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well 
Which   stretched   his   father   on   a  bloody   bier. 
And   roused   the   vengeance  blood   alone   could 
queU; 
He  rushed  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fight- 
ing, fell. 

24 

Ah!    then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress. 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Blushed  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness; 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking 

sighs 
Which   ne'er   might   be   repeated;     who    could 

guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes, 
Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn 

could  rise! 


25 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste :  the  steed. 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car. 
Went   pouring  forward  with   impetuous   speed, 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war; 
And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar ; . 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star; 
While  thronged  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb. 
Or  whispering,  with  white  lips — "The  foe, 
they  come!    they  come!" 

1  The  Duke  of  Brunswick,  nephew  of  George  III. 
His  father  was  killed  at  Auerstadt  in  1806. 


458 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 


26 
And  wild  and  high  the  *  *  Cameron 's  gathering ' ' 

rose! 
The  war-note  of  Lochiel,2  -which  Albyn'ss  hills 
Have  heard,  and  heard,  too,  have  her  Saxon* 

foes: — 
How  in  the  noon  of  night  that  pibroch  thrills, 
Savage  and  shrill!     But  with  the  breath  which 

mis 

Their   mountain-pipe,   so   fill  the  mountaineers 
"With  the  fierce  native  daring  which  instils 
The  stirring  memory  of  a  thousand  years, 
And   Evan's,   Donald's   fame   rings  in  each 
clansman's  ears! 

27 
And  Ardennes!*   waves  above  them  her  green 

leaves. 
Dewy  with  nature's  tear-drops  as  they  pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
Over  the  unreturning  brave, — alas! 
Ere  evening  to  be  troddeu  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valour,  rolling  on  the  foe 

And  burning  with  high  hope  shall  moulder 

cold  and  low. 

28 
Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life. 
Last  eve  in  Beauty's  circle  proudly  gay, 
The  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound  of  strife, 
The  morn  the  marshalling  in  arms, — the  day 
Battle's    magnificently    stern    array! 
The   thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,   which  when 

rent 
The  earth  is  covered  thick  with  other  clay. 
Which  her   own  clay  shall   cover,  heaped   and 

pent. 
Rider   and   horse, — friend,   foe, — in    one  red 

burial  blent! 


Night  on  Lake  Leman.    From  Canto  III 
85 
Clear,  placid  Leman !»  thy  contrasted  lake, 
With  the  wild  world  I  dwelt  in,  is  a  thing 
Which  warns  me,  with  its  stillness,  to  forsake 
Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring. 
This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me  from  distraction;    once  I  loved 
Torn  ocean's  roar,  but  thy  soft  murmuring 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  Sister's  voice  reproved, 

2  Donald  Cameron   of   Lochlel,   chief  of  the  Cam- 

eron  clan. 

3  Scotland'8 

4l^wiaBd  and  EnKlish  (Sir  Evan  Cameron  fought 

against  Cromwell). 
0  A  forpst,  properly  Hoignies. 
•  The  Lake  of  Geneva   (Latin  Lemannut). 


That  I  with  stern  delights  should  e'er  have 
been  so  moved. 

86 

It  is  the  hush  of  night,  and  all  between 
Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet  clear. 
Mellowed  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen. 
Save  darkened  Jura,  whose  capt  heights  appear 
Precipitously   steep;     and   drawing   near, 
There   breathes    a   living    fragrance    from    the 

shore, 
Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood ;    on  the  ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar. 
Or    chirps    the    grasshopper    one    good-night 

carol  more; 

87 

He  is  an  evening  reveller,  who  makes 
His  life  an  infancy,  and  sings  his  fill; 
At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out  the  brakes 
Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is  still. 
There  seems  a  floating  whisper  on  the  hill, 
But  that  is  fancy,  for  the  starlight  dews 
All  silently  their  tears  of  love  instil. 
Weeping  themselves  away,  till  they  infuse 
Deep  into  nature's  breast  the  spirit  of  her 
hues. 

88 

Ye  stars!    which  are  the  poetry  of  heaven! 
If  in  your  bright  leaves  we  would  read  the  fate 
Of  men  and  empires, —  'tis  to  be  forgiven. 
That  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great. 
Our  destinies  o'erleap  their  mortal  state, 
And  claim  a  kindred  with  you;    for  ye  are 
A  beauty  and  a  mystery,  and  create 
In  us  such  love  and  reverence  from  afar. 
That  fortune,  fame,  power,  life,  have  named 
themselves  a  star. 

89 

All  heaven  and  earth  are  still — though  not  in 

sleep. 
But  breathless,  as  we  grow  when  feeling  most ; 
And  silent,  as  we  stand  in  thoughts  too  deep: — 
All  heaven  and  earth  are  still:    From  the  high 

host 
Of  stars,  to  the  lulled  lake  and  mountain  coast, 
All  is  concentered  in  a  life  intense. 
Where  not  a  beam,  nor  air,  nor  leaf  is  lost. 
But  hath  a  part  of  being,  and  a  sense 

Of  that  which  is  of  all  Creator  and  defence. 

90 

Then  stirs  the  feeling  infinite,  so  felt 
In  solitude,  where  we  are  least  alone; 
A   truth,   which   through   our  being  then   doth 

melt. 
And  purifies  from  self:  it  is  a  tone, 


LORD  BYRON 


45y 


The   soul   and   source    of   music,    which   makes 

known 
Eternal  harmony,  and  sheds  a  charm 
Like  to  the  fabled  Cytherea's  zone,^ 
Binding  all  things  with  beauty: — 'twould  dis- 
arm 
The  spectre  Death,  had  he  substantial  power 
to  harm, 

91 
Not  vainly  did  the  early  Persian  make 
His  altar  the   high  places,   and   the  peak 
Of  earth-o'ergazing  mountains,  and  thus  take 
A  fit  and  unwalled  temple,  there  to  seek 
The  Spirit,  in  whose  honour  shrines  are  weak, 
Upreared  of  human  hands.     Come,  and  compare 
Columns  and   idol-dw^ellings,   Goth   or   Greek, 
With  Nature 's  realms  of  worship,  earth  and  air. 
Nor  fix  on  fond  abodes  to  circumscribe  thy 
prayer ! 

92 
The  sky  is  changed! — and  such  a  change!     Oh 

night, 
And    storm,    and    darkness,    ye    are    wondrous 

strong, 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman!     Far  along, 
From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among 
Leaps   the   live   thunder!      Not   from   one   lone 

cloud, 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue. 
And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud. 
Back   to   the   joyous   Alps,   who   call   to    her 
aloud ! 

93 
And  this  is  in  the  night: — Most  glorious  night! 
Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber!    let  me  be 
A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight, — 
A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee! 
How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a  phosphoric  sea, 
And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth! 
And  now  again   'tis  black, — and  now,  the  glee 
Of   the    loud    hills    shakes   with   its   mountain- 
mirth, 
As  if  they  did  rejoice  o  'er  a  young  earth- 
quake's  birth. 

94 
Now,  where  the  swift  Rhone  cleaves  his  way 

between 
Heights    which    appear    as    lovers    who    have 

parted 
In   hate,   whose   mining   depths  so   intervene. 
That  they  can  meet   no   more,  though  broken- 
hearted ; 
Though   in   their   souls,   which   thus   each   other 

thwarted. 
Love  was  the  very  root  of  the  fond  rage 

7  The  cestus  of  Venus,  which  inspired  Love. 


Which  blighted  their  life's  bloom,  and  then  de- 
parted : 

Itself  expired,  but  leaving  them  an  age 

Of  years  all  winters, — war  within  themselves 
to  wage: 

95 
Now,  where  the  quick  Rhone  thus  hath  cleft  his 

way. 
The    mightiest    of    the    storms   hath    ta'en    his 

stand: 
For  here,  not  one,  but  many,  make  their  play. 
And    fling    their    thunder-bolts    from    hand    to 

hand, 
Flashing  and  cast  around ;    of  all  the  band. 
The  brightest   through   these  parted  hills  hath 

forked 
His  lightnings, — as  if  he  did  understand, 
That  in  such  gaps  as  desolation  worked. 
There   the   hot    shaft    should   blast   whatever 

therein  lurked. 

96 
Sky,  mountains,  river,  winds,  lake,  lightnings! 

ye! 
With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thunder,  and  a  soul 
To  make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may  be 
Things  that  have  made  me  watchful;    the  far 

roll 
Of  your  departing  voices,  is  the  knoll 
Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless, — if  I  rest. 
But  where  of  ye,  O  tempests!    is  the  goal? 
Are  ye  like  those  within  the  human  breast? 
Or  do  ye  find,  at  length,  like  eagles,  some 

high  nest? 

97 
Could  I  embody  and  unbosom  now 
That  which  is  most  within  me, — could  I  wreak 
My  thoughts  upon  expression,  and  thus  throw 
Soul,  heart,  mind,  passions,  feelings,  strong  or 

weak. 
All  that  I  would  have  sought,  and  all  I  seek, 
Bear,   know,    feel,    and   yet   breathe — into    one 

word. 
And   that   one  word   were   Lightning,   I   would 

speak ; 
But  as  it  is  I  live  and  die  unheard. 

With  a  most  voiceless  thought,  sheathing  it 

as  a  sword. 

98 
The  morn  is  up  again,  the  dewy  morn, 
With   breath    all    incense,    and   with   cheek    all 

bloom. 
Laughing  the  clouds  away  with  playful  scorn, 
And  living  as  if  earth  contained  no  tomb, — 
And  glowing  into  day:    we  may  resume 
The  march  of  our  existence :   and  thus  I, 


460 


THE  ROMANTIC  EEVIVAL 


Still  on  thy  shores,  fair  Leman !    may  find  room 
And  food  for  meditation,  nor  pass  by 

Much,  that  may  give  us  pause,  if  ponder 'd 
fittingly. 


Venice.    From  Canto  IV 


I  stood  in  Venice,  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  ;i 
A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand: 
I  saw  from  out  the  wave  her  structures  rise 
As  from  the  stroke  of  the  enchanter's  wand: 
A  thousand  years  their  cloudy  wings  expand 
Around  me,2  and  a  dying  Glory  smiles 
O'er  the  far  times,  when  many  a  subject  land 
Looked  to  the  winged  Lion'ss  marble  piles. 
Where  Venice  sate  in  state,  throned  on  her 
hundred  isles! 


She  looks  a  sea  Cybele,  fresh  from  ocean, 

Eising  with  her  tiara  of  proud  towers* 

At  airy  distance,  with  majestic  motion, 

A  ruler  of  the  waters  and  their  powers; 

And   such   she   was; — her   daughters   had   their 

dowers 
From    spoils    of    nations,    and    the    exhaustless 

East 
Poured  in  her  lap  all  gems  in  sparkling  showers. 
In  purple  was  she  robed,  and  of  her  feast 
Monarchs  partook,  and  deemed  their  dignity 

increased. 

3 

In  Venice  Tasso's  echoes  are  no  more,' 
And  silent  rows  the  songless  gondolier; 
Her  palaces  are  crumbling  to  the  shore. 
And  music  meets  not  always  now  the  ear: 
Those  days  are  gone — but  Beauty  still  is  here. 
States  fall,  arts  fade — but  Nature  doth  not  die. 
Nor  yet  forget  how  Venice  once  was  dear. 
The  pleasant  place  of  all  festivity. 

The  revel  of  the  earth,  the  masque  of  Italy! 


But  unto  us  she  hath  a  spell  beyond 

Her  name  in  story,  and  her  long  array 

Of  mighty  shadows,  whose  dim  forms  despond 

Above  the  dogeless  city's  vanished  sway; 

1  The    gallery    spanning    the    canal    between    the 

ducal  palace  and  tne  prison, 
z  See  note  on  Wordsworth's  sonnet,  p.  427. 
8  The   Lion  of   St.   Mark,  surmounting  one  of  the 

two    pillars    in    the    square    in    front    of    the 

palace.     The   Lion  was  also   the  standard  of 

the  republic;  see  st.  14. 
4  In  ancient  art,   the  goddess  Cybele  wore  a  tur- 

reted  crown. 
8  Stanzas    of    Tasso's    Jerunnlem    Delivered    were 

once  sung  by  the  gondoliers. 


Ours  is  a  trophy  which  will  not  decay 
With  the  Eialto;8  Shylock  and  the  Moor,7 
And  Pierre,8  cannot  be  swept  or  worn  away — 
The   keystones   of  the  arch!     though   all  were 
o'er. 
For  us  repeopled  were  the  solitary  shore. 


The  beings  of  the  mind  are  not  of  clay; 

Essentially  immortal,  they  create 

And  multiply  in  us  a  brighter  ray 

And  more  beloved  existence:    that  which  Fate 

Prohibits  to  dull  life,  in  this  our  state 

Of  mortal  bondage,  by  these  spirits  supplied. 

First  exiles,  then  replaces  what  Ave  hate; 

Watering   the   heart   whose   early   flowers   have 

died. 
And  with  a  fresher  growth  replenishing  the 

void. 


13 

Before  St.  Mark  still  glow  his  Steeds  of  brass, 
Their  gilded  collars  glittering  in  the  sun; 
But  is  not  Doria's  menace  come  to  passfa 
Are  they  not  bridled? — Venice,  lost  and  won, 
Her  thirteen  hundred  years  of  freedom  done. 
Sinks,  like  a  sea-weed,  into  whence  she  rose! 
Better  be  whelmed  beneath  the  waves,  and  shun, 
Even  in  destruction's  depth,  her  foreign  foes. 
From  whom  submission  wrings  an  infamous 
repose. 

14 

In  youth  she  was  all  glory,  a  new  Tyre, 
Her   very   by-word   sprung   from   victory, 
The  "Planter  of  the  Lion,"  which  through  fire 
And  blood  she  bore  o'er  subject  earth  and  sea; 
Though  making  many  slaves,  herself  still  free. 
And  Europe's  bulwark  'gainst  the  Ottomite; — 
Witness  Troy's  rival,  Candia!io     Vouch  it,  ye 
Immortal  waves  that  saw  Lepanto's  fight !" 
For  ye  are  names  no  time  nor  tyranny  can 
blight. 

15 

Statues  of  glass — all  shivered — the  long  file 

Of  her  dead  Doges  are  declined  to  dust; 

But  where  they  dwelt,  the  vast  and  sumptuous 

pile 
Bespeaks  the  pageant  of  their  splendid  trust; 

«  Here  evidently  meaning  the  Bridge  of  the  Rialto 
across  the  Grand  Canal. 

7  Othello 

8  A  character  in  Otway's  Venice  Preserved. 

0  This  Genoese  admiral  once  threatened  to  put  a 
bridle  on  the  bronze  steeds  that  adorn  St. 
Mark's. 

10  Crete,  once  possessed  by  Venice,  but  lost  again 

to  the  Turks. 

11  The  battle  of  Lepanto.  1571,  a  victory  over  the 

Turks  In  which  Venice  took  a  leading  part. 


LORD  BYRON 


461 


Their  sceptre  broken,  and  their  sword  in  rust, 
Have  yielded  to  the  stranger:    empty  halls, 
Thin  streets,  and  foreign  aspects,  such  as  must 
Too  oft  remind  her  who  and  what  enthralls. 
Have   flung   a    desolate   cloud    o'er    Venice' 
lovely  walls. 

16 

When  Athens'  armies  fell  at  Syracuse, 
And  fettered  thousands  bore  the  yoke  of  war, 
Redemption  rose  up  in  the  Attic  Muse,i2 
Her  voice  their  only  ransom  from  afar; 
See!    as  they  chant  the  tragic  hymn,  the  car 
Of  the  o'ermastered  victor  stops,  the  reins 
Fall  from  his  hands,  his  idle  scimitar 
Starts    from    its   belt — he   rends   his   captive's 

chains. 
And  bids  him  thank  the  bard  for   freedom 

and  his  strains. 

17 

Thus,  Venice,  if  no  stronger  claim  were  thine. 
Were  all  thy  proud  historic  deeds  forgot. 
Thy  choral  memory  of  the  Bard  divine, 
Thy  love  of  Tasso,  should  have  cut  the  knot 
Which  ties  thee  to  thy  tyrants;    and  thy  lot 
Is  shameful  to  the  nations, — most  of  all, 
Albion!    to  thee:    the  Ocean  queen  should  not 
Abandon  Ocean's  children;    in  the  fall 

Of  Venice,  think  of  thine,  despite  thy  watery 
wall. 

18 
I  loved  her  from  my  boyhood;    she  to  me 
Was  as  a  fairy  city  of  the  heart, 
Rising  like  water-columns  from  the  sea, 
Of  joy  the  sojourn,  and  of  wealth  the  mart; 
And     Otway,     Radcliffe,i3     Schiller,"     Shake- 
speare's art. 
Had  stamped  her  image  in  me,  and  even  so. 
Although  I  found  her  thus,  we  did  not  part. 
Perchance  even  dearer  in  her  day  of  woe. 
Than  when  she  was  a  boast,  a  marvel  and  a 
show. 

Rome.    From  Canto  IV 

78 

Oh  Rome!    my  country!    city  of  the  soul 
The  orphans  of  the  heart  must  turn  to  thee. 
Lone  mother  of  dead  empires!    and  control 
In  their  shut  breasts  their  petty  misery. 
What  are  our  woes  and  sufferance!    Come  and 


12  It    is    said    that    the    Athenian    prisoners    who 

could  recite  Euripides  were  set  free.     Cp.  page 
233,  note  5. 

13  In  The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho. 

14  In  The  Ghoul-Seer. 


The  cypress,  hear  the  owl,  and  plod  your  way 
O'er  steps  of  broken  thrones  and  temples,  Ye! 
Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a  day — 
A  world  is  at  our  feet  as  fragile  as  our  clay, 

79 
The  Niobe  of  nations!"  there  she  stands. 
Childless  and  crownless,  in  her  voiceless  woe; 
An  empty  urn  within  her  withered  hands, 
Whose  holy  dust  was  scattered  long  ago; 
The  Scipios'  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now;  • 
The  very  sepulchres  lie  tenantless 
Of  their  heroic  dwellers:    dost  thou  flow. 
Old  Tiber!    through  a  marble  wilderness? 
Rise,  with  thy  yellow  waves,  and  mantle  her 

distress. 

80 
The  Goth,  the  Christian,  Time,  War,  Flood,  and 

Fire, 
Have  dealt  upon  the  seven-hilled  city's  pride; 
She  saw  her  glories  star  by  star  expire. 
And  up  the  steep  barbarian  monarchs  ride. 
Where  the  car  climbed  the  Capitol;    far  and 

wide 
Temple  and  tower  went  down,  nor  left  a  site: 
Chaos  of  ruins!    who  shall  trace  the  void, 
O  'er  the  dim  fragments  cast  a  lunar  light, 
And   say,   "here  was,  or  is,"  where  all   is 


doubly  night? 


81 


The  double  night  of  ages,  and  of  her, 
Night's  daughter,  Ignorance,  hath  wrapt  and 

wrap 
All  round  us;    we  but  feel  our  way  to  err: 
The  Ocean  hath  his  chart,  the  stars  their  map, 
And  Knowledge  spreads  them  on  her  ample  lap; 
But  Rome  is  as  the  desert,  where  we  steer 
Stumbling  o'er  recollections;    now  we  clap 
Our  hands,  and  cry  * ' Eureka !  "  "it  is  clear ' ' — 

When  but  some  false  mirage   of  ruin  rises 
near. 

82 
Alas!    the  lofty  city!    and,  alas, 
The  trebly  hundred  triumphs;    and  the  day 
When  Brutus  made  the  dagger's  edge  surpass 
The  Conqueror's  sword  in  bearing  fame  away! 
Alas,  for  Tully'sis  voice,  and  Virgil's  lay, 
And  Livy's  pictured  page; — but  these  shall  be 
Her  resurrection;    all  beside — decay. 
Alas,  for  Earth,  for  never  shall  we  see 

That   brightness  in  her  eye   she  bore   when 
Rome  was  free! 


15  The    twelve    children    of    Niobe    were    slain    by 

Apollo.     They    are   the   subject   of  a   famous 
ancient  group  of  statuary. 

16  Cicero's 


462 


THE  BOMANTIC  REVIVAL 


96 
Can  tyrants  but  by  tyrants  conquered  be, 
And  Freedom  find  no  champion,  and  no  child, 
Such  as  Columbia  saw  arise  when  she 
Sprung  forth  a  Pallas,  armed  and  undefiled? 
Or  must  such  minds  be  nourished  in  the  wild, 
Deep  in  the  unpruned  forest,  'midst  the  roar 
Of  cataracts,  where  nursing  Nature  smiled 
On  infant  Washington?    Has  earth  no  more 
Such  seeds  within  her  breast,  or  Europe  no 
such  shore? 

97 

But    Prance    got    drunk    with   blood    to    vomit 

crime ; 
And  fatal  have  her  Saturnalia  been 
To  Freedom's  cause,  in  every  age  and  clime; 
Because  the  deadly  days  which  we  have  seen, 
And  vile  Ambition,  that  built  up  between 
Man  and  his  hopes  an  adamantine  wall. 
And  the  base  pageant  last  upon  the  scene,* 
Are  grown  the  pretext  for  the  eternal  thrall 
Which    nips    life's    tree,    and    dooms    man's 

worst — his  second  fall. 

98 

Yet,  Freedom!    yet  thy  banner,  torn  but  flying. 
Streams    like    the    thunder-storm    against    the 

wind; 
Thy    trumpet    voice,    though   broken    now    and 

dying. 
The  loudest  still  the  tempest  leaves  behind; 
Thy  tree  hath  lost  its  blossoms,  and  the  rind. 
Chopped   by   the    axe,    looks    rough    and    little 

worth. 
But  the  sap  lasts, — and  still  the  seed  we  find 
Sown  deep,  even  in  the  bosom  of  the  North; 
So    shaJl    a   better    spring    less    bitter    fruit 

bring  forth. 

The  Couseum.    Feom  Canto  IV 

139 

And  here  the  buzz  of  eager  nations  ran, 
In  murmured  pity,  or  loud-roared  applause. 
As  man  was  slaughtered  by  his  fellow-man. 
And  wherefore  slaughtered?  wherefore,  but  be- 
cause 
Such  were  the  bloody  Circus'  genial  laws. 
And  the  imperial  pleasure. — Wherefore  not? 
What  matters  where  we  fall  to  fill  the  maws 
Of  worms — on  battle-plains  or  listed  spot? 
Both  are  but  theatres  where  the  chief  actors 
rot. 

•  The  Congress  of  Vienna,  the  "Holy  Alliance" 
(Into  which  Wellington  would  not  enter), 
and  the  Second  Treaty  of  Paris. — B.  H.  Cole- 
ridge. 


140 

I  see  before  me  the  Gladiator  lie:i7 
He  leans  upon  his  hand — his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony, 
And  his  drooped  head  sinks  gradually  low — 
And   through   his  side   the   last   drops,   ebbing 

slow 
From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one, 
Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower ;    and  now 
The  arena  swims  around  him — he  is  gone, 
Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which  hailed 

the  wretch  who  won. 

141 

He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not — his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away: 
He  recked  not  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prize, 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay. 
There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play. 
There  was  their  Dacian  mother — he,  their  sire, 
Butchered  to  make  a  Roman  holiday — 
All  this  rushed  with  his  blood — Shall  he  expire 
And  unavenged?     Arise!    ye  Goths,  and  glut 
your  ire! 

]42  I 

But  here,  where  Murder  breathed  her  bloody 

steam : 
And   here,    where   buzzing   nations   choked   the 

ways. 
And    roared    or    murmured    like    a    mountain 

stream 
Dashing  or  winding  as  its  torrent  strays: 
Here,    where    the    Roman    million's    blame    or 

praise 
Was  death  or  life,  the  playthings  of  a  crowd, 
My    voice    sounds    much — and    fall    the    stars' 

faint  rays 
On  the  arena  void — seats  crushed,  walls  bowed —     | 
And  galleries,   where  my   steps  seem   echoes     * 

strangely  loud. 

143 

A  ruin — yet  what  ruin!    from  its  mass 
Walls,  palaces,  half-cities,  have  been  reared; 
Yet  oft  the  enormous  skeleton  ye  pass,  J 

And   marvel   where   the   spoil   could   have   ap-     | 

peared. 
Hath  it  indeed  been  plundered,  or  but  cleared? 
Alas!    developed,  opens  the  decay. 
When  the  colossal  fabric's  form  is  neared: 
It  will  not  bear  the  brightness  of  the  day. 
Which  streams  too  much  on  all  years,  man, 

have  reft  away. 

17  SuRgested   bv   the   statue   of   The   Dying  Gaul, 
once  supposed  to  represent  a  dying  gladiator. 


LOBD  BYBON 


463 


144 

But  when  the  rising  moon  begins  to  climb 
Its  topmost  arch,  and  gently  pauses  there; 
When  the  stars  twinkle  through  the  loops  of 

time, 
And  the  low  night-breeze  waves  along  the  air 
The  garland-forest,  which  the  gray  walls  wear. 
Like  laurels  on  the  bald  first  Caesar's  head; is 
When  the  light  shines  serene  but  doth  not  glare, 
Then  in  this  magic  circle  raise  the  dead: 
Heroes  have  trod  this  spot — 'tis  on  their  dust 
ye  tread. 

145 

"While  stands  the  Coliseum,  Kome  shall  stand; 
"When  falls  the  Coliseum  Rome  shall  fall; 
"And  when  Bome  falls— the  World."     From 

our  own  land 
Thus  spake  the  pilgrims  o'er  this  mighty  wall 
In  Saxon  times,  which  we  are  wont  to  call 
Ancient ;   and  these  three  mortal  things  are  still 
On  their  foundations,  and  unaltered  all; 
Bome  and  her  Ruin  past  Bedemption's  skill, 
The  World,  the  same  wide  den — of  thieves, 

or  what  ye  wiU. 

The  Ocean.    Fbom  Canto  IV 
178 
There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes. 
By  the  deep  Sea,  and  music  in  its  roar: 
I  love  not  Man  the  less,  but  Nature  more, 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before. 
To  mingle  with  the  Universe,  and  feel 

WTiat  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  con- 
ceal. 

179 
Boll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean — roll! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain ; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin — his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore;    upon  the  watery  plain 
The  WTecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain. 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan. 
Without  a  grave,  unknelled,  uncoffined,  and 
unknown. 

180 
His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths — thy  fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him, — thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee;     the  vile  strength 
he  wields 

18  Caesar  was  glad  to  cover  his  baldness  with  the 
wreath  of  laurel  which  the  senate  decreed 
he  shonld  wear. 


For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise, 
Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies. 
And  send  'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful  spray 
And  howling,  to  his  Gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay. 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth: — there  let 

him  lay.* 

181 
The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walk 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake, 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals, 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war — 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake. 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mai 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride  or  spoils  of  Tra- 

falgar. 

182 
Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed   in  all  save 

thee — 
Assyria,  Greece,  Bome,  Carthage,  wliat  are  theyf 
Thy    waters    washed    them    power    while    they 

were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since;    their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage;    their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts:    not  so  thou; — 
Unchangeable,  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play. 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow: 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest 

now. 

183 

Thou    glorious   mirror,    where    the   Almighty's 

form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests;    in  all  time, — 
Calm  or  convulsed,  in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving — ^boundless,  endless,  and  sublime, 
The  image  of  eternity,  the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible;    even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made;    each  zone 

Obeys  thee ;    thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathom- 
less, alone. 

184 
And  I  have  loved  thee.  Ocean!    and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward ;    from  a  boy 
I  wantoned  with  thy  breakers — they  to  me 
Were  a  delight;    and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror — 'twas  a  pleasing  fear. 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee. 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 

And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane — as  I  do 
here. 

•  This  grammatical  error,  occurring  In  so  lofty  a 
passage,  Is  perhaps  the  most  famous  in  onr 
literature.  It  is  quite  characteristic  of 
Byron's  negligence  or  indiflference. 


464 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 


From  DON  JUAN 
The  Shipwreck.    From  Canto  II* 
38 
But  now  there  came  a  flash  of  hope  once  more; 
Day  broke,  and  the  wind  lulled:    the  masts 
were  gone, 
The  leak  increased;    shoals  round  her,  but  no 
shore, 
The  vessel  swam,  yet  still  she  held  her  own. 
They  tried  the  pumps  again,  and  though  before 
Their    desperate    efforts    seemed    all    useless 
grown, 
A  glimpse  of  sunshine  set  some  hands  to  bale — 
The  stronger  pumped,  the  weaker  thrummed^  a 
sail. 

39 
Under  the  vessel's  keel  the  sail  was  past, 

And  for  the  moment  it  had  some  effect; 
But  with  a  leak,  and  not  a  stick  of  mast. 

Nor  rag  of  canvas,  what  could  they  expect? 
But  still  't  is  best  to  struggle  to  the  last, 

'T  is  never  too  late  to  be  wholly  wrecked : 
And  though    't  is  true  that  man  can  only  die 

once, 
'T  is  not  so  pleasant  in  the  Gulf  of  Lyons. 

40 
There  winds  and  waves  had  hurled  them,  and 
from  thence, 
Without  their  will,  they  carried  them  away; 
For  they  were  forced  with  steering  to  dispense, 

And  never  had  as  yet  a  quiet  day 
On  which  they  might  repose,  or  even  commence 

A  jurymast,  or  rudder,  or  could  say 
The  ship  would  swim  an  hour,  which,  by  good 

luck. 
Still  swam, — though  not  exactly  like  a  duck. 

41 
The  wind,  in  fact,  perhaps  was  rather  less, 

But  the  ship  laboured  so,  they  scarce  could 
hope 
To  weather  out  much  longer;    the  distress 

Was  also  great  with  which  they  had  to  cope 
For  want  of  water,  and  their  solid  mess 

Was  scant  enough:    in  vain  the  telescope 
Was  used — nor  sail  nor  shore  appeared  in  sight, 
Nought  but  the  heavy  sea,  and  coming  night. 

42 
Again  the  weather  threatened, — again  blew 

A  gale,  and  in  the  fore  and  after  hold 
Water  appeared;    yet,  though  the  people  knew 

1  wove  In  bits  of  rope-yarn  (usually  done  to  pre- 
vent chafing) 

*  Don  Juan,  with  his  servants  and  his  tutor 
I'edrlllo,  meets  with  shipwreck  In  the  Medi- 
terranean. 


All   this,  the  most   were  patient,  and   some 
bold. 
Until     the     chains    and    leathers     were    worn 
through 
Of    all   our   pumps: — a   wreck   complete   she 
rolled, 
At  mercy  of  the  waves,  whose  mercies  are 
Like  human  beings'   during  civil  war. 

43 

Then  came  the  carpenter,  at  last,  with  tears 
In  his  rough  eyes,  and  told  the  captain  he 

Could  do  no  more:    he  was  a  man  in  years, 
And    long    had    voyaged    through    many    a 
stormy  sea. 

And  if  he  wept  at  length,  they  were  not  fears 
That  made  his  eyelids  as  a  woman's  be. 

But  he,  poor  fellow,  had  a  wife  and  children, — 

Two  things  for  dying  people  quite  bewildering. 

44 

The  ship  was  evidently  settling  now 

Fast  by  the  head;    and,  all  distinction  gone, 
Some  went  to  prayers  again,  and  made  a  vow 
Of  candles   to   their  saints — but  there   were 
none 
To  pay  them  with;    and  some  looked  o'er  the 
bow; 
Some  hoisted  out  the  boats;    and  there  was 
one 
That  begged  Pedrillo  for  an  absolution. 
Who  told  him  to  be  damned — in  his  confusion. 

45 

Some  lashed  them  in  their  hammocks;    some 
put  on 

Their  best  clothes,  as  if  going  to  a  fair; 
Some  cursed  the  day  on  which  they  saw  the  Sun, 

And  gnashed  their  teeth,  and,  howling,  tore 
their  hair; 
And  others  went  on  as  they  had  begun. 

Getting  the  boats  out,  being  well  aware 
That  a  tight  boat  will  live  in  a  rough  sea. 
Unless  with  breakers  close  beneath  her  lee. 

46 

The  worst  of  all  was,  that  in  their  condition, 
Having  been  several  days  in  great  distress, 

'T  was  diflScult  to  get  out  such  provision 
As    now    might    render    their   long   suffering 
less: 

Men,  even  when  dying,  dislike  inanition; 
Their  stock  was  damaged  by  the  weather's 
stress : 

Two  casks  of  biscuit  and  a  keg  of  butter    ^ 

Were  all  that  could  be  thrown  into  the  cutter. 


LORD  BYEON 


465 


47 
But  in  the  long-boat  they  contrived  to  stow 
Some   pounds   of   bread,   though   injured   by 
the  wet; 
Water,  a  twenty-gallon  cask  or  so; 

Six  flasks  of  wine ;  and  they  contrived  to  get 
A  portion  of  their  beef  up  from  below. 

And  with  a  piece  of  pork,  moreover,  met. 
But     scarce     enough     to     serve     them     for     a 

luncheon — 
Then     there     was     rum,  eight     gallons     in     a 
puncheon. 

48 

The  other  boats,  the  yawl  and  pinnace,  had 

Been  stove  in  the  beginning  of  the  gale; 

And  the  long-boat's  condition  was  but  bad, 

As  there  were  but  two  blankets  for  a  sail, 

And  one  oar  for  a  mast,  which  a  young  lad 

Threw  in  by  good  luck  over  the  ship's  rail; 
And  two  boats  could  not  hold,  far  less  be  stored. 
To  save  one  half  the  people  then  on  board. 

49 
'T  was  twilight,  and  the  sunless  day  went  down 

Over  the  waste  of  waters;    like  a  veil, 
Which,   if   withdrawn,   would   but    disclose   the 
frown 
Of  one  whose  hate  is  masked  but  to  assail. 
Thus  to  their  hopeless  eyes  the  night  was  shown. 

And  grimly  darkled  o'er  the  faces  pale, 
And  the  dim  desolate  deep:    twelve  days  had 

Fear 
Been  their  familiar,  and  now  Death  was  here. 

50 
Some  trial  had  been  making  at  a  raft. 

With  little  hope  in  such  a  rolling  sea, 
A    sort    of    thing    at    which    one    would    have 
laughed 

If  any  laughter  at  such  times  could  be, 
Unless  with  people  who  too  much  have  quaffed, 

And  have  a  kind  of  wild  and  horrid  glee. 
Half  epUeptical,  and  half  hysterical: — 
Their  preservation  would  have  been  a  miracle. 

51 

At    half -past    eight   o'clock,    booms,   hencoops, 
spars, 
And  all  things,  for  a  chance,  had  been  cast 
loose 
That  still  could  keep  afloat  the  struggling  tars. 
For  yet  they  strove,  although  of  no  great  use : 
There  was  no  light  in  heaven  but  a  few  stars. 
The   boats    put    off   o'ererowded    with    their 
crews ; 
She  gave  a  heel,  and  then  a  lurch  to  port. 
And,  going  down  head-foremost — sunk,  in  short. 


52 
Then  rose  from  sea  to  sky  the  wild  farewell — 
Then  shrieked  the  timid,  and  stood  still  the 
brave — 
Then  some  leaped  overboard  with  dreadful  yell, 

As  eager  to  anticipate  their  grave; 
And  the  sea  yawned  around  her  like  a  hell, 
And  down  she  sucked  with  her  the  whirling 
wave. 
Like  one  who  grapples  with  his  enemy. 
And  strives  to  strangle  him  before  he  die. 

53 

And  first  one  universal  shriek  there  rushed, 
Louder  than  the  loud  ocean,  like  a  crash 

Of  echoing  thunder;    and  then  all  was  hushed. 
Save  the  wild  wind  and  the  remorseless  dash 

Of  billows;    but  at  intervals  there  gushed. 
Accompanied  with  a  convulsive  splash, 

A  solitary  shriek,  the  bubbling  cry 

Of  some  strong  swimmer  in  his  agony. 

The  Isles  of  Greece.    From  Canto  III* 

78 
And  now  they  were  diverted  by  their  suite. 
Dwarfs,  dancing  girls,  black  eunuchs,  and  a 
poet, 
Which  made  their  new  establishment  complete; 
The  last  was  of  great  fame,  and  Uked  to 
show  it ; 
His  verses  rarely  wanted  their  due  feet — 

And  for  his  theme — he  seldom  sung  below  it, 
He  being  paid  to  satirize  or  flatter, 
As  the  psalm  says,  "inditing  a  good  matter." 

79 

He  praised  the  present,  and  abused  the  past. 

Reversing  the  good  custom  of  old  days, 
An  Eastern  anti-jacobini  at  last 

He     turned,     preferring     pudding     to     no 
praise^ — 
For  some  few  years  his  lot  had  been  o'ercast 

By  his  seeming  independent  in  his  lays. 
But  now  he  sung  the  Sultan  and  the  Pacha 
With  truth  like  Southey,  and  with  verse  like 
Crashaw.3 

80 
He  was  a  man  who  had  seen  many  changes. 
And  always  changed  as  true  as  any  needle ; 
His  polar  star  being  one  which  rather  ranges, 

1  Antl-revolutlonary,  antidemocratic. 

2  See  Pope   The  Dunciad.  52. 

3  Southey,  as  poet  laureate,  flattered  royalty.     The 

name  of  Crashaw  serves  chiefly  for  a  rhyme. 
•  Juan  and  Haldee.  the  daughter  of  Lambro.  a  pi- 
rate, and  lord  of  one  of  the  Grecian  isles, 
hold  a  feast  In  Lambro's  halls  during  his 
absence. 


466 


THE  EOMANTIC  REVIVAL 


And    not    the    fixed — ^he    knew    the    way    to 
wheedle ; 
So  vile  he  'scaped  the  doom  which  oft  avenges; 
And   being  fluent    (save  indeed  when    fee'd 
ill), 
He  lied  with  such  a  fervour  of  intention — 
There   was    no    doubt    he   earned    his   laureate 
pension. 

85 
Thus,  usually,  when  he  was  asked  to  sing, 
He  gave  the  different  nations  something  na- 
tional ; 
'Twas   all    the   same  to   him — "God   save   the 
Ring," 
Or,  ' '  Ca  ira, '  '•*  according  to  the  fashion  all : 
His  Muse  made  increment  of  anything. 

From  the  high  lyric  down  to  the  low  rational ; 
If  Pindar^  sang  horse-races,  what  should  hinder 
Himself  from  being  as  pliable  as  Pindar. 

86 
In    France,    for    instance,    he    would    write    a 
chanson ; 
In  England  a  six  canto  quarto  tale; 
In  Spain  he'd  make  a  ballad  or  romance  on 

The  last  war — much  the  same  in  Portugal; 
In  Germany,  the  Pegasus  he'd  prance  on 
Would   be  old  Goethe's    (see  what   says  De 
Stael«)  ; 
In  Italy  he'd  ape  the  " Trecentisti ;  "^ 
In  Greece,  he'd  sing  some  sort  of  hymn  like 
this  t'  ye: 

The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace, — 

Where  Deloss  rose,  and  Phoebus  sprung! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet, 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set.  6 

The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse,» 
The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute, 

Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse: 
Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 


4  A  song  of  the  French 
revolutlon- 
Ists,  "It  will  suc- 
ceed." 

6  An  ancient  Greek 
poet  who  com- 
posed  songs  I  n 
nonor  of  the  vic- 
tors in  the  na- 
tional games,  for 
which  he  was 
doubtless  well  re- 
munerated. 

A  Madame  de  Rta^l  bad 
Germany. 


7  Writers    In    the    Ital- 

ian    style     of     the 
14th   century. 

8  T  h  e     birth-place     o  f 

Phoebus  Apollo. 
8  Homer  was  some- 
times said  to 
have  been  born  on 
the  isle  of  Chios 
(Italian  name, 
8c  I  o).  Anaoreon 
was  born  nt  Telos 
in  Asia  Minor, 
lately  written  a  book  on 


To  sounds  which  echo  further  west 

Than  your  sires'  "Islands  of  the  Blest. "lo     12 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon — 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea; 

And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  dreamed  that  Greece  might  still  be  free; 

For  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave, 

I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave.  18 

A  king  sate  on  the  rocky  brow 

Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis; 

And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below. 
And  men  in  nations; — all  were  his! 

He  counted  them  at  break  of  day — 

And  when  the  sun  set,  where  were  they?       24 

And  where  are  they?    and  where  art  thou, 
My  country?    On  thy  voiceless  shore 

The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now — 
The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more! 

And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine, 

Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine?  30 

'Tis  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame. 
Though  linked  among  a  fettered  race, 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame, 
Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face; 

F^or  what  is  left  the  poet  here? 

For  Greeks  a  blush — for  Greece  a  tear.         36 

Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blest? 

Must  we  but  blush? — Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth!    render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead! 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylse! 


42 


48 


What,  silent  still?    and  silent  all? 

Ah!   no; — the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall, 

And  answer,  "Let  one  living  head, 
But  one  arise, — we  come,  we  come!  " 
'Tis  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 

In  vain — in  vain:    strike  other  chords; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine! 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine! 
Hark!  rising  to  the  ignoble  call — 
How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanal! 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance"  as  yet; 

Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanxis  gone? 
Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 

The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one? 

10  The   fabled   Western    Isles,   lying  somewhere   In 

the  Atlantic. 

11  A  war-dance.  „.^.* 

12  The  Greek  phalanx  as  employed  by  the  great 

general.   Pyrrhus. 


64 


LORD  BYRON 


467 


78 


84 


You  have  the  letters  Cadmusia  gave — 

Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave?  60 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 

We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these! 
It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine; 

He  served — but  served  Polycratesi* — 
A  tyrant;    but  our  masters  then 
Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen.  66 

The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonesei^ 

Was  freedom 's  best  and  bravest  friend ; 

That  tyrant  was  Miltiades! 
Oh!  that  the  present  hour  would  lend 

Another   despot   of   the  kind! 

Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind.  72 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 

On  Suli's  rock,  and  Parga's  shore,  i6 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore; 
And  there,  perhaps,  some  seed  is  sown. 
The  HeracleidaniT  blood  might  own. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks — 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells; 

In  native  swords  and  native  ranks. 
The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells: 

But  Turkish  force,  and  Latin  fraud. 

Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade — 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine ; 

But  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 
My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves. 
To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves.        90 

Place  me  on  Sunium'sis  marbled  steep, 
Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 

May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep; 
There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die: 

A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine — 

Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine!  96 

87 

Thus  sung,  or  would,  or  could,  or  should  have 
sung. 
The  modern  Greek,  in  tolerable  verse ; 
If   not  like  Orpheus   quite,   when   Greece   was 
young, 
Yet  in  these  times  he  might  have  done  much 
worse : 


13  Cadmus  was  said  to  have  introduced  the  Greek 

alphabet  from  Phoenicia. 

14  Tyrant    (ruler)    of   Samos,   who  gave   refuge   to 

Anacreon. 

15  A  Thracian   peninsula. 

16  In   western   Greece. 

17  i.  e.,  ancient  Greek 

16  The  southernmost  promontory  of  Attica. 


His    strain    displayed    some    feeling — right    or 
wrong ; 
And  feeling,  in  a  poet,  is  the  source 
Of  others'  feeling;    but  they  are  such  liars. 
And  take  all  colours — like  the  hands  of  dyers.i!> 

88 
But  words  are  things,  and  a  small  drop  of  ink. 

Falling  like  dew,  upon  a  thought,  produces 
That  which  makes  thousands,  perhaps  millions, 
think ; 
'Tis  strange,  the  shortest  letter  which  man 
uses 
Instead  of  speech,  may  form  a  lasting  link 

Of  ages;  to  what  straits  old  Time  reduces 
Frail  man  when  paper — even  a  rag  like  this, 
Survives  himself,  his  tomb,  and  all  that's  his! 

101 
T'   our   tale. — The  feast  was  over,   the   slaves 
gone. 
The  dwarfs  and  dancing  girls  had  all  retired : 
The  Arab  lore  and  poet's  song  were  done, 

And  every  sound  of  revelry  expired; 
The  lady  and  her  lover,  left  alone, 

The  rosy  flood  of  twilight's  sky  admired; 
Ave  Maria!    o'er  the  earth  and  sea. 
That  heavenliest  hour  of  Heaven  is  worthiest 
thee! 

102 
Ave  Maria!    blessed  be  the  hour! 

The  time,  the  clime,  the  spot,  where  I  so  oft 
Have  felt  that  moment  in  its  fullest  power 

Sink  o'er  the  earth  so  beautiful  and  soft. 
While  swung  the  deep  bell  in  the  distant  tower, 

Or  the  faint  dying  day-hymn  stole  aloft, 
And  not  a  breath  crept  through  the  rosy  air. 
And  yet  the  forest  leaves  seemed  stirred  with 
prayer. 

103 
Ave  Maria !     't  is  the  hour  of  prayer ! 
Ave  Maria !     't  is  the  hour  of  love ! 
Ave  Maria!    may  our  spirits  dare 

Look  up  to  thine  and  to  thy  Son's  above! 
Ave  Maria!    oh  that  face  so  fair! 

Those  downcast  eyes  beneath  the  Almighty 
dove — 
What   though  't    is   but   a   pictured    image! — ■ 

strike — 
That  painting  is  no  idol, —  't  is  too  like. 

104 
Some  kinder  casuists  are  pleased  to  say. 

In  nameless  print — that  I  have  no  devotion; 
But  set  those  persons  down  with  me  to  pray, 

19  Shakespeare  :     Sonnet  111. 


468 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 


And   you    shall    see    who    has    the   properest 
notion 
Of  getting  into  heaven  the  shortest  way; 

My  altars  are  the  mountains  and  the  ocean, 
Earth,   air,    stars, — all   that   springs   from    the 

great  Whole, 
Who  hath  produced,  and  will  receive  the  soul. 

105 
Sweet  hour  of  twilight! — in  the  solitude 
Of  the  pine  forest,  and  the  silent  shore 
Which  bounds  Eavenna's  immemorial  wood, 
Eooted  where  once  the  Adrianso  wave  flowed 
o'er, 
To  where  the  last  Csesarean  fortress  stood. 

Evergreen  forest !    which  Boccaccio 's  lore 
And    Dryden's   lay   made    haunted    ground    to 

me,2i 
How  have  I  loved  the  twilight  hour  and  thee! 

106 
The  shrill  cicalas,  people  of  the  pine. 

Making  their  summer  lives  one  ceaseless  song. 
Were    the    sole    echoes,    save    my    steed's    and 
mine. 
And  vesper  bell 's  that  rose  the  boughs  along ; 
The  spectre  huntsman  of  Onesti's  line, 

His  hell-dogs,  and  their  chase,  and  the  fair 
throng 
Which  learned  from  this  example  not  to  fly 
From  a  true  lover, — shadowed  my  mind's  eye. 

107 
Oh,  Hesperus!    thou  bringest  all  good  things — 

Home  to  the  weary,  to  the  hungry  cheer, 
To  the  young  bird  the  parent 's  brooding  wings. 
The  welcome  stall  to  the  o'erlaboured  steer; 
Whate'er  of  peace  about  our  hearthstone  clings, 
Whate'er  our  household  gods  protect  of  dear. 
Are  gathered  round  us  by  thy  look  of  rest; 
Thou  bring 'st   the  child,   too,  to   the   mother's 
breast. 

108 
Soft  hour!     which   wakes   the  wish   and   melts 
the  heart 
Of  those  who  sail  the  seas,  on  the  first  day 
When  they  from  their  sweet  friends  are  torn 
apart ; 
Or  fills  with  love  the  pilgrim  on  his  way 
As  the  far  bell  of  vesper  makes  him  start, 
Seeming  to  weep  the  dying  day's  decay; 
Is  this  a  fancy  which  our  reason  scorns! 
Ah!       surely,     nothing     dies     but     something 
mourns! 

20  The  Adriatic. 

81  Dryden's  Theodore  and  Tonoria  Is  a  translation 
from  Boccaccio  of  the  tale  of  a  spectre  hunts- 
man who  haunted  this  region.  Hyron  lived 
for  some  time  at  Ravenna  and  frequently  rode 
la  the  adjoining  forest. 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 
(1792-1822) 

ALASTOR,  OR  THE  SPIRIT  OF  SOLITUDE* 

Nondum  amabam,  et  amare  amabam,  quaerebam 
quid  amarem,  amans  amare. t — Confes.  St.  August. 


The  poem  entitled  Alastor  may  be  considered  as 
allegorical  of  one  of  the  most  interesting  situations 
of  the  human  mind.  It  represents  a  youth  of  un- 
corrupted  feelings  and  adventurous  genius  led  forth 
by  an  imagination  inflamed  and  purified  through 
famUiarity  with  all  that  is  excellent  and  majestic, 
to  the  contemplation  of  the  universe.  He  drinks 
deep  of  the  fountains  of  knowledge,  and  is  still 
insatiate.  The  magnificence  and  beauty  of  the 
external  world  sinks  profoundly  into  the  frame  of 
his  conceptions,  and  affords  to  their  modifications 
a  variety  not  to  be  exhausted.  So  long  as  It  is 
possible  for  his  desires  to  point  towards  objects 
thus  infinite  and  unmeasured,  he  is  joyous,  and 
tranquil,  and  self-possessed.  But  the  period  arrives 
when  these  objects  cease  to  suffice.  His  mind  is 
at  length  suddenly  awakened  and  thirsts  for  inter- 
course with  an  intelligence  similar  to  itself.  He 
images  to  himself  the  Being  whom  he  loves.  Con- 
versant with  speculations  of  the  sublimest  and 
most  perfect  natures,  the  vision  in  which  he  em- 
bodies his  own  imaginations  unites  all  of  wonder- 
ful, or  wise,  or  beautiful,  which  the  poet,  the 
philosopher,  or  the  lover,  could  depicture.  The 
intellectual  faculties,  the  imagination,  the  func- 
tions of  sense,  have  their  respective  requisitions  on 
the  sympathy  of  corresponding  powers  in  other 
human  beings.  The  Poet  is  represented  as  uniting 
these  requisitions,  and  attaching  them  to  a  single 
image.  He  seeks  in  vain  for  a  prototype  of  his 
conception.  Blasted  by  his  disappointment,  he 
descends  to  an  untimely  grave. 

The  picture  is  not  barren  of  instruction  to 
actual  men.  The  Poet's  self-centred  seclusion  was 
avenged  by  the  furies  of  an  irresistible  passion 
pursuing  him  to  speedy  ruin.  But  that  Power 
which  strikes  the  luminaries  of  the  world  with 
sudden  darkness  and  extinction,  by  awakening 
them    to   too   exquisite    a   perception   of   its   influ- 

*  The  word  Alastor  means  "the  spirit  of  solitude," 
which  is  treated  here  as  a  spirit  of  evil,  or 
a  spirit  leading  to  disaster ;  It  must  not  be 
mistaken  for  the  name  of  the  hero  of  the 
poem.  In  the  introduction  (lines  1-49)  Shel- 
ley speaks  in  his  own  person  ;  but  the  I'oet 
whose  history  he  then  proceeds  to  relate  bears 
very  markedly  his  own  traits,  and  the  whole 
must  be  considered  as  largely  a  spiritual  au- 
tobiography. It  is  difficult  to  resist  calling 
attention  to  some  of  the  features  of  this 
impressive  poem ;  to  its  quiet  mastery  of 
theme  and  sustained  poetic  power ;  to  its 
blank-verse  harmonies  subtler  than  rhymes ; 
to  the  graphic  descriptions,  as  In  lines  239- 
369,  whence  Bryant,  Poe,  and  Tennyson  have 
manifestly  all  drawn  Inspiration  :  to  occa- 
sional lines  of  an  impelling  swiftness  (612, 
613),  or  occasional  phrases  of  startling 
strength  (676.  681)  ;  to  the  fervent  exalta- 
tion of  self-sacrifice  in  the  prayer  that  one 
life  might  answer  for  all.  and  the  pangs  of 
death  be  henceforth  banished  from  the  world 
(609-624)  ;  or  to  the  unapproachable  beauty 
of  the  description  of  slow-coming  death  Itself 
— a  euthanasia  In  which  life  passes  away  like 
a  strain  of  music  or  like  nn  "exhalation." 
There  can  be  no  higher  definition  of  poetry 
than    Is    Implicit    In    these    things. 

t  "Not  yet  did  I  love,  yet  I  yearned  to  love ;  I 
sought  what  I  might  love,  yearning  to  love." 
In  this  vain  pursuit  of  Ideal  loveliness,  said 
Mrs.  Shelley,  Is  the  deeper  meaning  of 
Alastor  to  be  found, 


PERCY  BY8SHE  SHELLEY 


469 


ences,  dooms  to  a  slow  and  poisonous  decay  those 
meaner  spirits  that  dare  to  abjure  its  dominion. 
Their  destiny  is  more  abject  and  inglorious  as 
their  delinquency  is  more  contemptible  and  per- 
nicious. They  who,  deluded  by  no  generous  error, 
instigated  by  no  sacred  thirst  of  doubtful  knowl- 
edge, duped  by  no  illustrious  superstition,  loving 
nothing  on  this  earth.  :ind  cherishing  no  hopes 
l)eyond,  vet  keep  aloof  from  sympathies  with  their 
kind,  rejoicing  neither  in  human  joy  nor  mourning 
with  human  grief ;  these,  and  such  as  they,  have 
their  apportioned  curse.  They  languish,  because 
none  feel  with  them  their  common  nature.  They 
are  morally  dead.  They  are  neither  friends,  nor 
lovers,  nor  fathers,  nor  citizens  of  the  world,  nor 
benefactors  of  their  country.  Among  those  who 
attempt  to  exist  without  human  sympathy,  the 
pure  and  tender-hearted  perish  through  the  in- 
tensity and  passion  of  their  search  after  Its  com- 
munities, when  the  vacancy  of  their  spirit  sud- 
denly makes  itself  felt.  All  else,  selfish,  blind, 
and  torpid,  are  those  unforeseelng  multitudes  who 
constitute,  together  with  their  own.  the  lasting 
misery  and  loneliness  of  the  world.  Those  who 
love  hot  their  fellow-beings  live  unfruitful  lives, 
and  prepare  for  their  old  age  a  miserable  grave. 

"The  good  die  first, 
.\nd  those  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust. 
Burn   to   the   .socket !" 
December  l-i.  I8I0. 

Earth,  ocean,  air,  beloved  brotherhood! 
If  our  great  Mother  has  imbued  my  soul 
With  aught  of  natural  pietyi  to  feel 
Your  love,  and  recompense  the  boon  with  mine ; 
If  dewy  morn,  and  odorous  noon,  and  even, 
With  sunset  and  its  gorgeous  ministers, 
And  solemn  midnight's  tingling  silentness; 
If  autumn's  hollow  sighs  in  the  sere  wood, 
.\nd  winter  robing  with  pure  snow  and  crowns 
Of  starry  ice  the  gray  grass  and  bare  boughs; 
If     spring's    voluptuous    pantings     when     she 
breathes  il 

Her  first  sweet  kisses, — have  been  dear  to  me ; 
If  no  bright  bird,  insect,  or  gentle  beast 
I  consciously  have  injured,  but  still  loved 
.\nd  cherished  these  my  kindred;    then  forgive 
This  boast,  beloved  brethren,  and  withdraw 
No  portion  of  your  wonted  favour  now  I 

Mother  of  this  unfathomable  world! 
Favour  my  solemn  song,  for  I  have  loved 
Thee  ever,  and  thee  only:    I  have  watched       20 
Thy  shadow,  and  the  darkness  of  thy  steps. 
And  my  heart  ever  gazes  on  the  depth 
Of  thy  deep  mysteries.     I  have  made  my  bed 
In  eharnels  and  on  coffins,^  where  black  death 
Keeps  record  of  the  trophies  won  from  thee. 
Hoping  to  still  these  obstinate  questioningss 
Of  thee  and  thine,  by  forcing  some  lone  ghost. 
Thy  messenger,  to  render  up  the  tale 
Of  what  we  are.     In  lone  and  silent  hours. 
When  night  makes  a  weird  sound  of  its  own 
stillness,  30 

1  Wordsworth's   phrase :   see  his  .l/y  Heart  Leaps 

Up.  p.  422. 
-  According    to    Hogg.    Shellev    hail    actuallv    done 

this. 
3  Wordsworth's  Ode  on  ImmnrtnJiiy,  line  142. 


Like  an  inspired  and  desperate  alchemist 
Staking  his  very  life  on  some  dark  hope. 
Have  I  mixed  awful  talk  and  asking  looks 
With    my    most    innocent    love,    until    strange 

tears 
Uniting  with   those  breathless  kisses,  made 
Such  magic  as  compels  the  charmed  night 
To  render  up  thy  charge:    and,  though  ne'er 

yet 
Thou  hast  unveiled  thy  inmost  sanctuary. 
Enough  from  incommunicable  dream. 
And    twilight    phantasms,    and    deep    noonday 

thought,  40 

Has  shone  within  me,  that  serenely  now 
And  moveless,  as  a  long-forgotten  lyre 
Suspended  in  the  solitary  dome 
Of  some  mysterious  and  deserted  fane, 
I    wait    thy    breath,    Great    Parent,    that    my 

strain 
May  modulate  with  murmurs  of  the  air, 
.\nd  motions  of  the  forests  and  the  sea, 
And  voice  of  living  beings,  aud  woven  hymns 
Of  night  and  day,  and  the  deep  heart  of  man. 

There  was  a  Poet  whose  untimely  tomb       50 
Xo  human  hands  with  pious  reverence  reared, 
But  the  charmed  eddies  of  autumnal  winds 
Built  o'er  his  mouldering  bones  a  pyramid 
Of  mouldering  leaves  in  the  waste  wilderness: — 
A  lovely  youth, — no  mourning  maiden  decked 
With  weeping  flowers,  or  votive  cypress  wreath. 
The  lone  couch  of  his  everlasting  sleep: — 
Gentle,  and  brave,  and  generous, — no  lorn  bard 
Breathed  0  'er  his  dark  fate  one  melodious  sigh : 
He  lived,  he  died,  he  sung,  in  solitude.  60 

Strangers    have    wept    to    hear    his    passionate 

notes, 
.\nd  virgins,  as  unknown  he  passed,  have  pined 
.\nd  wasted  for  fond  love  of  his  wild  eyes. 
The  fire  of  those  soft  orbs  has  ceased  to  burn. 
And  Silence,  too  enamoured  of  that  voice. 
Locks  its  mute  music  in  her  rugged  cell. 

By  solemn  vision,  and  bright  silver  dream. 
His  infancy  was  nurtured.   Every  sight 
And  sound  from  the  vast  earth  and  ambient  air 
Sent  to  his  heart  its  choicest  impulses.  70 

The   fountains  of  divine  philosophy 
Fled  not  his  thirsting  lips,  and  all  of  great. 
Or  good,  or  lovely,  which  the  sacred  past 
In  truth  or  fable  consecrates,  he  felt 
And  knew.     When  early  youth  had  passed,  he 

left 
His  cold  fireside  and  alienated  home 
To  seek  strange  truths  in  undiscovered  lands. 
Many  a  wide  waste  and  tangled  wilderness 
Has  lured  his  fearless  steps;    and  he  has  bought 


170 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 


With    his   sweet   voice    and   eyes,    from   savage 
men,  80 

His  rest  and  food.     Nature's  most  secret  steps 
He  like  her  shadow  has  pursued,  where'er 
The  red  volcano  overcanopies 
Its  fields  of  snow  and  pinnacles  of  ice 
With  burning  smoke,  or  where  bitumen  lakes 
On  black  bare  pointed  islets  ever  beat 
With  sluggish  surge,  or  where  the  secret  caves 
Rugged  and  dark,  winding  among  the  springs 
Of  fire  and  poison,  inaccessible 
To  avarice  or  pride,  their  starry  domes  9^ 

Of  diamond  and  of  gold  expand  above 
Numberless  and  immeasurable  halls. 
Frequent  with  crystal  column,  and  clear  shrines 
Of  pearl,  and  thrones  radiant  with  chrysolite. 
Nor  had  that  scene  of  ampler  majesty 
Than  gems  or  gold,  the  varying  roof  of  heaven 
And  the  green  earth,  lost  in  his  heart  its  claims 
To  love  and  wonder;  he  would  linger  long 
In  lonesome  vales,  making  the  wild  his  home, 
Until  the  doves  and  squirrels  would  partake    100 
From  his  innocuous  hand  his  bloodless  food, 
Lured  by  the  gentle  meaning  of  his  looks, 
And  the  wild  antelope,  that  starts  whene  'er 
The  dry  leaf  rustles  in  the  brake,  suspend 
Her  timid  steps  to  gaze  upon  a  form 
More  graceful  than  her  own. 

His  wandering  step. 
Obedient  to  high  thoughts,  has  visited 
The  awful  ruins  of  the  days  of  old: 
Athens,  and  Tyre,  and  Balbec,  and  the  waste 
Where  stood  Jerusalem,  the  fallen  towers        HO 
Of  Babylon,  the  eternal  pyramids. 
Memphis  and  Thebes,  and  whatsoe  'er  of  strange 
Sculptured  on  alabaster  obelisk. 
Or  jasper  tomb,  or  mutilated  sphinx. 
Dark  ^Ethiopia  in  her  desert  hills 
Conceals.    Among  the  ruined  temples  there. 
Stupendous  columns,  and  wild  images 
Of  more  than  man,  where  marble  demons  watch 
The  Zodiac  's  brazen  mystery,i  and  dead  men 
Hang  their  mute  thoughts   on  the  mute  walls 

around,  120 

He  lingered,  poring  on  memorials 
Of  the  world 's  youth,  through  the  long  burning 

day 
Tiazed  on  those  speechless  shapes,  nor.  when  the 

moon 
Filled  the  mysterious  halls  witli  floating  shades 
Suspended  he  that  task,  but  ever  gazed 
And  gazed,  till  meaning  on  his  vacant  mind 
Flashed  like  strong  inspiration,  and  he  saw 
The  thrilling  secrets  of  the  birth  of  time. 

I  FlcnrcH   on   the    temple    of   Dendcrah    In   Tpper 
Ksypt. 


Meanwhile  an  Arab  maiden  brouglit  his  food. 
Her  daily  portion,  from  her  father  's  tent,       130 
And  spread  her  matting  for  his  couch,  and  stole 
From  duties  and  repose  to  tend  his  steps: — 
Enamoured,  yet  not  daring  for  deep  awe 
To   speak  her  love: — and   watched  his  nightly 

sleep. 
Sleepless  herself,  to  gaze  upon  his  lips 
Parted  in  slumber,  whence  the  regular  breath 
Of  innocent  dreams  arose:   then,  when  red  morn 
Made  paler  the  jiale  moon,  to  her  cold  home 
Wildered,  and  wan,  and  panting,  she  returned. 

The  Poet  wandering  on,  through  Arable      i-*" 
And  Persia,  and  the  wild  Carmanian  ■waste,2 
And  o'er  the  aerial  mountains  Avhich  pour  down 
Indus  and  Oxus  from  their  icy  caves, 
In  joy  and  exultation  held  his  way; 
Till  in  the  vale  of  Cashmire.s  far  within 
Its  loneliest  dell,  where  odorous  plants  entwine 
Beneath  the  hollow  rocks  a  natural  bower. 
Beside  a  sparkling  rivulet  he  stretched 
His  languid  limbs.     A  vision  on  his  sleep         14!' 
There  came,  a  dream  of  hopes  that  never  yet 
Had  flusiied  his  cheek.     He  dreamed  a  veiled 

maid 
Sate  near  him,  talking  in  low  solemn  tones. 
Her  voice  Avas  like  the  voice  of  his  own  soul 
Heard  in  the  calm  of  thought ;  its  music  long. 
Like  woven  sounds  of  streams  and  breezes,  hehl 
His  inmost  sense  suspended  in  its  web 
Of  many-coloured  woof  and  shifting  hues. 
Knowledge  and  truth  and  virtue  were  her  theme. 
And  lofty  hopes  of  divine  liberty, 
Thoughts  the  most  dear  to  him,  and  poesy,     160 
Herself  a  poet.    Soon  the  solemn  mood 
Of  her  pure  mind  kindled  through  all  her  frame 
A  permeating  fire:   wild  numbers  then 
She  raised,  with  voice  stifled  in  tremulous  sobs 
Subdued  by  its  own  pathos:  her  fair  hands 
Were  bare  alone,  sweeping  from  some  strange 

harp 
Strange  symphony,  and  in  their  branching  veins 
The  eloquent  blood  told  an  ineffable  tale. 
The  beating  of  her  heart  was  heard  to  fill 
The  pauses  of  her  music,  and  her  breath        1^'* 
Tumultuously  accorded  with  those  fits 
Of  intermitted  song.    Sudden  she  rose. 
As  if  her  heart  impatiently  endured 
Its  bursting  burthen :   at  the  sound  he  turned, 
.\nd  saw  by  the  warm  light  of  their  own  life 
Her  glowing  limbs  beneath  the  sinuous  veil 
Of  woven  wind,  her  outspread  arms  now  bare, 
Her  dark  locks  floating  in  the  breath  of  night. 
Her  beamy  bending  eyes,  lier  parted  lips        no 

2  Tho  desert  of  Klrman,  Persia. 

3  In  contrnl  Asia  :  poetlcnllj-  rppnrded  ns  an  (mrtlily 

paradlso. 


PERCY  BY8SHE  SHELLEY 


471 


Outstretched,  and  pale,  and  quivering  eagerly. 
His  strong  heart  sunk  and  sickened  with  excess 
Of  love.     He  reared  his  shuddering  limbs  and 

quelled 
His  gasping  breath,  and  spread  his  arms  to  meet 
Her  panting  bosom: — she  drew  back  a  while, 
Then,  yielding  to  the  irresistible  joy, 
With  frantic  gesture  and  short  breathless  cry 
Folded  his  frame  in  her  dissolving  arms. 
Now  blackness  veiled  his  dizzy  eyes,  and  night 
Involved  and  swallowed  up  the  vision ;  sleep, 
Like  a  dark  flood  suspended  in  its  course,       190 
Rolled  back  its  impulse  on  his  vacant  brain. 

Roused    by    the    shock    he    started    from    his 

trance — 
The  cold  white  light  of  morning,  the  blue  moon 
Low  in  the  west,  the  clear  and  garish  hills, 
The  distinct  valley  and  the  vacant  woods, 
Spread  round  him  where  he  stood.  Whither  have 

fled 
The  hues  of  heaven  that  canopied  his  bower 
Of  yesternight  f     The  sounds  that  soothed  his 

sleep. 
The  mystery  and  the  majesty  of  Earth, 
The  joy,  the  exultation  ?    His  wan  eyes  200 

Gazed  on  the  empty  scene  as  vacantly 
As  ocean's  moon  looks  on  the  moon  in  heaven. 
The  spirit  of  sweet  human  love  has  sent 
A  vision  to  the  sleep  of  him  who  spurned 
Her  choicest  gifts.    He  eagerly  pursues 
Beyond  the  realms  of  dream  that  fleeting  shade ; 
He  overleaps  the  bounds.    Alas!  alas! 
Were  limbs,  and  breath,  and  being  intertwined 
Thus  treacherously?    Lost,  lost,  for  ever  lost, 
In  the  wide  pathless  desert  of  dim  sleep.        210 
That  beautiful  shape!     Does  the  dark  gate  of 

death 
Conduct  to  thy  mysterious  paradise. 
O    Sleep!     Does   the   bright   arch   of    rainbow 

clouds, 
And  pendent  mountains  seen  in  the  calm  lake, 
Lead  only  to  a  black  and  watery  depth. 
While  death 's  blue  vault,  with  loathliest  vapours 

hung. 
Where  every  shade  which  the  foul  grave  exhales 
Hides  its  dead  eye  from  the  detested  day. 
Conducts,  O  Sleep,  to  thy  delightful  realms! 
This    doubt    with    sudden    tide    flowed    on    his 

heart ;  220 

The  insatiate  hope  which  it  awakened  stung 
His  brain  even  like  despair. 

While  daylight  held 
The  sky,  the  Poet  kept  mute  conference 
With  his  still  soul.     At  night  the  passion  came, 
Like  the  fierce  fiend  of  a  distempered  dream. 
And  shook  him  from  his  rest,  and  led  him  forth 


Into  the  darkness. — As  an  eagle,  grasped 
In  folds  of  the  green  serpent,  feels  her  breast 
Burn  with  the  poison,  and  precipitates 
Through  night  and  day,  tempest,  and  calm,  and 
cloud,  230 

Frantic  with  dizzying  anguish,  her  blind  flight 

0  'er  the  wide  aery  wilderness :  thus  driven 
By  the  bright  shadow  of  that  lovely  dream. 
Beneath  the  cold  glare  of  the  desolate  night. 
Through  tangled  swamps  and  deep  precipitous 

dells. 
Startling  with  careless  step  the  moonlight  snake. 
He  fled.    Red  morning  dawned  upon  his  flight, 
Sheddiug  the  mockery  of  its  vital  hues 
Upon  his  cheek  of  death.    He  wandered  on 
Till  vast  Aornosi  seen  from  Petra's  steep,    240 
Hung  o  'er  the  low  horizon  like  a  cloud ; 
Through  Balk,  and  where  the  desolated  tombs 
Of  Parthian  kings  scatter  to  every  mnd 
Their  wasting  dust,  wildly  he  wandered  on, 
Day  after  day,  a  weary  waste  of  hours. 
Bearing  within  his  life  the  brooding  care 
That  ever  fed  on  its  decaying  flame. 
And  now  his  limbs  were  lean ;  his  scattered  hair 
Seretl  by  the  autumn  of  strange  suflfering 
Sung  dirges  in  the  wind:  his  listless  hand       250 
Hung  like  dead  bone  within  its  withered  skin ; 
Life,  and  the  lustre  that  consumed  it,  shone 
As  in  a  furnace  burning  secretly 
From  his  dark  eyes  alone.    The  cottagers. 
Who  ministered  with  human  charity 
His  human  wants,  beheld  with  wondering  awe 
Their  fleeting  visitant.    The  mountaineer, 
Encountering  on  some  dizzy  precipice 
That  spectral  form,  deemed  that  the  Spirit  of 

wind  259 

With  lightning  eyes,  and  eager  breath,  and  feet 
Disturbing  not  the  drifted  snow,  had  paused 
In  its  career:  the  infant  would  conceal 
His  troubled  visage  in  his  mother's  robe 
In  terror  at  the  glare  of  those  wild  eyes. 
To   remember   their   strange   light   in   many   a 

dream 
Of  after-times;  but  youthful  maidens,  taught 
By  nature,  would  interpret  half  the  woe 
That   wasted   him,    would   call   him   with    false 

names 
Brother,  and  friend,  would  press  his  pallid  haml 
At  parting,  and  watch,  dim  through  tears,  the 

path  270 

Of  his  departure  from  their  father's  door. 

At  length  upon  .the  lone  Chorasmian  shorez 
He  paused,  a  wide  and  melancholy  waste 
Of  putrid  marshes.    A  strong  impulse  urged 

1  Aornos  was  a  city  in  Ba<Ttrla  (Balk). 

-•  The  Aral    Sea :    apparently    meant    for   the    Cas- 
pian  (Woodberry). 


472 


THE  BOMANTIC  REVIVAL 


His  steps  to  the  sea-shore.    A  swan  was  there, 

Beside  a  sluggish  stream  among  the  reeds. 

It  rose  as  he  approached,  and  with  strong  wings 

Scaling  the  upward  sky,  bent  its  bright  course 

High  over  the  immeasurable  main. 

His    eyes    pursued    its    flight. — "Thou    hast    a 

home,  280 

Beautiful  bird;  thou  voyagest  to  thine  home. 
Where  thy  sweet  mate   will   twine  her   downy 

neck 
With  thine,  and  welcome  thy  return  with  eyes 
Bright  in  the  lustre  of  their  own  fond  joy. 
And  what  am  I  that  I  should  linger  here, 
With  voice  far  sweeter  than  thy  dying  notes, 
Spirit  more  vast  than  thine,  frame  more  attuned 
To  beauty,  wasting  these  surpassing  powers 
In  the  deaf  air,  to  the  blind  earth,  and  heaven 
That    echoes    not    my    thoughts?"      A    gloomy 

smile  290 

Of  desperate  hope  wrinkled  his  quivering  lips. 
For  sleep,  he  knew,  kept  most  relentlessly 
Its  precious  charge,  and  silent  death  exposed, 
Faithless  perhaps  as  sleep,  a  shadowy  lure, 
W'ith  doubtful  smile  mocking  its  own  strange 

charms. 

Startled  by  his  own  thoughts  he  looked  around. 
There  was  no  fair  fiend  near  him,  not  a  sight 
Or  sound  of  awe  but  in  his  own  deep  mind. 
A  little  shallop  floating  near  the  shore 
Caught  the  impatient  wandering  of  his  gaze. 
It  had  been  long  abandoned,  for  its  sides        301 
Oaped  wide  with  many  a  rift,  and  its  frail  joints 
Swayed  with  the  undulations  of  the  tide. 
A  restless  impulse  urged  him  to  embark 
And    meet    lone    Death    on    the    drear    ocean's 

waste ; 
For  well  he  knew  that  mighty  Shadow  loves 
The  slimy  caverns  of  the  populous  deep. 

The  day  was  fair  and  sunny,  sea  and  sky 
Drank  its  inspiring  radiance,  and  the  wind 
Swept  strongly  from  the  shore,  blackening  the 
waves.  310 

Following  his  eager  soul,  the  wanderer 
Leaped  in  the  boat,  he  spread  his  cloak  aloft 
On  the  bare  mast,  and  took  his  lonely  seat. 
And  felt  the  boat  speed  o'er  the  tranquil  sea 
Like  a  torn  cloud  before  the  hurricane. 

As  one  that  in  a  silver  vision  floats 
Obedient  to  the  sweep  of  odo/ous  winds 
Upon  resplendent  clouds,  so  rapidly 
Along  the  dark  and  ruffled  waters  fled 
The  straining  boat. — A  whirlwind  swept  it  on. 
With  fierce  gusts  and  precipitating  force,       321 
Through  the  white  ridges  of  the  chafM  sea. 


The  waves  arose.     Higher  and  higher  still 
Their  fierce  necks  writhed  beneath  the  tempest 's 

scourge 
Like  serpents  struggling  in  a  vulture's  grasp. 
Calm  and  rejoicing  in  the  fearful  war 
Of  wave  ruining  on  wave,  and  blast  on  blast 
Descending,  and  black  flood  on  whirlpool  driven 
With  dark  obliterating  course,  he  sate: 
As  if  their  genii  were  tlie  ministers  330 

Appointed  to  conduct  him  to  the  light 
Of  those  beloved  eyes,  the  Poet  sate 
Holding  the  steady  helm.    Evening  came  on, 
The  beams  of  sunset  hung  their  rainbow  hues 
High  'mid  the  shifting  domes  of  sheeted  spray 
That  canopied  his  path  o  'er  the  waste  deep ; 
Twilight,  ascending  slowly  from  the  east, 
P^ntwined  in  duskier  wreaths  her  braided  locks 
O'er  the  fair  front  and  radiant  eyes  of  day; 
Night  followed,  clad  with  stars.     On  every  side 
More  horribly  the  multitudinous  streams         341 
Of  ocean 's  mountainous  waste  to  mutual  war 
Rushed  in  dark  tumult  thundering,  as  to  mock 
The  calm  and  spangled  sky.    The  little  boat 
Still  fled  before  the  storm;  still  fled,  like  foam 
Down  the  steep  cataract  of  a  wintry  river; 
Now  pausing  on  the  edge  of  the  riven  wave; 
Now  leaving  far  behind  the  bursting  mass 
That  fell,  convulsing  ocean.    Safely  fled — 
As  if  that  frail  and  wasted  human  form,        350 
Had  been  an  elemental  god. 

At  midnight 
The  moon  arose :  and  lo !   the  ethereal  cliffs 
Of  Caucasus,  whose  icy  summits  shone 
Among  the  stars  like  sunlight,  and  around 
Whose   caverned   base   the   whirlpools   and    the 

waves 
Bursting  and  eddying  irresistibly 
Rage  and  resound  for  ever. — Who  shall  save? — 
The  boat  fled  on, — the  boiling  torrent  drove, — 
The  crags  closed  round  with  black  and  jagged 

arms. 
The  shattereil  mountains  overhung  the  sea,     360 
-\nd  faster  still,  beyond  all  human  speed. 
Suspended  on  the  sweep  of  the  smooth  wave. 
The  little  boat  was  driven.    A  cavern  there 
Yawned,  and  amid  its  slant  and  winding  depths 
Ingulfed  the  rushing  sea.     The  boat  fled  on 
With  unrelaxing  speed. — "Vision  and  Love! '' 
The  Poet  cried  aloud,  ' '  I  have  beheld 
The  path  of  thy  departure.    Sleep  and  death 
Shall  not  divide  us  long ! '  * 

The  boat  pursued 
The  windings  of  the  cavern.    Daylight  shone 
At  length  upon  that  gloomy  river's  flow;        371 
Now,  where  the  fiercest  war  among  the  waves 
Is  calm,  on  the  unfathomable  stream 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY" 


473 


The  boat  moved  slowly.     Where  the  mountain, 

riven, 
Exposed  those  black  depths  to  the  azure  sky. 
Ere  yet  the  flood 's  enormous  volume  fell 
Even  to  the  base  of  Caucasus,  with  sound 
That  shook  the  everlasting  rocks,  the  mass 
Filled  with  one  whirlpool  all  that  ample  chasm; 
Stair  above  stair  the  eddying  water  rose,         380 
Circling  immeasurably  fast,  and  laved 
With  alternating  dash  the  gnarled  roots 
Of  mighty  trees,  that  stretched  their  giant  arms 
In  darkness  over  it.     I '  the  midst  was  left, 
Reflecting,  yet  distorting  every  cloud, 
A  jK»ol  of  treacherous  and  tremendous  calm. 
Seizeil  by  the  sway  of  the  ascending  stream. 
With   dizzy   swiftness,   round,    and   round,   and 

round, 
Ridge  after  ridge  the  straining  boat  arose. 
Till  on  the  verge  of  the  extremest  curve,  390 

AVhere,  through  an  opening  of  the  rocky  bank. 
The  waters  overflow,  and  a  smooth  sjxit 
Of  glassy  quiet  mid  those  battling  tides 
Is  left,   the  boat   paused  shuddering. — Shall  it 

sink 
Down  the  abyss?    Shall  the  reverting  stress 
Of  that  resistless  gulf  embosom  it  ? 
Now  shall  it  fall? — A  wandering  stream  of  wind. 
Breathed    from    the   west,    has   caught    the    ex- 
panded sail. 
And,  lo!   with  gentle  motion,  between  banks 
Of  mossy  slope,  and  on  a  placid  stream.  400 

Beneath  a  woven  grove  it  sails,  and  hark! 
The  ghastly  torrent  mingles  its  far  roar 
With    the    breeze    murmuring    in    the    musical 

woods. 
Where  the  embowering  trees  recede,  and  leave 
A  little  space  of  green  expanse,  the  cove 
Is  close<l  by  meeting  banks,  whose  yellow  flowers 
For  ever  gaze  on  their  own  drooping  eyes. 
Reflected  ir  the  crystal  calm.    The  wave 
Of  the  boat 's  motion  marred  their  pensive  task. 
Which    nought    but    vagrant    bird,    or    wanton 

wind,  410 

Or  falling  sj^ear-grass,  or  their  own  decay 
Had  e'er  disturbed  before.     The  Poet  longed 
To  deck  with  their  bright  hues  his  withered  hair. 
But  on  his  heart  its  solitude  returned. 
And  he  forebore.    Not  the  strong  impulse  hid 
In  those  flushed  cheeks,  bent  eyes,  and  shadowy 

frame 
Had  yet  performed  its  ministry:   it  hung 
Upon  his  life,  as  lightning  in  a  cloud 
Gleams,  hovering  ere  it  vanish,  ere  the  floods 
Of  night  close  over  it. 

The  noonday  sun       420 
Now  shone  upon  the  forest,  one  vast  mass 
Of  mingling  shade,  whnse  brown  magnificence 


A  narrow  vale  embosoms.    There,  huge  caves. 
Scooped  in  the  dark  base  of  their  aery  rocks. 
Mocking  its  moans,  respond  and  roar  for  ever. 
The  meeting  boughs  and  implicated  leaves 
Wove  twilight  o'er  the  Poet's  path,  as  led 
By  love,  or  dream,  or  god,  or  mightier  Death. 
He  sought  in  Nature's  dearest  haunt  some  bank. 
Her  cradle,  and  his  sepulchre.     More  dark      4.'!0 
And  dark  the  shades  accumulate.    The  oak. 
Expanding  its  immense  and  knotty  arms. 
Embraces  the  light  beech.     The  pyramids 
Of  the  tall  cedar  overarching  frame 
Most  solemn  domes  within,  and  far  below. 
Like  clouds  suspended  in  an  emerald  sky. 
The  ash  and  the  acacia  floating  hang 
Tremulous    and    pale.      Like    restless    serpents, 

clothed 
In  rainbow  and  in  fire,  the  parasites. 
Starred  with  ten  thousand  blossoms,  flow  around 
The   gray   trunks,   and,    as   gamesome    infants' 

eyes,  441 

With  gentle  meanings,  and  most  innocent  wiles. 
Fold  their  beams  round  the  hearts  of  those  that 

love. 
These    twine    their    tendrils    with    the    wedded 

boughs 
Uniting  their  close  union;   the  woven  leaves 
Make  network  of  the  dark  blue  light  of  day. 
And  the  night's  noontide  clearness,  mutable 
As   shapes   in   the   weird   clouds.     Soft   mossy 

lawns 
Beneath  these  canopies  extend  their  swells. 
Fragrant  with  perfumed  herbs,  and  eyed  with 

blooms  450 

Minute  yet  beautifuL    One  darkest  glen 
Sends  from  its  woods  of  musk-rose,  twined  with 

jasmine, 
A  soul-dissolving  odour,  to  invite 
To  some  more  lovely  mystery.    Through  the  dell, 
Silence  and  Twilight  here,  twin-sisters,  keep 
Their  noonday  watch,  and  sail  among  the  shades. 
Like  vaporous  shaj^es  half  seen;  beyond,  a  well. 
Dark,  gleaming,  and  of  most  translucent  wave, 
Images  all  the  woven  boughs  above. 
And  each  depending  leaf,  and  every  speck       460 
Of  azure  sky.  darting  between  their  chasms ; 
Nor  aught  else  in  the  liquid  mirror  laves 
Its  portraiture,  but  some  inconstant  star 
Between  one  foliaged  lattice  twinkling  fair. 
Or  painted  bird,  sleeping  beneath  the  moon, 
Or  gorgeous  insect  floating  motionless. 
Unconscious  of  the  day,  ere  yet  his  wings 
Have  spread  their  glories  to  the  gaze  of  noon. 

Hither  the  Poet  came.    His  eyes  beheld      469 
Their  own  wan  light  through  the  reflected  lines 
Of  his  thin  hair,  distinct  in  the  dark  depth 
Of  that  still  fountain:   as  the  human  heart. 


414 


THE  KOMANTIO  REVIVAL 


Gazing  in  dreaiiis  over  the  gloomy  grave, 

Sees   its   own    trcacberous   likeness    there.      He 

heard 
The  motion  of  the  leaves,  the  grass  that  sprung 
Startled  and  glanced  and  trembled  even  to  feel 
An  unaecu8tome<l  presence,  and  the  sound 
Of  the  sweet  brook  that  from  the  secret  springs 
Of  that  dark  fountain  rose.     A  Spirit  seemed 
To  stand  beside  him — clothed  in  no  bright  robes 
Of  shadowy  silver  or  enshrining  light,  4S1 

Borrowed  from  aught  the  visible  world  affords 
Of  grace,  or  majesty,  or  mystery; — 
But  unilulating  woods,  and  silent  well, 
And  leaping  rivulet,  and  evening  gloom 
Now    deepening    the    dark    shades,    for    speech 

assuming, 
Held  commune  with  him,  as  if  he  and  it 
Were  all  that  was ;  only — when  his  regard 
Was  raised  by  intense  pensiveness — two  eyes,   489 
Two  starry  eyes,  hung  in  the  gloom  of  thought. 
And  seemed  Avith  their  serene  and  azure  smiles 
To  beckon  him. 

Obedient  to  the  light 
That  shone  within  his  soul,  he  went,  pursuing 
The  windings  of  the  dell. — The  rivulet 
Wanton  and  wild,  through  many  a  green  ravine 
Beneath  the  forest  flowed.    Sometimes  it  fell 
.\mong  the  moss  with  hollow  harmony 
Dark  and  profound.   Now  on  the  polished  stones 
It  danced,  like  childhood  laughing  as  it  went : 
Then  through  the  plain  in  tranquil  wanderings 

crept,  500 

Reflecting  every  herb  and  drooping  bud 
That  overhung  its  quietness. — "O  stream! 
Whose  source  is  inaccessibly  profound. 
Whither  do  thy  mysterious  waters  tend? 
Tliou  imagest  my  life.     Thy  darksome  stillness. 
Thy  dazzling  waves,  thy  loud  and  hollow  gulfs. 
Thy  searchless  fountain,  and  invisible  course 
Have  each  their  type  in  me:   and  the  wide  sky. 
And  measureless  ocean  may  declare  as  soon 
What  oozy  cavern  or  what  wandering  cloud     510 
Contains  thy  waters,  as  the  universe 
Tell  where  these  living  thoughts  reside,  when 

stretched 
Upon  thy  flowers  my  bloodless  limbs  shall  waste 
I '  the  passing  wind ! ' ' 

Beside  the  grassy  shore 
Of  the  small  stream  he  went ;  he  dicl  impress 
On    the    green    moss    his    tremulous   step,    that 

caught 
Strong  shuddering  from  his  burning  limbs.     As 

one 
Rouse<l  by  some  joyouH  madness  from  the  eonch 
(^f  fever,  he  <lid  move;  yet  not  like  him 
Forgetful  of  the  grave,  where,  when  the  flame 


Of  his  frail  exultation  shall  be  spent,  521 

He  must  descend.    With  rapid  steps  he  went 
Beneath  the  shade  of  trees,  beside  the  flow 
Of  the  Mild  babbling  rivulet;   and  now 
The  forest's  solemn  canoj)ies  were  changed 
For  the  uniform  and  lightsome  evening  sky. 
Gray  rocks  did  peep  from  the  spare  moss,  and 

stemmed 
The  struggling  brook:  tall  spires  of  windlestraei 
Threw  their  thin  shadows  down  the  rugged  slope. 
And  nought  but  gnarled  roots  of  ancient  pines 
Branchless  and  blasted,  clenched  with  grasping 

roots  531 

The  unwilling  soil.    A  gradual  change  was  here, 
Yet  ghastly.     For,  as  fast  years  flow  away. 
The  smooth  brow  gathers,  and  the  hair  grows 

thin 
And  white,  and  where  irradiate  dewy  eyes 
Had  shone,  gleam  stony  orbs: — so  from  his  steps 
Bright  flowers  departed,  and  the  beautiful  shade 
Of  the  green  groves,  with  all  their  odorous  win<ls 
.\nd  musical  motions.    Calm,  he  still  pursued 
The  stream,  that  with  a  larger  volume  now      540 
Rolled  through  the  labyrinthine  dell,  and  there 
Fretted  a  path  through  its  descending  curves 
With  its  wintry  speed.    On  every  side  now  rose 
Rocks,  which,  in  unimaginable  forms. 
Lifted  their  black  and  barren  pinnacles 
In  the  light  of  evening,  and,  its  precipice 
Obscuring  the  ravine,  disclosed  above, 
Mid  toppling  stones,  black  gulfs  and  yawning 

caves, 
Whose    windings    gave    ten    thousand    various 

tongues 
To    the    loud    stream.      Lo !     where    the    pass 

expands  5r.o 

Its  stony  jaws,  the  abrupt  mountain  breaks, 
.\nd  seems,  with  its  accumulated  crags. 
To  overhang  the  world :   for  wide  expand 
Beneath  the  wan  stars  and  descending  moon 
Islanded  seas,  blue  mountains,  mighty  streams. 
Dim   tracts   and   vast,    robed   in    the    lustrous 

gloom 
Of  leaden  coloured  even,  and  fiery  hills 
-Mingling  their  flames  with  twilight,  on  the  verge 
Of  the  remote  horizon.    The  near  scene, 
In  naked  and  severe  simplicity,  5«)0 

Made  contrast  with  the  universe,    A  pine, 
Rock-rooted,  stretched  athwart  the  vacancy 
Its  swinging  boughs,  to  each  inconstant  blast 
Yielding  one  only  response,  at  each  pause 
In  most  familiar  cadence,  with  the  howl, 
The  thunder  and  the  hiss  of  homeless  streams 
Mingling  its  solemn  song,  whilst  the  broad  river. 
Foaming  and  hurrying  o'er  its  rugged  path. 
Fell  into  that  immeasurable  void 
Scattering  its  waters  to  the  jmssing  winds.      •'•"" 
1  withered  prmss-stnlks 


PEKCY  BYSSHE  SHEIJ.EY 


475 


Y'et  the  gray  precipice  and  solemn  pine 
Anil  torrent  were  not  all ; — one  silent  nook 
Was  there.     Even   on   the  edge   of   that    vast 

mountain, 
Upheld  by  knotty  roots  and  fallen  rocks, 
It  overlooked  in  its  serenity 
The  dark  earth,  and  the  bending  vault  of  stars. 
It  was  a  tranquil  spot,  that  seemed  to  smile 
Even  in  the  lap  of  horror.     Ivy  clasped 
The  fissured  stones  with  its  entwining  arms. 
And  did  embower  with  leaves  for  ever  green,     580 
And  berries  dark,  the  smooth  and  even  space 
Of  its  inviolated  floor,  and  here 
The  children  of  the  autumnal  whirlwind  bore. 
In    wanton    sport,    those    bright    leaves,    whose 

decay. 
Red,  yellow,  or  ethereally  pale. 
Rivals  the  pride  of  summer.     'Tis  the  haunt 
Of  every  gentle  wind,  whose  breath  can  teach 
The  wilds  to  love  tranquillity.    One  step, 
One  human  step  alone,  has  ever  broken 
The  stillness  of  its  solitude: — one  voice  590 

Alone  inspired  its  echoes; — even  that  voice 
Which  hither  came,  floating  among  the  winds, 
.\nd  led  the  loveliest  among  human  forms 
To  make  their  wild  haunts  the  depository 
Of  all  the  grace  and  beauty  that  endued 
Its  motions,  render  up  its  majesty, 
Scatter  its  music  on  the  unfeeling  storm, 
And  to  the  damp  leaves  and  blue  cavern  mould. 
Nurses  of  rainbow  flowers  and  branching  moss, 
Commit  the  colours  of  that  varying  cheek,      600 
That  snowy  breast,  those  dark  and  drooping  eyes. 
The  dim  and  horned  moon  hung  low,  and 

poured 
A  sea  of  lustre  on  the  horizon 's  verge 
That  overflowed  its  mountains.    Y'ellow  mist 
Filled  the  unbounded  atmosphere,  and  drank 
Wan  moonlight  even  to  fulness:   not  a  star 
Shone,  not  a  sound  was  heard ;   the  very  winds. 
Danger's  grim  playmates,  on  that  precipice 
Slept,    clasped    in    his    embrace. — O,    storm    of 

Death ! 
Whose  sightless  speed  divides  this  sullen  night : 
.\nd  thou,  colossal  Skeleton,  that,  still  611 

Guiding  its   irresistible  career 
In  thy  devastating  omniimtence. 
Art  king  of  this  frail  world!  from  the  red  field 
Of  slaughter,  from  the  reeking  hospital. 
The  patriot's  sacred  conch,  the  snowy  bed 
Of  innocence,  the  scaffold  and  the  throne. 
A  mighty  voice  invokes  thee.     Ruin  calls 
His  brother  Death.    A  rare  and  regal  prey 
He  hath  prepared,  prowling  around  the  world ; 
Glutted    with    which    thou    mayst    repose,    am! 

men  621 

Go    to    their    graves    like    flowers    or    creopin'> 

worms. 


Nor  ever  more  offer  at  thy  dark  shrine 
The  unheeded  tribute  of  a  broken  heart. 

When  on  the  threshold  of  the  green  recess 
The   wanderer's    footsteps   fell,   he   knew    that 

death 
Was  on  him.    Yet  a  little,  ere  it  fled, 
Did  he  resign  his  high  and  holy  soul 
To  images  of  the  majestic  past, 
That  paused  within  his  passive  being  now,      B-SO 
Like  winds  that  bear  sweet  music,  when  they 

breathe 
Through  some  dim  latticed  chamber.     He  did 

place 
His  pale  lean  hand  upon  the  rugged  trunk 
Of  the  old  pine.    Upon  an  ivied  stone 
Reclined  his  languid  head,  his  limbs  did  rest. 
Diffused  and  motionless,  on  the  smooth  brink 
Of  that  obscurest  chasm; — and  thus  he  lay. 
Surrendering  to  their  final  impulses 
The  hovering  powers  of  life.    Hope  and  despair, 
The  torturers,  slept;  no  mortal  pain  or  fear    640 
Marred  his  repose,  the  influxes  of  sense, 
And  his  own  being  unalloyed  by  pain. 
Yet  feebler  and  more  feeble,  calmly  fed 
The  stream  of  thought,   till  he  lay  breathing 

there 
At  peace,  and  faintly  smiling: — his  last  sight 
Was  the  great  moon,  which  o'er  the  western  line 
Of  the  wide  world  her  mighty  horn  suspended, 
With  whose  dun  beams  inwoven  darkness  seemed 
To  mingle.     Now  upon  the  jagged  hills 
It  rests,  and  still  as  the  divided  frame  650 

Of  the  vast  meteor  sunk,  the  Poet's  blood. 
That  ever  beat  in  mystic  sympathy 
With  nature's  ebb  and  flow,  grew  feebler  still: 
And  when  two  lessening  points  of  light  alone 
Gleamed    through    the    darkness,    the    alternate 

gasp 
Of  his  faint  respiration  scarce  did  stir 
The  stagnate  night: — till  the  minutest  ray 
Was    quenched,   the   pulse   yet    lingered    in   his 

Jieart. 
It   paused — it   fluttered.     But   when  heaven   re- 
mained . 
latterly  black,  the  murky  shades  involved        660 
An  image,  silent,  cold,  and  motionless. 
An  their  own  voiceless  earth  and  vacant  air. 
Even  as  a  vapour  fed  with  golden  beams 
That  ministered  on  sunlight,  ere  the  west 
Eclipses  it,  was  now  that  wondrous  frame — 
No  sense,  no  motion,  no  divinity — 
A  fragile  lute,  on  whose  harmonious  strings 
The    breath    of    heaven    did    wander — a    bright 

stream 
Once  fed  with  many-voiced  waves — a  dream 
Of  youth,  which  night  and  time  have  quenched 

forever,  670 


476 


THK  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 


Still,  dark,  and  dry,  and  iinremenibered  now. 

O,  for  Medea 's  Avondroiis  aichemy,i 
Which  wheresoe'er  it  fell  made  the  earth  gleam 
With    bright    flowers,    and    the    wintry    boughs 

exhale 
From  vernal  blooms  fresh  fragrance!     O,  that 

God, 
Profuse  of  poisons,  would  concede  the  chalice 
Which   but   one   living   nian^   has   drained,   who 

now 
Vessel  of  deathless  wrath,  a  slave  that  feels 
No  proud  exemption  in  the  blighting  curse 
F    bears,  over  the  world  wanders  for  ever,      680 
Lone  as  incarnate  death!     O,  that  the  dreamt 
Of  dark  magician  in  his  visioned  cave, 
Raking  the  cinders  of  a  crucible 
For  life  and  power,  even  when  his  feeble  hand 
Shakes  in  its  last  decay,  were  the  true  law 
Of  this  so  lovely  world !     But  thou  art  fled 
Like  some  frail  exhalation;   which  the  dawn 
Robes  in  its  golden  beams, — ah !  thou  hast  fled ! 
The  brave,  the  gentle,  and  the  beautiful,  689 

The  child  of  grace  and  genius.    Heartless  things 
Are  done  and  said  i'  the  world,  and  many  worms 
And  beasts  and  men  live  on,  and  mighty  Earth 
From  sea  and  mountain,  city  and  wilderness. 
In  vesper  low  or  joyous  orison, 
Lifts  still  its  solemn  voice: — but  thou  art  fled; 
Thou  canst  no  longer  know  or  love  the  shapes 
Of  this  phantasmal  scene,  who  have  to  thee 
Been  purest  ministers,  who  are,  alas! 
Now  thou  art  not.    Upon  those  pallid  lips 
So  sweet  even  in  their  silence,  on  those  eyes    TOO 
That  image  sleep  in  death,  upon  that  form 
Yet  safe  from  the  worm's  outrage,  let  no  tear 
Be  shed — not  even  in  thought.    Nor,  when  those 

hues 
Are  gone,  and  those  divinest  lineaments, 
Worn  by  the  senseless  wind,  shall  live  alone 
In  the  frail  pauses  of  this  simple  strain, 
Let  not  high  verse,  mourning  the  memory 
Of  that  which  is  no  more,  or  painting's  woe 
Or  sculpture,  speak  in  feeble  imagery 
Their  own  cold  powers.    Art  and  eloquence,    710 
And  all  the  shows  o'  the  world  are  frail  and 

vain 
To  weep  a  loss  that  turns  their  lights  to  shade. 
It  is  a  woe  too  "deep  for  tears."*  when  all 
Is  reft  at  once,  when  some  surpassing  Spirit, 
Whose  light  adorned  the  world  around  it.  leaves 
Those  who  remain  behind,  not  sobs  or  groans, 

1  magic  docootlon  (For  oxnmnlc  of  Modon's  witch- 

craft, see  the  story  of  .Tnsoii  » 

2  AhaMiPniH.    th''    h'jrpntlnry    Wnndorlng   .Tew.    xnld 

to    have   boon    rondenined    by    Christ,    for    his 
Insolence,  to  wander  till  Christ's  second  com-  ; 
•n>f.  I 

»l.  p..  Immortal  yonlh.  the  rlljrlr  riiar 

4  Wordsworth's  0//f  on  ImmnrtnUtfi.  last  line.  1 


The  passionate  tumult  of  a  dinging  hoi>e ; 
But  pale  despair  and  cold  tranquillity, 
Nature 's  vast  frame,  the  web  of  human  things, 
Birth    and    the    grave,    that    are    not    as    they 


were. 


720 


OZYMANDIAS 


T  met  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land 

Who  said:      'Two   vast  and   truukless  legs  of 

stone 
Stand  in  the  desert.    Near  them,  on  the  sand. 
Half  sunk,  a  shattered  visage  lies,  whose  frown, 
And  wrinkled  lip,  and  sneer  of  cold  conunand. 
Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions  read 
Which  yet    survive,   stamped   on   these   lifeless 

things, 
The  hand  that  mocked  them  and  the  heart  that 

fed.- 
And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear — 
' '  My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings : 
Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  despair ! ' ' 
Nothing  beside  remains.    Round  the  decay 
Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and  bare 
The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away. ' 


ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND* 


O  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's 

being, 
Thou,  from  whose   unseen  presence   the  leaves 

dead 
Are    driven,    like    ghosts    from    an    enchanter 

fleeing. 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red. 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes:    O  thou, 
Who  diariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low. 
Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  spring  shall  blow 

r.  That  Is,  the.v  survived  both  him  who  imaged 
them  and  him  who  nursed  them. 

•  Note  by  Shelley :  "This  poem  was  conceived 
and  chiefly  written  In  a  wood  that  skirts  the 
Arno.    near    Florence.  .     The    phenomenon 

alluded  to  at  the  conclusion  of  the  third 
stanza  Is  well  known  to  naturalists.  The 
vesetatlou  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  of  rivers, 
and  of  lakes,  sympathizes  with  that  of  the 
land  In  (he  chanKC  of  seasons,  and  Is  conse- 
quently infl\ienced  by  the  winds  which  an- 
nonn<e    it." 

The  noem  has  something;  of  the  Impetu- 
osltv  of  the  wind — a  breathless  swiftness 
which  seems  almost  to  scorn  rhyme,  and 
which  Is  characteristic  of  many  of  Shel- 
ley's longer  poems.  Characteristically,  too.  It 
breathes  bis  Intense  "nnsslon  for  reforming 
the  world."  the  combination  of  which  with 
lyric  delicacy,  as  here.  Is  exceedingly  rare. 


PERCY  BYSSHK  SHELLEY 


177 


Her  clarion  o  'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill    10 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  living  hues  and  odours  plain  and  hill; 

Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere; 
Destroyer  and  preserver ;  hear,  Oh  hear  I 


Thou    on   whose   stream,    'mid    the   steep   sky  "s 

commotion. 
Loose   clouds   like  earth's   decaying   leaves   are 

shed, 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  Heaven  and 

Ocean, 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning:  there  are  spread 

On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge, 

Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head      20 

Of  some  fierce  Maenad, i  even  from  the  dim  verge 

Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height. 

The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.    Thou  dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing^  night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre. 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapours,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 
Black    rain,    and    fire,    and    hail    will    burst: 
Oh  hear! 

m 
Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer  dreams 
The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay,  30 

Lulled  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams. 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baise  's  bay ,3 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss  and  flowers 

So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them!    Thou 

For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know  40 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with  fear. 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves:    Oh  hear! 


If  T  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear; 

If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee; 

A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share 


:  A     frenzied     priestess 

of  Bacchus. 
2  closing    in 


1  Xear  Naples  :  the  site 
of  many  ruins  of 
ancient    luxurv. 


The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  O  uncontrollable!     If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven, 
As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skyey  speed        on 
S<-arce   seemed   a    vision;    1    would    ne'er    have 
striven 

.\s  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  nee<l. 
Oh  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life!    I  bleed! 

A  hea\"y  weight  of  hours  has  chained  and  bowed 
One    too    like   thee:    tameless,    and    swift,    and 
proud. 

V 

Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is: 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own! 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep,  autumnal  tone,  60 
Sweet  though  in  sadness.  Be  thou,  spirit  fierce. 
My  spirit !     Be  thou  me.  impetuous  one  I 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 
Like  withered  leaves  to  quicken  a  new  birth! 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse, 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 

The  trirmpet  of  a  prophecy!    O  Wind. 

If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind  I     70 

THE  INDIAN  SEBENADE 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee 

In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night. 

When  the  winds  are  breathing  low. 

And  the  stars  are  shining  bright ; 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee. 

And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 

Hath  led  me — who  knows  how? 

To  thy  chamber  window,  sweet!  8 

The  wandering  airs,  they  faint 

On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream ; 

The  champakJ  odours  fail 

Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream ; 

The  nightingale's  complaint. 

It  dies  upon  her  heart. 

As  I  must  die  on  thine. 

Oh,  belovM  as  thou  art !  16 

Oh.  lift  me  from  the  grass! 
I  die!  T  faint!  I  fail! 
Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 

1  An  Indian  tree  of  the  Magnolia   fainilv. 


4T8 


THE  ROMANTJC  KEVIVAL 


On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 

My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas! 

My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast, 

Oh !   i)rcss  it  close  to  thine  again, 

Where  it  will  break  at  last.  24 

From  PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND 

Song* 

Life  of  Life,  tliy  lips  enkindle 

With  their  love  the  breath  between  them ; 
And  thy  smiles  before  they  dwindle 

Make  the  cold  air  fire;  then  screen  them 
In  those  looks,  where  whoso  gazes 
Faints,  entangled  in  their  mazes.  6 

( "hild  of  Light !  thy  limbs  are  burning 

Through  the  vest  which  seems  to  hide  them ; 

As  the  radiant  lines  of  morning 

Through  the  clouds,  ere  they  divide  them ; 

And  this  atmosphere  divinest 

Shrouds  thee  wheresoe'er  thou  shinest.  i- 

Fair  are  others;  none  beholds  thee, 
But  thy  voice  sounds  low  and  tender 

Like  the  fairest,  for  it  folds  thee 

From  the  sight,  that  liquid  splendour, 

And  all  feel,  yet  see  thee  never, 

As  I  feel  now,  lost  forever.  18 

Lamp  of  Earth!  where'er  thou  niovest 
Its  dim  shapes  are  clad  with  brightness. 

And  the  souls  of  whom  thou  lovest 
Walk  upon  the  winds  with  lightness. 

Till  they  fail,  as  I  am  failing, 

Dizzy,  lost,  yet  unbewailing!  24 

Asi.\'s  Response 

My  soul  is  an  enchanted  boat, 

Which,  like  a  sleeping  swan,  doth  float 
Upon  the  silver  waves  of  thy  sweet  singing; 

And  thine  doth  like  an  angel  sit 

Beside  a  helm  conducting  it, 
Whilst  all  the  winds  with  melody  are  ringing. 

It  seems  to  float  ever,  forever, 

Upon  that  many-winding  river. 

Between  mountains,  woods,  abysses, 

A  paradise  of  wildernesses!  10 

Till,  like  one  in  slumber  bound, 
Borne  to  the  ocean,  I  float  down,  around, 
Into  a  sea  profound  of  ever-spreading  sound. 

Meanwhile  thy  spirit  lifts  its  pinions 
In  music's  most  serene  dominions; 
<;itching  the  winds  that  fan  that  happy  heaven, 

*  This  \h  thp  sonp  of  an  unsoon  spirit  to  Asia. 
who  Is  the  dramatic  cmhodimont  of  the  spirit 
t<t  love  working  throutih  all  nature. 


And  we  sail  on,  away,  afar, 

Without  a  course,  without  a  star. 
But  by  the  instinct  of  sweet  music  driven; 

Till  through  Elysian  garden  islets  20 

By  thee,  most  beautiful  of  pilots, 

Where  never  mortal  pinnace  glided. 

The  boat  of  my  desire  is  guided ; 
Realms  where  the  air  we  breathe  is  love, 
Which  in  the  winds  on  the  waves  doth  move. 
Harmonizing  this  earth  with  what  we  feel  above. 

We  have  passed  Age's  icy  caves. 

And  Manhood 's  dark  and  tossing  waves. 
And  Youth's  smooth  ocean,  smiling  to  betray; 

Beyond  the  glassy  gulfs  we  flee  30 

Of  shadow-peopled  Infancy, 
Through  Death  and  Birth,  to  a  diviner  day;* 

A  paradise  of  vaulted  bowers 

Lit  by  downward-gazing  flowers, 

And  watery  paths  that  wind  between 

Wildernesses  calm  and  green. 
Peopled  by  shapes  too  bright  to  see, 
And  rest,  having  beheld ;  somewhat  like  thee ; 
Which  walk  upon  the  sea,  and  chant  melodiously ! 

THE    CLOUD 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers. 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams; 
1  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams, 
l-'rom  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  tliat  waken 

The  sweet  buds  every  one. 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother 's  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under,  10 

And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain. 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder, 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below. 

And  tlieir  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 
.^nd  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white, 

While  1  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  mj-  skyey  bowers. 

Lightning  my  pilot  sits; 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder, 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits;  -<^ 

Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion, 

Tliis  pilot  is  guiding  me, 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea ; 
Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills. 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains. 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream, 

*  Tn  Imagination  reversing  the  course  of  naiure. 
she  parses  back  through  the  portals  of  earthly 
Ix'Ing  to  the  spirit's  condition  of  primordial 
Immortality. 


PERCY  liYSSHE  SITELLEY 


479 


Tlie  Spirit  he  loves  remains ; 
Ami  1  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven  's  lihie  smile. 
Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains.  "'^ 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes, 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack. 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead. 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag, 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings. 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit  sea 
beneath. 

Its  ardours  of  rest  and  of  love,  **^ 

And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above, 
With  wings  folded  I  rest,  on  mine  airy  nest, 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden  with  white  fire  laden, 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon, 
Glides  glimmering  o  'er  my  fleece-like  floor. 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear,  50 

May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin 
roof. 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee. 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees. 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent. 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas. 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high. 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  tliese. 

I  bind  the  sun 's  throne  with  a  burning  zone. 

And  the  moon  's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl ;     60 
The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and 
swim, 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape. 

Over  a  torrent  sea. 
Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof, — 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch  through  which  I  march 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow. 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my 
chair. 

Is  the  million-coloured  bow ;  "0 

The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colours  wove, 

W'hile  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water. 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky ; 
I    pass   through    the    pores    of    the    ocean    and 
shores ; 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain  when  with  never  a  stain 


The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare. 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with  their  convex 
gleams 
Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air,  SO 

I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph, i 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain. 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from 
the  tomb, 
I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 

TO   A   SKYLARK 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert. 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever 

singest.  Ki 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun. 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightning. 

Thou  dost  float  and  run ; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

ifelts  around  thy  flight; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven 
In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou   art   unseen,   but  yet   I   hear  thy  shrill 

delight,  20 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 

Of  that  silver  sphere. 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  Mhen  night  is  bare, 
From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is 

overflowed.  3o 

What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 
Drops  so  bright  to  see, 
.\s  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 

1  An  empty  tomb. 


480 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 


Siugiug  Lyniiis  uubiclden, 
Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded 

not:  40 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

la  a  palaee-tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  lier 
bower : 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  ilell  of  dew, 
S«»attering  unbeholden 
Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it 

from  the  view:  "O 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves. 
By  warm  winds  deflowered. 
Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  those  heavy- 
wingetl  thieves: 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers, 
All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth 

surpass.  60 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine: 

I  have  never  heard 
Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

Chorus  Hymeneal. 

Or   triumphal   chant, 
Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 
But  an  empty  vaunt, 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden 

want.  70 

What  oVijects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains? 
What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  f 
What  love  of  thine  own  kindf  what   ignoram-*' 
of  painf 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyanee 

Languor  cannot  be: 
Shadow  of  annoyance 
Never  came  near  thee: 
Thou    lovest,    but    ne'er    knew    love's    sad 

satiety.  so 


Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  nuist  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal 
stream  ? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  j>ine  for  what  is  not: 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 
Our    sweetest    songs    are    those    that    tell    of 

saddest  thought.  90 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear; 
If  we  were  things  born 
Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I   know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come 
near. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 
That  in  books  are  found. 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the 

ground!  lOO 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  would  flow. 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening 
now. 

From  ADONAIS' 
The  Gr.we  of  Keats 

49 

Oo  thou  to  Rome, — at  once  the  Paradise, 
The  grave,  the  city,  and  the  wilderness; 

•  "John  Keats  died  at  Rome  of  a  consumption,  in 
Ills  twenty-fourtli  |  twentj-slxtli  J  vear.  on 
tlie  [22d]  day  of  [February],  1821  ;  and  was 
hurled  in  the  romantic  and  lonely  cemetery 
of  the  Protestants  in  that  city,  under  the  pyr 
amid  which  is  the  tomb  of  Cestlns  and  the 
massy  walls  and  towers,  now  mouldering  and 
desolate,  which  formed  the  circuit  of  ancleul 
Home.  The  cemetery  Is  an  open  space  among 
the  ruins,  covered  In  winter  with  violets  and 
tiaisles.  It  might  make  one  in  love  with 
death  to  think  that  one  should  be  burled  in 
so  sweet  a  place." — From  Shelley's  Preface. 
"Adonals"  is  of  course  a  poetical  name  for 
Kents.  The  elegy  was  the  outcome  of  Shel- 
ley's noble  Indignation  over  a  death  which  he 
somewhat  mIstaKenly  supposed  was  immedi- 
ately due  to  the  savage  criticism  of  Keats's 
reviewers — "Wretched  men."  as  he  character 
lised  them,  who  "know  not  what  they  do." 
murderers  who  had  "spoken  daggers  but  used 
none."  See  Enii.  Lit.,  p.  '2'>H.  The  especially 
beautiful  concluding  stanzas,  which  are  given 
here,  are  almost  purely  personal  :  Shelley  Is 
communing  with  himself,  and  thinking  of  his 
own  troubled  life. 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


481 


And  where  its  wrecks  like  shattered  mountains 

rise, 
And  flowering  weeds,  and  fragrant  copses  dress 
The  bones  of  Desolation 's  nakedness, 
Pass,  till  the  Spirit  of  the  spot  shall  lead 
Thy  footsteps  to  a  slope  of  green  access 
Where,  like  an  infant's  smile,  over  the  dead 
A  light  of  laughing  flowers  along  the  grass  is 

spread. 

50 
And   gray  walls  moulder  round,  on  which  dull 

Time 
Feeds,  like  slow  fire  upon  a  hoary  brand ; 
And  one  keen  pyramid  with  wedge  sublime. 
Pavilioning  the  dust  of  him  who  planned 
This  refuge  for  his  memory,  doth  stand 
Like  flame  transformed  to  marble;  and  beneath, 
A  field  is  spread,  on  which  a  newer  band 
Have  pitched  in  Heaven's  smile  their  camp  of 
death 
Welcoming    him   we    lose    with   scarce   extin- 
guished breath. 

51 
Here  pause:   these  graves  are  all  too  young  as 

yet 
To  have  outgrown  the  sorrow  which  consigned 
Its  charge  to  each;  and  if  the  seal  is  set. 
Here,  on  one  fountain  of  a  mourning  mind. 
Break  it  not  thou !   too  surely  shalt  thou  find 
Thine  own  well  full,  if  thou  returnest  home. 
Of   tears   and   gall.      From    the   world 's   bitter 

wind 
Seek  shelter  in  the  shadow  of  the  tomb. 
W'hat  Adonais  is.  why  fear  we  to  become  I 

52 

The  One  remains,  the  many  change  and  pass; 
Heaven's  light  forever  shines.  Earth's  shadows 

fly; 

Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-coloured  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  Eternity, 
Until  Death  tramples  it  to  fragments. — Die, 
If  thou  wouldst  be  with  that  which  thou  dost 

seek! 
Follow  where  all  is  fled! — Rome's  azure  sky. 
Flowers,  ruins,  statues,  music,  words,  are  weak. 
The  glory  they  transfuse  with  fitting  truth  to 

speak. 

53 
Why  linger,  why    turn  back,  why   shrink,   my 

Heart! 
Thy  hopes  are  gone  before:   from  all  things  hero 
They  have  departed:  thou  shouldst  now  depart  I 
A  light  is  past  from  the  revolving  year. 


And  man,  and  woman;  and  what  still  is  dear 
Attracts  to  crush,  repels  to  make  thee  wither. 
The   soft   sky   smiles, — the   low    wind    whispers 

near; 
'Tis  Adonais  calls!   oh,  hasten  thither. 
No  more  let  Life  divide  what  Death  can  join 

together. 

54 

That  Light  whose  smile  kindles  the  Universe. 
That  Beauty  in  which  all  things  work  and  move, 
That  Benediction  which  the  eclipsing  Curse 
Of  birth  can  quench  not,  that  sustaining  Love 
Which  through  the  web  of  being  blindly  wove 
By  man  and  beast  and  earth  and  air  and  sea. 
Burns  bright  or  dim,  as  each  are  mirrors  of 
The  fire  for  which  all  thirst ;  now  beams  on  mc. 
Consuming  the  last  clouds  of  cold  mortality. 


The  breath  whose  might  I  have  invoked  in  song 
Descends  on  me ;  my  spirit 's  bark  is  driven. 
Far   from   the   shore,   far   from    the   trembling 

throng 
Whose  sails  were  never  to  the  tempest  given; 
The  massy  earth  and  sphered  skies  are  riven! 
I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully,  afar; 
Whilst    burning    through    the    inmost    veil    of 

Heaven, 
The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star. 

Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  Eternal  are. 


From  HELLAS* 
Chorus 

The  world's  great  age  begins  anew, 

The  golden  years  return. 
The  earth  doth  like  a  snake  renew 

Her  winter  weedsi  outworn: 
Heaven  smiles,  and  faiths  and  empires^  gleam. 
Like  wrecks  of  a  dissolving  dream.  6 

A  brighter  Hellas  rears  its  mountains 

From  waves  serener   far; 
A  new  Peneus  rolls  his  fountains 

1  robes 

-  creeds  iind  monarchies  Ho  which,  as  such,  Shel- 
ley was  devotedly  hostile) 

•  Shelley's  drama  of  the  modern  Greeks"  stnig- 
S\e  for  Independence  concludes  with  this 
Chorus,  prophesying  the  return  of  that  Golden 
-\ge  when  Saturn  was  fabled  to  have  reigned 
over  a  universe  of  peace  and  love.  Of  the 
fulfillment  of  this  prophecy  Shelley  had  at 
times  an  ardent  hope,  which  reaches  perhaps 
its  highest  expression  in  this  Chorus  (with 
which  compare  Byron's  Islen  of  Greece),  and 
;it  other  times  a  profound  despair,  which  can 
easily  be  read  in  some  of  the  lyrics  that  are 
given   on    subsequent   pages. 


482 


THE  BOMANTK    BEVIVAL 


Against  the  morning  star. 
Wliorc  fairer  Tempos  bloom,  there  slee^i 
Young  Cyclads  on  a  sunnier  deep. 

A  loftier  Argo  cleaves  the  main, 

Fraught  ^ith  a  later  prize; 
Another  Orpheus  sings  again, 

And  loves,  and  weeps,  and  dies. 
A  new  Ulysses  leaves  once  more 
Calypso  for  his  native  shore. 

Oh,  write  no  more  the  tale  of  Troy,t 
If  earth  Death's  scroll  must  be! 
Nor  mix  with  Laian  rage  the  joy 

Which  dawns  upon  the  free: 
Although  a  subtler  Sphinx  renew 
Biddies  of  death  Thebes  never  knew. 

Another  Athens  shall  arise, 

And  to  remoter  time 
Bequeath,  like  sunset  to  the  skies, 

The  splendour  of  its  prime; 
And  leave,  if  nought  so  bright  may  live, 
All  earth  can  take  or  Heaven  can  give. 

Saturn  and  Love  their  long  repose 
Shall  burst,  more  bright  and  good 

Than  all  who  fell,3  than  One  who  rose,* 
Than  many  unsubdued :  •''• 

Not  gold,  not  blood,  their  altar  dowers. 

But  votive  tears  and  symbol  flowers. 

Oh,  cease !  must  hate  and  death  return  ? 

Cease!   must  men  kill  and  die? 
Cease!  drain  not  to  its  dregs  the  urn 

Of  bitter  prophecy. 
The  world  is  weary  of  the  past, 
Oh,  might  it  die  or  rest  at  last! 


TO 


18 


30 


36 


Music,  when  .soft  voices  die, 
Vibrates  in  the  memory; 
Odours,  when  sweet  violets  sicken. 
Live  Avithin  the  sen^  they  quicken. 

Bose  leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead. 
Are  heaped  for  the  beloved  's  bed ; 
And  80  thy  thoughts,  when  thou  art  gone, 
Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 


TO 


One  word  is  too  often  profaned 

For  me  to  profane  it, 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdained 


n  raran    gods.  n  Objects      of      hoalhen 

4  ChrlBt.  Idolatry. 

t  The  more  or  \?nn  historic  Trojan  War.  and  the 

WOPS  of  the  Theban   bouse  of  Lalus  and   bli* 

son  ODdlpus.  belong  of  course  to  a  time  sue- 

coedliiK  I  he  (Jolden  Age  of  fable. 


For  thee  to  disdain  it; 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

For  prudence  to  smother, 
And  pity  from  thee  more  dear 

Than  that  from  another. 

I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love, 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above 

And  the  Heavens  reject  not, — 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star. 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow. 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow! 


A    LAMENT 

O  world!   O  life!  O  time! 
On  whose  last  steps  I  climb, 

Trembling  at  that  where  I  had  stood  before; 
Wlien  will  return  the  glory  of  your  prime? 

No  more — oh,  never  more! 

Out  of  the  day  and  night 
A  joy  has  taken  flight ; 

Fresh  spring,  and  summer,  and  winter  hoar. 
Move  my  faint  heart  with  grief,  but  with  delight 

No  more — oh,  never  more! 


WHEN    THE   LAMP    IS   SHATTEBED 

When  the  lamp  is  shattered, 
The  light  in  the  dust  lies  dead — 

When  the  cloud  is  scattered. 
The  rainbow 's  glory  is  shed. 

When  the  lute  is  broken. 
Sweet  tones  are  remembered  not; 

When  the  lips  have  spoken, 
Loved  accents  are  soon  forgot. 

As  music  and  splendour 
Survive  not  the  lamp  and  the  lute, 

The  heart 's  echoes  render 
No  song  when  the  spirit  is  mute:  — 

No  song  but  sad  dirges. 
Like  the  wind  through  a  ruined  cell. 

Or  the  mournful  surges 
That  ring  the  dead  seaman 's  knell. 


16 


When  hearts  have  once  mingled. 
Love  first  leaves  the  well-built  nest; 

The  weak  one  is  singled 
To  endure  what  it  once  possessed. 

O  Lov.1 !  who  bewailest 
The  frailty  of  all  things  here. 

Why  choose  you  the  frailest 
For  your  cradle,  your  home,  and  your  bier? 


JOHN  KEATS 


483 


Its  passious  will  rock  thee 
As  the  storms  rock  the  raveus  on  high: 

Bright  reason  will  mock  thee, 
Like  the  sun  from  a  wintry  sky. 

From  thy  nest  every  rafter 
Will  rot,  and  thine  eagle  home 

Leave  thee  naked  to  laughter, 
When  leaves  fall  and  cold  winds  come.  32 

A    DIROE 

Rough  wiml,  that  moanest  loud 

Grief  too  sad  for  song ; 
Wild  wind,  when  sullen  cloud 

Knells  all  the  night  long; 
Sad  storm,  whose  tears  are  vain, 
Bare  woods,  whose  branches  strain, 
Deep  caves  and  dreary  main. 

Wail,  for  the  world's  wrong! 


JOHN  KEATS 
(1795-1821) 

From   EXDYMION* 

Proem.    From  Book  I 

A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever: 

Its  loveliness  increases;  it  will  never 

Pa'ss  into  nothingness;  but  still  will  keep 

A  bower  quiet  for  us,  and  a  sleep 

Full   of   sweet   dreams,   and   health,   and   quiet 

breathing. 
Therefore,  on  every  morrow,^  are  we  wreathing 
A  flowery  band  to  bind  us  to  the  earth. 
Spite  of  despondence,  of  the  inhuman  dearth 
Of  noble  natures,  of  the  gloomy  days, 
Of  all  the  unhealthy  and  o 'er-darkened  ways    10 
Made  for  our  searching:   yes.  in  spite  of  all. 
Some  shape  of  beauty  moves  away  the  pall 
From  our  dark  spirits.    Such  the  sun,  the  moon. 
Trees  old  and  young,  sprouting  a  shady  boon 
For  simple  sheep ;  and  such  are  daffodils 
With  the  green  world  they  live  in;   and  clear 

rills 
That  for  themselves  a  cooling  covert  make 
'Gainst  the  hot  season ;  the  mid-forest  brake. 
Rich  with  a  sprinkling  of  fair  musk-rose  blooms : 
And  such  too  is  the  grandeur  of  the  dooms2     20 
We  have  imagined  for  the  mighty  dead; 
All  lovely  tales  that  we  have  heard  or  read : 
An  endless  fountain  of  immortal  drink, 
Pouring  unto  us  from  the  heaven's  brink. 

Nor  do  we  merely  feel  these  essences 
For  one  short  hour ;  no,  even  as  the  trees 


morning 
Sec  /:>!{/. 


Lit.,  p.  258. 


2  destinies 


That  whisper  round  a  temple  become  soon 

Dear  as  the  temple 's  self,  so  does  the  moon. 

The  passion  poesy,  glories  infinite. 

Haunt  us  till  they  become  a  cheering  light  30 

L^nto  our  souls,  and  bound  to  us  so  fast, 

That,  whether  there  be  shine,  or  gloom  o 'ercast, 

They  alway  must  be  with  us,  or  we  die. 

Therefore,  'tis  with  full  happiness  that  I 
Will  trace  the  story  of  Endymion. 
The  very  music  of  the  name  has  gone 
Into  my  being,  and  each  pleasant  scene 
Is  growing  fresh  before  me  as  the  green 
Of  our  own  valleys :   so  I  will  begin 
Now  while  I  cannot  hear  the  city 's  din ;  40 

Now  while  the  early  budders  are  just  new, 
And  run  in  mazes  of  the  youngest  hue 
About  old  forests;  while  the  willow  trails 
Its  delicate  amber;   and  the  dairy  pails 
Bring  home  increase  of  milk.     And,  as  the  year 
Grows  lush  in  juicy  stalks,  I'll  smoothly  steer 
My  little  boat,  for  many  quiet  hours, 
With  streams  that  deepen  freshly  into  bowers. 
Many  and  many  a  verse  I  hope  to  write. 
Before  the  daisies,  vermeil  rimmed  and  white,    50 
Hide  in  deep  herbage ;  and  ere  yet  the  bees 
Hum  about  globes  of  clover  and  sweet  peas, 
I  must  be  near  the  middle  of  my  story. 
O  may  no  wintry  season,  bare  and  hoary. 
See  it  half  finished :  but  let  Autumn  bold, 
With  universal  tinge  of  sober  gold. 
Be  all  about  me  when  I  make  an  end. 
And  now  at  once,  adventuresome,  I  send 
My  herald  thought  into  a  wilderness: 
There  let  its  trumpet  blow,  and  quickly  dress      60 
My  uncertain  path  with  green,  that  I  may  speed 
Easily  onward,  thoroughs  flowers  and  weed. 


THE    EVE    OF    ST.   AGNES 


St.  Agnes'  Eve<— Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was! 
The  OAvl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold; 
The  hare  limped  trembling  through  the  frozen 

grass. 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold: 
Xumb  were  the  Beadsman's  fingers,  while  he 

told 
His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath. 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seemed    taking   flight    for    heaven,   without    a 

death, 
Past   the  sweet  Virgin's  picture,  while  his 

prayer  he  saith. 


3  til  rough 


4  The    night     precedlns 
Jan.  21. 


484 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 


His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man ; 
Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his  knees, 
And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan, 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees : 
The   sculptured    dead,    on    each    side,    seem    to 

freeze, 
Emprisoned  in  black,  purgatorial  rails: 
Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat  'ries, 
He  passeth  by ;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 

To  think  liow  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and 

mails. 


Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little  door. 
And    scarce    three    steps,    ere    Music's    golden 

tongue 
Flattered  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor ; 
But  no — already  had  his  deathbell  rung; 
The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung: 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve: 
Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among 
Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve, 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinners'  sake 

to  grieve. 


That  ancient  Beadsman  heard  the  prelude  soft ; 
And  so  it  chanced,  for  many  a  door  was  wide. 
From  hurry  to  and  fro.    Soon,  up  aloft. 
The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gan  to  chide : 
The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride, 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests: 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed. 
Stared,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice  rests, 
With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  cross- 
wise on  their  breasts. 


At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry, 

With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array, 

Numerous  as  shadows,  haunting  fairily 

The  brain,  new  stuffed,  in  youth,  with  triumphs 

gay 

Of  old  romance.    These  let  us  wish  away, 
And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  Lady  there. 
Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry  day. 
On  love,  and  winged  St.  Agnes'  saintly  care. 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  times 
declare. 


They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight, 
And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honeyed  middle  of  the  night, 
It  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright; 
As,  sup|>rr]e88  to  bed  they  must  retire, 


And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white; 
Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  require 
Of  Heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that  they 
desire. 

7 

Full  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  Madeline ; 
The  music,  yearning  like  a  God  in  pain. 
She  scarcely  heard:   her  maiden  eyes  divine, 
Fixed  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping  traini 
Pass  by — she  heeded  not  at  all:  in  vain 
Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier. 
And  back  retired ;  not  cooled  by  high  disdain, 
But  she  saw  not:    her  heart  was  otherwhere: 
She  sighed  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest 
of  the  year. 

8 

She  danced  along  with  vague,  regardless  eyes, 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and  short : 
The  hallowed  hour  was  near  at  hand:  she  sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  thronged  resort 
Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport; 
'Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn. 
Hoodwinked-  with  faery  fancy;  all  amort,^ 
Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn.* 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow  morn. 

9 

So,  purposing  eacli  moment  to  retire, 
She  lingered  still.    Meantime,  across  the  moors. 
Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart  on  fire 
For  Madeline.    Beside  the  portal  doors. 
Buttressed  from  moonlight,  stands  he,  and  im- 
plores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours. 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  unseen ; 
Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss — in  sooth 
such  things  have  been. 

10 

He  ventures  in:  let  no  buzzed  whisper  tell: 
All  eyes  be  mufiled,  or  a  hundred  swords 
Will  storm  his  heart,  Love's  feverous  citadel: 
For  him,  those  chambers  held  barbarian  hordes. 
Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords. 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage:  not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul. 

Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in 
soul. 

1  i.  c,  of  robes  (Keats)       s  dead 

•i  blinded   (to  all  elbe) 

*  St.  Agnes  was  a  Roman  virgin  who  suffered 
martyrdom.  At  Mass,  on  tJio  day  sacred  to 
lior,  while  the  Agnns  Do!  (Lamb  of  God)  was 
ch.anted,  t.ro  lambs  were  dedicated  to  her. 
nnd  afterwards  shorn  and  the  wool  woven 
(Ktanza  i:^). 


JOHN  KEATS 


485 


11 

Ah,  happy  chance!  the  aged  creature  came, 
Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand, 
To  whfre  lie  stood,  hid  from  the  torch  's  flame, 
Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond 
The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland: 
He  startled  her ;  but  soon  she  knew  his  face, 
And  grasped  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand, 
Saying,  "^lercy,  Porphyro!    hie  thee  from  this 
place ; 
They  are  all  here  to-night,  the  whole  blood- 
thirsty race! 

12 

Get  hence!    get  hence!    there's  dwarfish  Hilde- 

brand ; 
He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 
He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and  land: 
Then  there's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not  a  whit 
More  tame  for  his  gray  hairs — Alas  me!   flit! 
Flit  like  a  ghost  away. ' ' — ' '  Ah,  Gossip*  dear, 
We're  safe  enough;   here  in  this  arm-chair  sit. 
And  tell  me  how" — "Good  Saints!     not  here, 

not  here; 
Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will 

be  thy  bier. ' ' 

13 

He  followed  through  a  lowly  arched  way, 
Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume; 
And  as  she  muttered  ' '  Well-a — well-a-day !  ' ' 
He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room. 
Pale,  latticeil,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
'  *  Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline, ' '  said  he, 
' '  O  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  sec, 
When    they    St.    Agnes'    wool    are    weaving 
piously. ' ' 

14 

"St.  Agnes!     Ah!   it  is  St.  Agnes' Eve- 
Vet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days: 
Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch 's  sieve. 
And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  Elves  and  Fays, 
To  venture  so :  it  fills  me  with  amaze 
To  see  thee,  Porphyro! — St.  Agnes'  Eve! 
God's  help!   my  lady  fair  the  conjurer  plays 
This  very  night ;  good  angels  her  deceive ! 

But  let  me  laugh  awhile,  I  've  mickle  time  to 
grieve. ' ' 

15 
Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon, 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  dotl\  look, 
Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 
WTio  keepeth  closed  a  wond'rous  riddle-book, 
As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 

<  godmother 


Lut  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when  she  told 

His  lady's  purpose;   and  he  scarce  could  brook"- 

Tears,   at    the   thought   of   those   enchantments 

cold, 

And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 

16 

Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown  rose, 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 
Made  purple  riot :    then  doth  he  propose 
A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame  start: 
' '  A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art : 
Sweet  lady,  let  her  pray,  and  sleep,  and  dream 
Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 
From  wicked  men  like  thee.     Go,  go! — I  deem 
Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that  thou 
didst  seem. ' ' 


' '  T  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I  swear, ' ' 
(^uoth  Porphyro:    "O  may  I  ne'er  find  grace 
When    my    weak    voice    shall    whisper    its    last 

prayer. 
If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I   displace. 
Or  look  with  ruflian  passion   in  her  face: 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears; 
Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment 's  space, 
Awake,  with  horrid  shout,  my  foemen's  ears. 
And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more  fanged 

than  wolves  and  bears." 

18 
"Ah!    why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul? 
A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken  churchyard  thing, 
Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  midnight  toll; 
Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and  evening, 
Were  never  missed."     Thus  plaining,  doth  she 

bring 
A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro; 
So  woful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing, 
That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 

Whatever  he  shall  nish,  betide  her  weal  or 
woe. 

19 
Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy, 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy 
That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied, 
And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless  bride, 
While  legioned  fairies  paced  the  coverlet. 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy-eyed. 
Never  on   such   a   night   have  lovers  met. 
Since   Merlin    paid   his  Demon   all   the   mon- 
strous debt.* 

5  Misused  for  "check". 

•  Merlin,    the   famous    wizard,    became   himself   a 

victim   of  magic.     See  Tcnny.son's  Merlin  and 

Vivien. 


486 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 


20 
"It  shall  be  as  tbou  wishest, "  said  the  Dame; 
'  *  All  catesi  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there 
Quickly   on  this   feast-night:     by  the  tambour 

frames 
Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see:    no  time  to  spare, 
For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 
On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patience;    kneel  in 

prayer 
The   while:      Ah!     thou   must   needs   the    lady 

wed, 
Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the 

dead." 

21 

So  saying,  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 
The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  pass'd; 
The  dame  returned,  and  whispered  in  his  ear 
To  follow  her;    with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last. 
Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The    maiden's    chamber,    silken,    hushed,    and 

chaste; 
Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleased  amain. 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in 

her  brain. 

22 

Her  faltering  hand  upon  the  balustrade, 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for   the  stair, 
W^hen  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charm&d  maid, 
Rose,  like  a  missioned  spirit,  unaware: 
W^ith  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care, 
She  turned,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.     Now  prepare, 
Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed ; 
She  comes,   she  comes   again,   like   ringdove 
frayed  and  fled. 

23 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in; 
Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died : 
She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide: 
No  utteretl  syllable,  or  woe  betide! 
But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble, 
Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side; 
As    though    a    tongueless    nightingale    should 
swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled,  in 
her  dell. 

24 
A  casement  high  and  triple  arcljed  there  wjis, 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imag'ries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,   and  bunches  of  knot- 
grass, 

1  delicacies  2  A    dnim-llko   omhrold- 

r«ry    rrumc. 


And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device. 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes. 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damasked  wings; 
And  in  the  midst,   'mong  thousand  heraldries. 
And   twilight  saints,   and   dim  emblazonings, 
A  shielded   scutcheon  blushed  with  blood  of 
queens  and  kings. 

25 

l\ill  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon, 
And    threw    warm    guless    on    IMadeline's    fair 

breast. 
As    down    she    knelt    for    heaven's    gi'ace    and 

boon ; 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest. 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst. 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint: 
She  seemed  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drcst, 
Save  wings,  for  heaven :    Porphyro  grew  faint : 
She  knelt,  so  i)ure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mor- 
tal taint. 

26 

Anon  his  lieart  revives:    her  vespers  done. 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one; 
Loosens  her   fragrant   bodice;     by   degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees; 
Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  seaweed. 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees. 
In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed. 

But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  duuin 
is  fled. 

27 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest. 
In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplexed  she  lay. 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppressed 
Her  soothM  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away; 
Flown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow-day; 
Blissfully  havened  both  from  joy  and  pain; 
Clasped   like   a   missal*    where   swart    Paynims 

pray ; 
Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain, 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud 

again. 

2S 
Stol  'n  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Porphyro  gazed  upon  her  enii)ty  dress, 
-And    listened   to   her   breathing,    if   it   chanced 
To  wake  into  a  shimberoua  tenderness; 
Which  when  lie  heard,  that  minute  did  lie  bless, 
.\nd   breathed   himself:     then    from    the   closet 

crept. 
Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness, 
And  over  the  hushed  carpet,  silent,  stepped, 

t  red  color   (a  heraldic  torm> 

t  ninss-book    (which    pagans    would   liavo   no   occ.t- 
slon  to  unclnsp) 


JOHN  KEA¥s 


487 


And    'tween  the  curtains  peeped,  where,  lo! 
how  fast  she  slept. 

29 

Then  by  the  bed-side,  where  the  faded  moon 
Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 
A  table,  and,  half-anguished,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet: — 
O  for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet! 
The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion. 
The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarinet, 
Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone: — 
The  hall  door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise 
is  gone. 

30 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep. 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavendered, 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd ; 
With  jellies  soother-^  than  the  creamy  curd, 
And  lucent  syrops,  tinct  with  cinnamon ; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferred 
From  Fez;    and  spiced  dainties,  every  one, 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedared  Lebanon. 

31 
These  delicates  he  heaped  with  glowing  hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreath&d  silver:    sumptuous  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night. 
Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light. — 
' '  And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair,  awake ! 
Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite; 
Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake. 
Or   I   shall   drowse   beside   thee,   so    my   soul 
doth  ache." 

32 

Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.     Shaded  was  her  dream 
By    the     dusk     curtains: — 'twas     a     midnight 

charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream: 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam : 
Broad   golden   fringe  upon  the  carpet   lies: 
It   seemed   he   never,   never   could   redeem 
From  such  a  stedfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes; 
So  mused   awhile,  entoiled  in  woofM   phan- 
tasies. 

33 

Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and,  in  chords  that  tenderest  be. 
He  played  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute. 
In    Provence    called,    "La    belle    dame    sans 
mercy : ' '« 


5  .\pparontly  used   here 

fiif     ••smootlKT." 


•i  'Tlio     beautifnl     lady 
without   pity." 


Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody; — 
Wherewith  disturbed,  she  uttered  a  soft  moan: 
He  ceased — she  panted  quick — and  suddenly 
Her  blue  aff rayed  eyes  wide  open  shone: 
Upon    his    knees    he    sank,    pale    as    smooth- 
sculptured  stone. 

34 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld. 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep: 
There    was    a    painful    change,    that    nigh    ex- 
pelled 
The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep, 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep. 
And   moan   forth   witless  words  with   many   a 

sigh; 
While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would  keep ; 
Who  knelt,  with  join&d  hands  and  piteous  eye, 
Fearing    to    move    or    speak,    she    looked    so 
dreamingly. 

35 

"Ah,  Porphyro  I  "  said  she,  "but  even  now 
Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear. 
Made  tuneable  with  every  sweetest  vow ; 
And  those  sad   eyes  were  spiritual  and   clear; 
How  changed  thou  art!    how  pallid,  chill,  and 

drear ! 
Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 
Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings  dear! 
Oh  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe. 

For  if  thou  diest,  my  Love,  I  know  not  where 

to   go." 

36 

Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassioned   fr.r 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose, 
Ethereal,  flushed,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 
Seen  mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  repose; 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 
Blendeth  its  odour  with  the  violet, — 
Solution  sweet:  meantime  the  frost-wind  blows 
Like  Love's  alarum  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 
Against  the  window-panes;    St.  Agnes'  moon 
hath  set. 

37 

*Tis    dark:      quick    pattereth    the    flaw-blown 

sleet : 
' '  This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Madeline ! ' ' 
'Tis  dark:    the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and  beat: 
"Xo  dream,  alas!    alas!    and  woe  is  mine! 
Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade  and  pine. — 
Cruel!    what  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring? 
T  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine. 
Though  thou  forsakest  a  deceiv&d  thing; — 
A  dove  forlorn  and  lost  with  sick  unpruned 

wing. ' ' 


488 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 


38 
"My  Madeline!  sweet  dreamer',  lovely  bride! 
Say,  may  1  be  for  aye  tliy  vassal  blest? 
Thy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shaped  and  vermeil 

dyed  ? 
Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest 
After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 
A  famished  pilgrim, — saved  by  miracle. 
Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy  nest 
Saving  of  thy  sweet  self;  if  thou  think 'st  well 
To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel. 

39 
"Hark!    'tis  an  elfin-storm  from  faery  land, 
Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed: 
Arise — arise!    the  morning  is  at  hand; — 
The  bloated  wassaillers  will  never  heed: — 
Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed; 
There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see, — 
Drowned  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy  mead: 
Awake!  arise!  my  love,  and  fearless  be, 

For  o  'er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a  home 
for  thee." 

40 

She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears. 
For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  around. 
At  glaring  watch,  perhaps,  with  ready  spears — 
Down    the    wide    stairs    a    darkling    way    they 

found. — 
In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  sound. 
A  chain-drooped  lamp  was  flickering  by  each 

door; 
The    arras,    rich    with    horseman,    hawk,    and 

hound, 
Fluttered  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar; 
And   the  long  carpets   rose   along   the   gusty 

floor. 

41 

They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide  hall; 
Like  ])hantoms,  to  the  iron  porch,  they  glide; 
"Where  lay  the  Porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl. 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side: 
The   wakeful   bloodhound   rose,    and    shook   his 

hide. 
But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns: 
By  one  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide: — 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  footworn  stones; — 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges 

groans. 

42 

And  they  are  gone:  ay.  ages  long  ago 

These  lovers  fle<l  away  into  the  storm. 

Thiit  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a  woe. 

And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade  and  form 

Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin-worm, 

Were  lony  bc-nightmared.     .Xngela   the  old 


Died  palsy-twitched,  with  meagre  face  deform; 
The  Beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told, 

For  aye  unsought  for  slept  among  his  ashes 
cold. 

ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 

My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  had  sunk; 
'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 

But  being  too  happy  in  thine  happiness, — 
That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 
In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 

Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease.     10 

O,  for  a  draught  of  vintage!    that  hath  been 

Cooled  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delvfed  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country  green. 

Dance,   and  Provencal  song,i  and  sun-burnt 
mirth ! 
O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene,^ 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 
And  purple-stained  mouth ; 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  un- 
seen. 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest 
dim: 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 
What    thou    among    the    leaves    hast    never 
known. 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,   where   men   sit   and   hear   each    other 
groan; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  gray  hairs, 
Where   youth    grows   pale,    and    spectre-thin, 
and  dies; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs; 
W^here  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes. 
Or     new     Love     pine     at     them     beyond 
to-morrow.  30 

Away!  away!  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards,* 

But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy. 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards: 

1  Of  southern  France,  2  A  fountain  of  the 
tlx-     homo     of    the  Miise.s  on  Mt.  Hell- 

troubadours.  con. 

*  The  sources  of  Koats's  classical  knowledKo  arc 
interesting.  The  suggestion  for  this  partlcn- 
liir  metaphor  came,  doul)tloss,  from  Titian's 
painting  of  Ariadno  (with  Bacchus  and  his 
leopards),  which  was  brought  to  England  in 
1800  and  of  which  Keats  must  at  least  have 
seen  a  print,  for  he  descriiies  it  in  liis  Sleep 
anil  Povtvii,  lino  ."JS.'i.  The  painting  was  p\it 
In  the  National  Gallery  In  lK'_'«i. 


JOHN  KEATS 


489 


Already  with  thee  I   tender  is  the  niglit, 

And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Clustered  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays; 
But  here  there  is  no  light, 
Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes 
blown 
Through    verdurous    glooms    and    winding 
mossy  ways.  "^O 

I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs. 
But,  in  embalmeds  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith   the   seasonable   month   endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild; 
White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine; 
Fast   fading  violets  covered  up   in  leaves; 
And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine. 
The    murmurous    haunt    of    flies    on    summer 
eves.  50 

Darkling  I  listen ;  and,  for*  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
Called  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme. 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath; 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die. 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain. 
While    thou    art    pouring    forth    thy    soul 
abroad 

In  such  an  ecstasy! 
Still  wouldst   thou  ,sing,  and   I  have  ears  in 
vain — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod.         60 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown: 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 
Through  the  sad  heart  of  Kuth,  when,  sick 
for  home. 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn;'- 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charmed    magic    casements,    opening    on    the 
foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn.  TO 

Forlorn!  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self! 
Adieu!  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 

As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu!  adieu!  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 

Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream. 
Up  the  hill-side;  and  now   'tis  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley-glades: 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream? 

Fled  is  that  music: — Do  I  wake  or  sleep! 


3  balmy 

4  inasmuch   as,   while 


R  Ruth,  il. 


ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN* 

Thou  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness, 

Thou  foster-child  of  silence  and  slow  time, 
Sylvan  historian, i   who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme: 
What    leaf-fringed    legend    haunts    about    thy 
shape 
Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both. 
In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady? 
What  men  or  gods  are  these?     What  maidens 
loth? 
What  mad  pursuit?  What  struggle  to  escape? 
What    pipes    and    timbrels?      What    wild 
ecstasy?  10 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 
Are   sweeter;    therefore,  ye   soft   pipes,   play 
on; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endeared. 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone: 
Fair  youth,   beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst   not 
leave 
Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss. 
Though    winning    near    the    goal — yet,    do    not 
grieve ; 
She  cannot   fade,   though   thou   hast   not   thy 
bliss, 
For     ever    wilt     thou     love,     and     she    be 
fair! 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs!   that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu; 
.\nd,  happy  melodist,  unweari&d. 

For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new ; 
More  happy  love!    more  happy,  happy  love! 
For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoyed. 
For  ever  panting,  and  for  ever  young; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above. 

That     leaves     a     heart     high-sorrowful     and 
cloyed, 
A     burning     forehead,     and     a     parching 
tongue.  30 

Who   are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies. 
And    all    her    silken    flanks    with    garlands 
dressed  ? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea  shore, 
Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 
Is  emptied  of  this  folk,  this  pious  morn? 

1  historian  of  sylvan  scenes 

*  "There  is  some  reason  for  thinking  that  the  par- 
ticular urn  which  Inspired  this  heautiful  poem 
is  a  somewhat  woather-hcaten  work  in  marble 
still  preserved  in  the  gardon  of  Holland  House, 
and  figured  in  Piranesi's  VoKi  e  Cnndelabri." 
—  IF.  b;  P'orman. 


490 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 


And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 
Will  silent  be;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 

Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return.    40 

O  Attic  shape!     Fair  attitude!    with  brede^ 
Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought. 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed; 
Thou,    silent    form,    dost    tease    us    out    of 
thoughts 
As  doth  eternity:  Cold  Pastoral! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 
Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 
Than    ours,   a    friend    to    man,    to   whom   thou 
say  'st, 
"Beautv   is   truth,   truth   beauty," — that    is 

air 

Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to 
know.  50 

ODE  ON  MELANCHOLY 

No,  no,  go  not  to  Lethe,  neither  twist 

Wolf's-bane,   tight-rooted,    for   its   poisonous 
wine ; 
Nor  suffer  thy  pale  forehead  to  be  kissed 

By  nightshade,  ruby  grape  of  Proserpine; 
Make  not  your  rosary  of  yew-berries, 

Nor  let  the  beetle,  nor  the  death-moth  be 
Your  mournful  Psyche,^  nor  the  downy  owl 
A  partner  in  your  sorrow's  mysteries; 

For  shade  to  shade  will  come  too  drowsily, 
And    drown    the    wakeful    anguish    of    the 
soul.  10 

But  when  the  melancholy  fit  shall  fall 

Sudden  from  heaven  like  a  weeping  cloud. 
That  fosters  the  droop-headed  flowers  all, 

And  hides  the  green  hill  in  an  April  shroud; 
Then  glut  thy  sorrow  on  a  morning  rose, 
Or  on  the  rainbow  of  the  salt  sand-wave, 
Or  on  the  wealth  of  globed  peonies; 
Or  if  thy  mistress  some  rich  anger  shows, 
Emprison  her  soft  hand,  and  let  her  rave, 
And    feed    deep,    deep    upon    her    peerless 
eyes.  20 

She  dwells  with  Beauty — Beauty  that  must  die; 

And  Joy,  whose  hand  is  ever  at  his  lips 
Bidding  adieu ;  and  acliing  Pleasure  nigh, 

Turning  to  poison  while  the  bee-mouth  sips: 
Ay,  in  the  very  temple  of  Delight 

Veiled  Melancholy  has  her  sovran  shrine. 
Though  seen  of  none  save  him  whose  stren- 
uous tongue 

2  embroidery  (cp.  Col- 
lln«*8  Ode  to  Even- 
ing, line  7,  p.  346) 


8  draw     us     from 
anxieties 


1  Psyche,   the  bohI.   was  conventlonallr  srmbolized 

l)j-  tlic  Initti  rrt.v. 


Can  burst  Joy's  grape  against  his  palate  fine: 

His  soul  shall  taste  the  sadness  of  her  might, 

And     be     among     her      cloudy      trophies 

hung.  30 

TO  AUTUMN 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness, 

Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun; 
Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 
With  fruit   the  vines  that  round  the  thatch- 
eaves  run; 
To  bend  with  apples  the  mossed  cottage-trees 
And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core; 
To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel 
shells 
With  a  sweet  kernel;   to  set  budding  more, 
And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 
Until    they    think    warm    days    will    never 
cease,  10 

For  Summer  has  o'er-brimmed  their  clam- 
my cells. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store? 
Sometimes   whoever   seeks   abroad   may   find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind ; 
Or  on  a  half-reaped  furrow  sound  asleep, 
Drowsed    with    the    fume    of    poppies,    while 
thy  hook 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined 
flowers : 
And   sometimes   like  a  gleaner  thou   dost   keep 
Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook ;        20 
Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look, 

Thou  watchest   the  last  oozings  hours   bv 
hours. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring?    Ay,  where  are 

they? 

Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too, — 

While  barrfed  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day. 

And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  Ime; 

Then  in  a  wailful  choir  tlie  small  gnats  mourn 

Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies; 

And    full-grown    lambs    loud    bleat    from    hilly 

bourn ;  30 

Hedge-crickets    sing;    and    now    with    treble 

soft 
The  red-breast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft ; 
And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 

LINES  ON  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN* 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone, 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known. 

•  The    Mermaid   Tavern    was   a    favorite   resort   of 
Shnlti'spfiirc.    .lonson.   and    tiieir   friends. 


JOHN  KEATS 


491 


10 


Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern, 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern? 
Have  ye  tippled  drink  more  fine 
Than  mine  host's  Canary  wine! 
Or  are  fruits  of  Paradise 
Sweeter  than  those  dainty  pies 
Of  venison?     O  generous  food! 
Drest  as  though  bold  Robin  Hood 
Would,  with  his  maid  Marian, 
Sup  and  bowse  from  horn  and  can. 

1  have  heard  that  on  a  day 
Mine  host 's  sign-board  flew  away, 
Nobody  knew  whither,  till 
An  astrologer 's  old  quill 
To  a  sheepskin  gave  the  story, 
Said  he  saw  you  in  your  glorv', 
Underneath  a  new  old  sign 
Sipping  beverage  divine,  20 

And  pledging  with  contented  smack 
The  Mermaid  in  the  Zodiac. 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone. 
What    Elysium   have   ye   known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern, 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern? 


IN    A    DREAE-NIGHTED    DECEMBER 

Tn  a  drear-nighted  December, 

Too  happy,  happy  tree. 
Thy  branches  ne'er  remember 

Their  green  felicity: 
The  north  cannot  undo  them, 
With  a  sleety  whistle  through  them; 
Nor   frozen   thawings   glue   them 

From  budding  at  the  prime.  8 

In  a  drear-nighted  December, 

Too  happy,  happy  brook, 
Thy  bubblings  ne'er  remember 

Apollo's  summer  look; 
But  with  a  sweet  forgetting, 
They   stay   their   crystal    fretting. 
Never,  never  petting 

About  the  frozen  time.  16 

.\h!   would    'twere  so  with  many 

A  gentle  girl  and  boy! 
But  were  there  ever  any 

Writhed  not  at  pass&d  joy? 
To  know  the  change  and  feel  it, 
When  there  is  none  to  heal  it. 
Nor  numbed  sense  to  steel  it, 

W^as  never  said   in  rhvme.  24 


LA    BELLE    DAME    SANS    MEECI* 

0  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms. 

Alone  and  palely  loitering? 
The  sedge  has  withered  from  the  lake, 

And  no  birds  sing. 

0  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms. 
So  haggard  and  so  woebegone! 

The  squirrel 's  granary  is  full, 

And  the  harvest 's  done.  8 

1  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow, 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever  dew; 
And  on  thy  cheeks  a  fading  rose 
Fast  withereth  too. — 

I  met  a  lady  in  the  meads, 

Full   beautiful — a   faery 's   child  ; 
Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light. 

And  her  eyes  were  wild.  16 

I  made  a  garland  for  her  head, 

And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone; 

She  looked  at  me  as  she  did  love, 
And  made  sweet  moan. 

I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed. 

And  nothing  else  saw,  all  day  long. 

For  sidelong  would  she  bend,  and  sing 

A   faery's   song.  24 

She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet. 
And  honey  wild,  and  manna  dew; 

And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said, 
' ' I  love  thee  true. ' ' 

She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot, 

And  there  she  wept,  and  sighed  full  sore; 
And  there  I  shut  her  wild,  wild  eyes 

With  kisses  four.  32 

And  there  she  lullM  me  asleep. 

And  there  I  dreamed,  ah  woe  betide! 
The  latest  dream  I'  ever  dreamt 

On   the  cold  hill's  side. 

I  saw  pale  kings,  and  princes  too, 

Pale  warriors,  death-pale  were  they  all; 

They  cried,  "La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci 

Hath  thee  in  thrall!"  40 

»  '-The  Fair  Lady  without  Pity."  Cp.  The  Eve  of 
St.  Affiles.  St.  33.  Keats  obtained  the  title 
from  an  old  French  po^ra.  a  translation  of 
which  Was  once  attributed  to  Chaucer.  There 
are  two  versions  of  Keats's  poem,  but  the 
second  is  hardly  an  improvement  over  the 
first,  which  is  the  more  familiar,  and  which 
is  given  here.  The  reply  of  the  knipht  begins 
at  the  fourth  stanza.  The  story  has  some 
resemblance  to  that  of  TannhHn.ser  and  the 
Venusberg. 


492 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 


I  saw  their  starved  lips  in  the  gloam 
With  horrid  warning  gapfed  wide — 

And  I  awoke,  and  found  me  here, 
On  the  cold  hill's  side. 

And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here, 

Alone  and  palely  loitering, 
Though  the  sedge  is  withered  from  the  lake 

And  no  birds  sing.  48 


ON   FIRST  LOOKING   INTO   CHAPMAN'S 
HOMER* 

Much  have  I  travelled  in  the  realms  of  gold, 
And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen ; 
Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 
That  deep-browed  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne; 
Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold: 
Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken; 
Or  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle  eyes 
He  stared  at  the  Pacific — and  all  his  men 
Looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise — 
Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 


ON  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  CRICKETf 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead: 
When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun, 
And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 
From    hedge    to    hedge    about    the    new-mown 

mead; 
That  is  the  Grasshopper's — he  takes  the  lead 
In  summer  luxury, — he  has  never  done 
With  his  delights;  for  when  tired  out  with  fun 
He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  jdeasant  weed. 
The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never: 
On  a  lone  winter  evening,   when   the   frost 
Has  wrought   a   silence,   from   the   stove   there 

shrills 
The  Cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever. 
And  seems  to  one  in  drowsiness  half  lo»t. 
The  Grasshopper's  among  some  grassy  hills. 

•  This  Bonnet  of  discovery  was  written  after 
Keats  had  spent  a  night  with  a  friend  readlnR 
In  Chapman's  translation  (Kmo.  Lit.,  p.  07). 
Keats  covild  not  read  <!reek.  but  had  to  con- 
tent himself  mainly  with  "western  Islands" 
of  poetry  and  romance.  It  should  be  noted 
that  It  was  not  ("ortez,  but  Balboa,  who  dis- 
covered  the   raclfic. 

t  Written  In  a  friendly  competition  with  I.elK'b 
Hunt.      See  Hunt's  sonnet,  p.  40rt. 


ON  SEEING  THE  ELGIN  MARBLES$ 

My  spirit  is  too  weak — mortality 

Weighs  heavily  on  me  like  unwilling  sleep. 

And  each  imagined  pinnacle  and  steep 

Of  godlike  hardship  tells  me  I  must  die 

Like  a  sick  Eagle  looking  at  the  sky. 

Yet    'tis  a  gentle  luxury  to  weep 

That  I  have  not  the  cloudy  winds  to  keep, 

Fresh  for  the  opening  of  the  morning's  eye. 

Such  dim-conceived  glories  of  the  brain 

Bring  round  the  heart  an  undescribable  feud; 

So  do  these  wonders  a  most  dizzy  i>ain. 

That  mingles  Grecian  grandeur  with  the  rude 

Wasting  of  old   Time — with  a  billowy  main — 

A  sun — a  shadow  of  a  magnitude. 


ON  THE  sea; 

It  keeps  eternal  whisperings  around 
Desolate  shores,  and  with  its  mighty  swell 
Gluts  twice  ten  thousand  caverns,  till  the  spell 
Of    Hecatei    leaves    them    their    old    shadowy 

sound. 
Often   'tis  in  such  gentle  temper  found. 
That  scarcely  will  the  very  smallest  shell 
Be   moved   for   days   from   where   it   sometime 

fell, 
Wlien  last  the  winds  of  heaven  were  unbound. 
Oh    ye!    who    have    your    eye-balls    vexed    and 

tired, 
Feast  them  upon  the  wideness  of  the  Sea; 
Oh    ye!    whose    ears    are    dinned    with    uproar 

rude, 
Or  fed  too  much  with  cloying  melody — 
Sit  ye  near  some  old  cavern's  mouth,  and  brood 
Until  ye  start,  as  if  the  sea-nymphs  quired! 

WHEN  I  HAVE  FEARS  THAT  I  MAY 
CEASE  TO  BE 

When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be 
Before  my  pen  has  gleaned  my  teeming  brain. 
Before  high-piled  books,  in  charactery, 
Hold  like  rich  garners  the  full  ripened  grain; 
When  I  behold,  upon  the  night's  starred  face. 
Huge  cloudy  symbols  of  a  high  romance, 
And  think  that  I  may  never  live  to  trace 
Their  shadows,  with  the  magic  hand  of  chance; 
.\n(l  when  I  feel,  fair  creature  of  an  hour! 
That  I  shall  never  look  u]ion  thee  more. 
Never  have  relish  in  the  faery  power 
Of  unreflecting  love! — then  on  the  shore 
Of  the  wide  world  I  stand  alone,  and  think 
Till  Love  and  Fame  to  nothingness  do  sink. 

1  The   moon. 

I  These  marbles  are  mainly  sculptures  from  the 
Parthenon  which  were  transferred  from 
Athens  to  London   bv   Lord   Klgin   In   ISO.I. 


LATE  GEORGIAN  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS 


403 


BRIGHT    STAR!    WOULD   I   WERE    STED- 
FAST  AS   THOU   ART* 

Bright   star!    would   I   were   stedfast    as   thou 

art — 
Not  in  lone  splendour  bung  aloft  the  night, 
And  watching,  with  eternal  lids  apart, 
Like  Nature's  patient,  sleepless  Eremite, 
The  moving  waters  at  their  priestlike  task 
Of  pure  ablution  round  earth 's  human  shores. 
Or  gazing  on  the  new  soft-fallen  mask 
Of  snow  upon  the  mountains  and  the  moors — 
No — yet   still  stedfast,  still  unchangeable, 
Pillowed  upon  my  fair  love 's  ripening  breast. 
To  feel  for  ever  its  soft  fall  and  swell. 
Awake  for  ever  in  a  sweet  unrest, 
Still,  still  to  hear  her  tender-taken  breath. 
And  so  live  ever — or  else  swoon  to  death. 


LATE  GEORGIAN  BALLADS  AND 
LYRICSt 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY  (1774-1843) 
The  Battle  of  BlenheimJ 

It  was  a  summer  evening; 

Old  Kaspar's  work  was  done. 
And  he  before  his  cottage  door 

Was  sitting  in  the  sun; 
And  by  him  sported  on  the  green 
His  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine.  6 

She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 
Roll  something  large  and  round, 

Which  he  beside  the  rivulet 
In  playing  there  had  found. 

He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found. 

That  was  so  large,  and  smooth,  and  round.     12 

Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  boy, 
Who  stood  expectant  by; 


•  This  sonnet  was  composed  on  the  Dorsetshire 
coast  just  as  Keats  was  sailing  for  Italy  the 
autumn  before  his  death.  It  was  written  in 
a  copy  of  Shakespeare's  poems  on  a  blank  page 
facing  A    Lnrer'n  Coniplnini. 

t  Under  this  general  title  are  given  here  some 
minor  poems  of  the  early  decades  of  the  nine 
teenth  century,  though  one  or  two  are  really 
post-Georgian.  Hunt's  Abov  hen  Adhew.  for 
instance,  is  as  late  as  1844:  but  Hunt  wa< 
himself  a  contemporary  of  Shelley  and  Keats 
The  poems  have  been  selected  partly  for  theii 
real  value  as  shown  by  their  continued  popu 
larlty.  and  partly  to  illustrate  the  character 
and  r:inee  of  the  minor  verse  of  the  period. 

tAt  Blenheim,  in  Bavaria,  in  1704,  the  British 
and  their  German  allies,  under  the  Duke  of 
Marlborough  and  the  .\uFtrlan  Prince  Eugene, 
defeated  the  French  and  Bavarians  with  great 
loss. 


And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head. 

And  with  a  natural  sigh, 
"  'Tis  some  poor  fellow's  skull,"  said  he, 
'  *  Who  fell  in  the  great  victory.  18 

"^I  find  them  in  the  garden, 

For  there's  many  here  about; 
And  often,   when  1  go  to  plough. 

The  ploughshare  turns  them  out; 
For  many  thousand  men,"  said  he, 
* '  Were  slain  in  that  great  victory. ' '  24 

"Now  tell  us  what  'twas  all  about," 

Young  Peterkin,  he  cries; 
And  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up 

With  wonder- waiting  eyes; 
' '  Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war, 
And  what  they  fought  each  other  for."       30 


' '  It  was  the  English, ' '  Kaspar  cried, 
"Who  put  the  French  to  rout; 

But  what  they  fought  each  other  for, 
I  could  not  well  make  out; 

But  everybody  said,"   quoth   he, 

* '  That    'twas  a   famous  victory. 


36 


' '  My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then, 

Yon  little  stream  hard  by; 
They  burnt  his  dwelling  to  the  ground, 

And  he  was  forced  to  fly; 
So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled, 
Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 

"With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 

Was  wasted  far  and  wide. 
And  many  a  childing  mother  then. 

And    new-born    baby,    died ; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
At  every  famous  victory. 

"They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight 

After  the  field  was  won; 
For  many  thousand  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
.\fter  a  famous  victory. 


42 


48 


54 


"Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlboro'  won, 

And  our  good  Prince  Eugene." 
"Why,  'twas  a  very  wicked  thing!" 

Said  little  Wilhelmine. 
"Nay,  nay,  my  little  girl,"  quoth  he; 
' '  It  was  a  famous  victory.  60 

"And    everybody   praised    the   Duke 

Who  this  great  fight  did  win. ' ' 
"But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last  ?" 


494 


THE  ROMANTIC  KEVIVAL 


Quoth  little  Peterkin. 
"Why,  that  I  cannot  tell,"  said  he; 
'  *  But   'twas  a  famous  victory. ' '  66 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL  (1777-1844) 

Ye  Mariners  op  England 

A  Naval  Ode* 

Ye  mariners  of  England! 

That  guard  our  native  seas; 

Whose  flag  has  braved,  a  thousand  years, 

The  battle  and  the  breeze! 

Your  glorious  standard  launch   again 

To  match  another  foe! 

And  sweep  through  the  deep 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 

'\\'Tiile  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow.  10 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave! — 

For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 

And  Ocean  was  their  grave: 

Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  foil, 

Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 

As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long. 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow.  20 


Britannia  needs  no  bulwarks, 

No  towers  along  the  steep; 

Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain  waves, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep, 

With  thunders  from  her  native  oak, 

She  quells  the  floods  below, — 

As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 

When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 


The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn. 

Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart. 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean  warriors! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 

To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow; 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 


30 


40 


•This  poem  was  wrltton.  It  Is  said.  In  1800,  on 
the  prospect  of  n  war  with  Russia  (soo  lino 
.T)  ;  bnt  It  must  hnvp  nndorsrone  some  littor 
rpvlslon.  for  NoNon  (lino  1i))  foil  nt  Trafalijnr 
In  180.%.     Admiral  Robort  Rlako  diod  at  soa  In 


HOHENLINDENf 
On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 
All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow. 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly: 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight, 

When  the  drum  beat  at  dead  of  night, 

Commanding  fires  of  death   to  light 

The    darkness   of    her    scenery.  8 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  arrayed. 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle  blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neighed. 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven, 
Then  rushed  the  steed  to  battle  driven. 
And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven, 
Far  flashed  the  red  artillery.  16 

But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow 
On  Linden  's  hills  of  stained  snow, 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

'Tis  morn,  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 

Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun. 

Where  furious  Frank,  and  fiery  Hun, 

Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy.  24 

The  combat  deepens.     On,  ye  brave, 
Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave! 
Wave,  Munich!  all  thy  banners  wave, 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry! 

Few,  few,  shall  part  where  many  meet! 

The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet, 

.4nd  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 

Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre.  32 

CHARLES  WOLFE   (1791-1823) 
The  Burial  of  Sir  John  MooREt 
Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 

As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried; 
Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

t  At  the  Bavarian  village  of  Ilohcnlinden,  not  far 
from  Munich,  the  Auslrian  army  (reforrod  to 
In  this  poem  as  the  "Hun")  was  defeated  bv 
the  French  (the  "Frank")  In  December,  1800. 
Campbell  did  not  witness  the  battle,  as  a 
pleasing  tradition  relates,  but  he  was  on  the 
continent  at  the  time  and  witnessed  at  least 
one  skirmish.  Scott  greatly  admired  this  bal- 
lad, though  the  author  himself  spoke  .some- 
what contomptuonsly  of  its  "drum  and  trum- 
p(>t  lines." 

t  Sir  John  Moore,  a  British  general,  was  killed  at 
Corunna  In  January,  1800,  just  as  the  British 
tri)ops.  retreatinjr  from  the  French,  wen*  about 
to  embark,  though  he  lived  long  enough  to 
hear  that  the  French  were  beaten  hack.  He 
was  burled  at  night  In  the  citadel. 


LATE  GEORGIAN  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS 


495 


We  buried  him  darkly,  at  dead  of  night. 
The  sods  «ith  our  bayonets  turning; 

Ky  the  struggling  moonbeam 's  misty  light, 
Anil  the  lantern  dimly  burning.  8 

No  useless  coflSn  enclosed  his  breast, 

Not  in  sheet  or  in  shroud  we  wound  him, 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow ; 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that  was 
dead. 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow.     16 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed 
And  smoothed   down  his  lonely  pillow. 

That    the    foe    and    the    stranger    would    tread 
o  'er  his  head. 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow! 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone, 
And   o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him; 

But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him.    24 

But  half  of  our  weary  task  was  done 

When  the  clock  struck  the  note  for  retiring ; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
Of  the  enemy  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down. 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory ; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone. 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory.  32 

THOMAS  MOORE  (1779-1852) 

The  Harp  that  Oxce  Through  Tara's  Hau,.s§ 

The  harp  that  once  through  Tara  's  halls 

The  soul  of  music  shed. 
Now  hangs  as  mute  on  Tara  's  walls 

As  if  that  soul  were  fled. 
So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days, 

So   glory 's  thrill   is  o  'er. 
And  hearts  that   once  beat  high  for  praise 

Now  feel  that  pulse  no  more!  s 

No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 

The  harp  of  Tara  swells; 
The  chord  alone  that  breaks  at  night 

Its  tale  of  riiin  tells. 
Thus  Freedom  now   so  seldom  wakes, 

The  only  throb  she  gives 
Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks, 

To  show  that  still  she  lives.  16 


I  Tara  Flill,  some  twenty  miles  from  Dublin,  is 
said  to  have  been  "tho  seat  of  the  nnol«>nt 
kings  of  Ireland. 


The  Minstrel  Boy 

The  Minstrel-boy  to  the  war  is  gone, 

In  the  ranks  of  death  you  '11  find  him ; 
His  father's  sword  he  has  girded  on. 

And  his  wild  harp  slung  behin<l  him. — 
"Land  of  song!  "  said  the  warriorbard, 

"Though  all  the  world  betrays  thee. 
One  sworil  at  least  thy  rights  shall  guard, 

One  faithful  harp  shall  praise  thee!  "  8 

The  Minstrel  fell! — but  the  foeman's  chain 

Could  not  bring  his  proud  soul  under; 
The  harp  he  loved  ne'er  spoke  again. 

For  he  tore  its  cords  asunder; 
And  said,  ' '  No  chains  shall  sully  thee. 

Thou  soul  of  love  and  bravery! 
Thy  songs  were  made  for  the  brave  and  free, 

They  shall  never  sound  in  slavery!  " 

Oft,  in  the  Stilly  Night 
(Scotch  Air) 
Oft,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Fond  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me; 
The  smiles,   the  tears. 
Of  boyhood's  years, 
The  words  of  love  then  spoken ; 
The  eyes  that  shone. 
Now  dimmed  and  gone. 
The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken!  10 

Thus,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere   Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me. 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

When  I  remember  all 

The  friends,  so  linked  together, 
I  've  seen  around   me  fall, 

Like  leaves  in  wintry  weather; 
T  feel  like  one 
Who  treads  alone 
Some  banquet-hall  deserted, 
Whose  lights  are  fled, 
Whose  garlands  dead. 
And  all  but  he  departed! 
Thus,  in  the  stilly  night. 

Ere  Slumber's  chain   has  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 


20 


HARLES    LAMB    (1775-1834 
Thi;  Old  Familiar  Faces 
I  have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions, 
In  my  days  of  .childhood,  in  my  joyful  school- 
days— 
.\ll,  all   are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 


49(1 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 


T  have  been  laughing,  I  have  been  carousing, 
Drinking    late,    sitting    late,    with    my    bosom 

cronies — 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces.  6 

I  loved  a  love  once,  fairest  among  women; 
Closed   are   her   <loors   on    me,    I   must   not   see 

her — 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has  no  man ; 
Like  an  ingrate,  I  left  my  friend  al)niptly; 
Left     him,     to     muse     on     the     old     familiar 
faces.  12 

Ghost  like    I    paced    round    the    haunts    of    my 

childhood, 
Earth  seemed  a  desert  I  was  bound  to  traverse. 
Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Frienrl  of  my  bosom,  thou  more  than  a  brother. 
Why     wert     not     thou     born     in     my     father  "s 

dwelling? 
So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar  faces —  IS 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they  have 

left  me, 
And  some  are  taken  from  me ;  all  are  departed ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 


WALTER     SAVAGE     LANDOR 
Rose  Aylmek* 


(1775-1864) 


Ah   Mhat   avails   the   sceptred   race, 

Ah  what  the  form  divine! 
What  every  virtue,  every  grace! 

Rose  Aylmer,  all  were  thine. 

Rose  Aylmer,  whom  these  wakeful  eyes 

May  weep,  but  never  .see, 
A  night  of  memories  and  of  sighs 

I  consecrate  to  thee. 


LETGH    HUNT     (1784-1859) 

To  THE  GUA.SSHOPPEK   A.\D  THE  CRICKETf 

Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass. 
Catching  your  heart  up  at  the  feel  of  June, 
Sole   voice  that 's  heard  amidst  the  lazy   noon. 
When  even  the  bees  lag  at  the  summoning  brass; 

•  Rose,  a  daughter  of  Baron  Aylmer.  and  a  youth- 
ful compHnlon  of  I.andor.  died  In  India  In 
IHOd. 

t  Wrilten  in  fomp<'tltlon  with  Keats,  whose  sonnet 
miiy  Ik-  seen  on  p.  4J)i.'. 


And  you,  warm  little  housekeeper,  who  class 
With   those    who    think    the    candles   come    t<>o 

soon. 
Loving  the  fire,  and  with  your  tricksome  tune 
Nick  the  glad  silent  moments  as  they  pa.ss; 
O  sweet  and  tiny  cousins,  that  belong. 
One  to  the  fields,  the  other  to  the  hearth. 
Both  have  your  sunshine;    both,  though  small, 

are  strong 
At  your  clear  hearts;   and  l>oth  seem  given  to 

earth 
To  ring  in  thoughtful  ears  this  natural  song — 
Indoors  and  out,  summer  an<l  winter,  Mirth. 


Rondeau 

.fenny  kissed  me  when  we  met. 

Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in; 
Time,  you  thief,  who  love  to  get 

Sweets  into  your  list,  put  that  in : 
Say  I'm  weary,  say  I'm  sad. 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  missed  me, 
Say  I'm  growing  old,  but  add, 

Jenny  kissed  me. 


Abou  Ben  Adhem 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  increase!) 
Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace. 
And  saw,  within  the  moonlight  in  his  room. 
Making  it  rich,  and  like  a  lily  in  bloom, 
An  angel  writing  in  a  book  of  gold: 
Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  bold. 
And  to  the  presence  in  the  room  he  said, 
"What   writest   thou?" — The   vision   raised   its 

head. 
And,  whh  a  look  made  of  all  sweet  accord,        9 
Answered,  "The  names  of  those  who  love  the 

Lord. ' ' 
"And  is  mine  one!"  sai<l  Abou.     "  Nav,   not 

so," 

Replied  the  angel.     Abou  spoke  more  low. 
But  cheerly  still;  and  said,  "I  pray  thee,  then. 
Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow-men.  "t 

The    angel    wrote,    and    vanished.      The    next 
night 
It  came  again,  with  a  great  wakening  light, 
.\nd  showed  the  names  whom  love  of  (^toil  had 

blessed, — 
And  lo!  Ben  Adhem 's  name  led  all  tiie  rest. 


(This    line    is    carved    on     Hunt's    moniunent    In 
Kensal  (Jreon  Cemetery. 


LATE  GEORGIAN  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS 


497 


WINTHROP  MACKWORTH  PRAED 
(1802-1839) 

Letters  From  Teigx mouth.   I. — Our  Ball§ 

You'll  come  to  our  ball; — since  we  parted 

I've  thought  of  you  more  than  I'll  say; 
Indeed,  I  was  half  broken-hearted 

For  a  week,  when  they  took  you  away. 
Fond  fancy  brought  back  to  my  slumbers 

Our  walks  on  the  Ness  and  the  Den, 
And  echoed  the  musical  numbers 

Which  you  used  to  sing  to  me  then. 
I  know   the  romance,   since  it 's  over, 

'Twere  idle,  or  worse,  to  recall; — 
I  know  you're  a  terrible  rover; 

But,  Clarence,  you'll  come  to  our  Ball  I         12 

It 's  only  a  year  since,  at  College, 

You  ])ut  on  your  cap  and  your  gown; 
But,  Clarence,  you're  grown  out  of  knowledge, 

And  changed  from  the  spur  to  the  crown; 
The  voice  that  was  best  when  it  faltered. 

Is  fuller  and  firmer  in  tone: 
And  the  smile  that  should  never  have  altered, — 

Dear   Clarence, — it   is  not  your   own; 
Your  cravat  was  badly  selected, 

Your  coat  don't  become  you  at  all; 
And   why  is  your  hair   so   neglected? 

You  must  have  it  curled  for  our  Ball.  24 

I  've  often  been  out  upon  Haldon 

To  look  for  a  covey  with  Pup; 
I've  often  been  over  to  Shaldon, 

To  see  how  your  boat  is  laid  up. 
In  spite  of  the  terrors  of  Aunty, 

I  've  ridden  the  filly  you  broke ; 
And  I  've  studied  your  sweet  little  Dante 

In  the  shade  of  your  favourite  oak: 
When  I  sat  in  July  to  Sir  Lawrence, 

I  sat  in  your  love  of  a  shawl; 
And    I'll    wear    what    you    brought    me    from 
Florence, 

Perhaps,  if  you'll  come  to  our  Ball.  36 

{  This  is  a  specimen  of  the  half  gay,  luilf  grave 
vera  tie  sociHe  of  wlilch  Praed  was  a  master. 
Teignmoutli  Is  a  watering-place  in  Devonshire. 
The  various  places  named  belong  to  the  local- 
ity. The  Noss  is  a  promontory.  The  Den  is  a 
promenade  formed  by  a  sand-banic  between  the 
town  and  the  sea.  Maiden  Is  a  range  of  hills  : 
Shaldon,  a  village  just  a<'ross  the  river  Teign  : 
Dawlish,  another  seaside  resort  three  miles 
away.  As  for  the  other  allusions.  Sir  Thomas 
Lawrence  was  a  famous  portrait  painter  of 
that  date  (1829)  :  National  Schools  (line  3S) 
had  lately  been  established  at  various  places 
by  a  national  society  for  the  education  of  the 
poor :  "Captain  Rocli"  was  a  fictitious  name 
signed  to  public  notices  by  one  of  the  Irish 
insurgents  of  1822:  "Hock"  is  a  Icind  of  wine 
— Hochheimer ;  a  "Blue"  Is  a  "blue-stocking" 
— a  woman  affecting  literature  and  politics. 


You'll  find  us  all  changed  since  you  Tanished; 

We've  set  up  a  National  School; 
.\nd  waltzing  is  utterly  banished; 

And  Ellen  has  married  a  fool; 
The  Major  is  going  to  travel; 

Miss  Hyacinth  threatens  a  rout ; 
The  walk  is  laid  down  with  fresh  gravel; 

Papa  is  laid  up  with  the  gout; 
And  Jane  has  gone  on  with  her  easels. 

And  Anne  has  gone  off  with  Sir  Paul; 
And  Fanny  is  sick  with   the  measles. 

And  I  '11  tell  you  the  rest  at  the  Ball.  48 

You'll  meet  all  your  beauties; — the  Lily, 

And  the  Fairy  of  Willowbrook  Farm, 
.\nd  Lucy,  who  made  me  so  silly 

At  Dawlish,  by  taking  your  arm; 
Miss  Manners,  who  always  abused  you, 

For  talking  so  much  about  Hock; 
And  her  sister,  who  often   amused  you, 

By  raving  of  rebels  and  Rock; 
And  something  which  surely  would  answer. 

An  heiress  quite  fresh  from  Bengal : — 
t?o,  though  you  were  seldom  a  dancer, 

You'll  dance,  just  for  once,  at  our  Ball.      t-^' 

But  out  on  the  world! — from  the  flowers 

It  shuts  out  the  sunshine  of  truth; 
It  blights  the  green  leaves  in  the  bowers, 

It  makes  an  old  age  of  our  youth: 
And  the  flow  of  our  feeling,  once  in  it, 

Like  a  streamlet  beginning  to  freeze, 
Though  it  cannot  turn  ice  in  a  minute, 

Grows  harder  by  sudden  degrees. 
Time  treads  o'er  the  graves  of  affection; 

Sweet  honey  is   turned   into   gall; 
Perhaps  you  have  no  recollection 

That  ever  you  danced  at  our  Ball.  72 

You  once  could  be  pleased  with  our  ballads — 

To-day  you  have  critical  ears; 
You  once  could  be  charmed  with  our  salads — 

Alas!   you've  been  dining  with  Peers; 
You  trifled  and  flirted  with  many; 

You've  forgotten  the  when  and  the  how; 
There  was  one  you  liked  better  than  any — 

Perhaps  you've  forgotten  her  now. 
But  of  those  you  remember  most  newly. 

Of  those  who  delight  or  inthrall, 
None  love  you  a  quarter  so  truly 

As  some  you  will  find  at  our  Ball.  84 

They  tell  me  you've  many  who  flatter. 
Because  of  your  wit  and  your  song; 

They  tell  me  (and  what  does  it  matter?) 
You  like  to  be  praised  by  the  throng; 

They  tell  me  you're  shadowed  with  laurel, 
They  tell  me  you're  loved  by  a  Blue; 

They  tell  me  you're  sadly  immoral — 


498 


THE  EOMAXTIC  REVIVAL 


Dear  Clarence,  that  cannot  be  true! 
But  to  me  you  are  still  what  I  found  you 

Before  you  grew  clever  and  tall; 
And  you'll  think  of  the  spell  that  once  bound 
you ; 
And  you'll  come,  won't  you  come?    to  our 
Ball?  96 


THOMAS    LOVELL    BEDDOES    (1803-1849) 
Dream-Pedlary* 

If  there  were  dreams  to  sell, 

What  would  you  buy? 
Some  cost  a  passing-bell; 

Some  a  light  sigh, 
That  shakes  from  Life's  fresh  crown 
Only  a  rose-leaf  down. 
If  there  were  dreams  to  sell, 
Merry  and  sad  to  tell. 
And  the  crier  rang  the  bell, 

What  would  you  buy? 

A  cottage  lone  and  still. 

With  bowers  nigh. 
Shadowy,  my  woes  to  still 

Until  I  die. 
Such  pearl  from  Life's  fresh   crown 
Fain  would  I  shake  me  down : 
W^ere  dreams  to  have  at  will. 
This  would  best  heal  my  ill, 

This  would  I  buy. 


But  there  were  dreams  to  sell 

111  didst  thou  buy; 
Life  is  a  dream,  they  tell. 

Waking,  to  die. 
Dreaming  a  dream  to  prize, 
Is  wishing  ghosts  to  rise; 
And,  if  I  had  the  spell 
To  call  the  buried  well, 

Which  one  would  It 

If  there  are  ghosts  to  raise, 

What  shall  I  call, 
Out  of  hell's  murky  haze, 

Heaven's   blue    pallf 
Raise  my  loved  long-lost  boy 
To  lead  me  to  his  joy — 
There  are  no  ghosts  to  raise; 
Out  of  death  lead  no  ways; 

Vain  is  the  call. 

Know'st  thou  not  ghosts  to  sue, 

No  love  thou  hast. 
Else  lie,  as  I  will  do, 


20 


30 


40 


•  TlilH  |>ooin  Ih  somewhat  obHcuie,  but  to  para- 
))hrns(«  It  into  perfect  liirUllty  would  In-  to 
ueHtro^'  tin  *-lcmcut  of  It.s  rburui. 


And  breathe  thy  last. 
So  out  of  Life's  fresh  crown 
Fall  like  a  rose-leaf  down. 
Thus  are  the  ghosts  to  woo; 
Thus  are  all  dreams  made  true, 

Ever  to  last! 


THOMAS  HOOD    (1798-1845) 

The  Death-bed 

We  watched  her  breathing  through  the  night. 

Her  breathing  soft  and  low. 
As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 

Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 

So  silently  we  seemed  to  speak. 

So  slowly  moved  about. 
As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 

To  eke  her  living  out.  8 

Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears. 

Our  fears  our  hopes  belied — 
We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept, 

And  sleeping  when  she  died. 

For  when  the  morn  came  dim  and  sad. 

And  chill  with  early  showers. 
Her  quiet  eyelids  closed — she  had 

Another  morn  than  ours.  16 


The  Song  of  the  Shirt 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn. 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 
Stitch!   stitch!   stitch! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt. 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  ])itch 

She  sang  the  ' '  Song  of  the  Shirt ' '.  8 

"Work!  work!   work! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof! 
And  work — work — work, 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof! 
It 's  Oh !  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  tlie  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save, 

If  this  is  Christian  work!  16 

' '  Work — work — work. 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim; 
Work — work — work, 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim  1 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band. 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 
Till  over  the  btittons  T  fall  asleep, 

.\nd  sow  them  on  in  a  drenni!  24 


LATE  GEORGIAN  BALLADS  AND  LYEICS 


•199 


"Oh,  Men,  with  Sisters  dear! 

Oh,  Men,  with  Mothers  and  Wives! 
It  is  not  linen  you're  wearing  out, 

But  human  creatures'  lives! 
Stitch — stitch — stitch. 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt. 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  Shroud  as  well  as  a  Shirt. 

• '  But  why  do  I  talk  of  Death  ? 

That  Phantom  of  grisly  bone, 
I  hardly  fear  its  terrible  shape, 

It  seems  so  like  my  own — 
It  seems  so  like  mj'  own. 

Because  of  the  fasts  I  keep; 
Oh,  God !   that  bread  should  be  so  dear 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap  I 

•  •  Work — work — work ! 

My  labour  never  flags; 
And  what  are  its  wages?    A  bed  of  straw, 

A  crust  of  bread — and  rags. 
That  shattered  roof — this  naked  floor — 

A  table — a  broken  chair — 
And  a  wall  so  blank,  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes  falling  there  I 


40 


4J 


' '  Work — work — work ! 

From  weary  chime  to  chime. 
Work — work — work, 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime  I 
Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam. 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band. 
Till  the  heart  is  sick,  and  the  bniin  benumbed. 

As  well  as  the  wearj-  hand.  56 


' '  Work — w  ork — work. 

In  the  dull  December  light. 
And  work — work — work, 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  biig'it- 
While  underneath  the  eaves 

The  brooding  swallows  cling 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs 

And  twit  me  with  the  spring. 


64 


"Oh I  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet — 
With  the  sky  above  my  head. 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet ; 
For  only  one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel. 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal. 

"  Oh !  but  for  one  short  hour ! 

A  respite  however  brief  I 
No  blessed  leisure  for  Love  or  Hope, 

But  only  time  for  Grief ! 


A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart, 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread !  "  SO 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 
Stitch!   stitch!   stitch! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch, — 
Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  Rich!  — 

She  sang  this  ' '  Song  of  the  Shirt !  "  89 


ROBERT   STEPHEN   HAWKER    (1803-1875) 
The  Song  of  the  Western  Men* 

A  good  sword  and  a  trusty  hand! 

A  merry  heart  and  true! 
King  James 's  men  shall  understand 

What  Cornish  lads  can  do. 

And  have  they  fixed  the  where  and  when  I 

And  shall  Trelawny  die! 
Here's  twenty  thousand  Cornish  men 

Will  know  the  reason  whv !  S 


Out  spake  their  captain  brave  and  bold, 

A  merry  wight  was  he : 
"If  London  Tower  were  Michael's  hold, 

We'll  set  Trelawny  free! 

' '  We  '11  cross  the  Tamar,  land  to  laud. 

The  Severn  is  no  stay. 
With  'one  and  all,'  and  hand  in  hand. 

And  who  shall  bid  us  nay  ?  16 

"And  when  we  come  to  London  Wall. 

A  pleasant  sight  to  view. 
Come  forth !   come  forth,  ye  cowards  all. 

Here 's  men  as  good  as  you ! 

' '  Trelaw  ny  he 's  in  keep  and  hold. 

Trelawny  he  may  die; 
But  here 's  twenty  thousand  Cornish  bold. 

Will  know  the  reason  whv!  "  -i 


In  1688,  Sir  .Jonathan  Trehuvny.  a  native  of 
Cornwall,  was,  with  six  othor  bishops,  thrown 
into  the  Tower  of  London  for  resisting  James 
the  Second's  Declaration  of  Indulgence.  lie 
was  soon  released.  It  was  long  supposed  that 
this  ballad,  which  was  first  printed  anony- 
mously, dated  from  that  time.  The  refrain  is 
ancient,  but  the  ballad  was  written  by  Hawker 
in  1825.  The  Tamar  and  Severn  (lines  1?. 
and  14)  are  rivers  of  southwestern  England. 
Michael  (line  11)  is  the  archangel  to  whom 
was  given  the  task  of  overthrowing  Satan  and 
consigning  him  to  hell. 


500 


THE  BOMANTIC  REVIVAL 


The  Silent  Towek  of  BottkeauI 
Tintadgel  bells  ring  o  Vr  the  tide, 
The  boy  leans  on  his  vessel  side ; 
He  hears  that  sound,  and  dreams  of  home 
Soothe  the  wild  orphan  of  the  foam. 

"Come  to  thy  God  in  time!  " 

Thus  saith  their  pealing  chime: 

Youth,  manhood,  old  age  past, 

' '  Come  to  thy  God  at  last. ' ' 

Hut  why  are  Bottreau 's  echoes  still? 
Her  tower  stands  proudly  on  the  hill ; 
Yet  the  strange  chough  that  home  hath  founi 
The  lamb  lies  sleeping  on  the  ground. 

"Come  to  thy  God  in  time!  " 

Should  be  her  answering  chime: 

' '  Come  to  thy  God  at  last ! ' ' 

Should  echo  ou  the  blast. 

The  ship  rode  down  with  courses  free, 
The  daughter  of  a  distant  sea: 
Her  sheet  was  loose,  her  anchor  stored. 
The  merry  Bottreau  bells  on  board. 

'  *  Come  to  thy  God  in  time !  ' ' 

Rung  out  Tintadgel  chime; 

Youth,  manhood,  old  age  past, 

' '  Come  to  thv  God  at  last ! ' ' 


16 


24 


llie  pilot  heard  his  native  bells 
Hang  on  the  breeze  in  fitful  swells; 
"Thank  God,"  with  reverent  brow  he  cried, 
' '  We  make  the  shore  with  evening  'c  tide. ' ' 

"Come  to  thy  God  in  time!  " 

It  was  his  marriage  chime: 

Youth,  manhood,  old  age  past, 

His  bell  must  ring  at  last.  32 

"Thank  God,  thou  whining  knave,  on  land, 
But  thank,  at  sea,  the  steersman  's  hand, ' ' 
The  captain's  voice  above  the  gale: 
' '  Thank  the  good  ship  and  ready  sail. ' ' 

"Come  to  thy  God  in  time!  " 

Sad  grew  the  boding  chime: 

"Come  to  thy  God  at  last  I  " 

Boomed  heavy  on  the  blast.  40 

Tprose  that  sea!  as  if  it  heard 

The  mighty  Master 's  signal-word : 

What  thrills  the  captain's  whitening  lip? 

♦  "The  rngjjod  hpls;hts  that  line  tlio  soa-shorc  In 
Mio  n<'ii;lil»i>iliood  of  Tintadgel  <'a8tle  and 
Cluircli  [on  the  coast  of  (Cornwall  1  aro  crestfd 
Avlth  towerK.  AmonR  theso,  that  of  Bottroau. 
or.  as  it  Is  now  written,  Bosfastlo,  Is  without 
bcllH.  The  silence  of  this  wild  and  lonely 
cliurchyard  on  festive  or  solemn  occasions  Is 
not  a  little  striking-  On  ennnlry  I  was  told 
that  the  bells  were  once  snipped  for  this 
church,  but  that  when  the  vessel  was  within 
sleht  of  the  tower  the  blasphemy  of  her  cap* 
tain  was  punished  In  the  manner  related  In 
the  Poem.  The  bells,  they  told  me.  still  lie 
In  the  bay.  and  announce  by  strani;c  sotinds 
IJie  approach  of  a  storm." — 11.  8.  Hawker. 


Tiie  death-groans  of  his  sinking  shiji. 
' '  Come  to  thy  God  in  time !  ' ' 
Swung  deep  the  funeral  chime: 
Grace,  mercy,  kindness  past, 
' '  Come  to  thy  God  at  last !  "  -is 

Long  did  the  rescued  pilot  tell — 
When  gray  hairs  o  'er  his  forehead  fell, 
While  those  around  Avould  hear  and  weep — 
That  fearful  judgment  of  the  deep. 

"Come  to  thy  God  in  time!  " 

He  read  his  native  chime: 

Youth,  manhood,  old  age  past, 

His  bell  rung  out  at  last.  'iii 

Still  when  the  storm  of  Bottreau  's  waves 
Ts  wakening  in  his  weedy  caves. 
Those  bells,  that  sullen  surges  hide, 
Peal  their  deep  notes  beneath  the  tide : 

"Come  to  thy  God  in  time!  " 

Thus  saith  the  ocean  chime: 

Storm,  billow,  whirlwind  past, 

' '  Come  to  thy  God  at  last !  "  r,  i 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  (1771-1832) 

From  OLD  MORTALITY* 

Chapter  1.     Preliminary 

"Most  readers,"  says  the  Manuscript  of  Mr. 
Pattieson,  "must  have  witnessed  with  delight 
the  joyous  burst  which  attends  the  dismissing 
of  a  village-school  on  a  fine  summer  evening. 
The  buoyant  spirit  of  childhood,  repressed  with 
so  much  diflSculty  during  the  tedious  hours  of 
discipline,  may  then  be  seen  to  explode,  as  it 
were,  in  shout,  and  song,  and  frolic,  as  the 
little  urchins  join  in  groups  on  their  play- 
ground, and  arrange  their  matches  of  sport  for 
the  evening.  But  there  is  one  individual  who 
partakes  of  the  relief  afforded  by  the  moment 
of  dismission,  whose  feelings  are  not  so  obvious 
to  the  eye  of  the  spectator,  or  so  apt  to  receive 
his  sympathy.  I  mean  the  teacher  himself,  who. 
stunned  with  the  hum,  and  suffocated  with  the 
closeness  of  his  school-room,  has  spent  the  whole 
day  (himself  against  a  host)  in  controlling 
petulance,  exciting  indifference  to  action,  striv- 
ing to  enlighten  stupidity,  and  labouring  to 
soften    obstinacy;    and   whose    very   powers   of 

*  Old  Mortality  Is  a  story  of  the  rlslnff  of  the 
Scotch  Covenantors  about  1677-!>  against  the 
Knglish  church  and  throne.  Scott  had  once 
mot.  In  the  churchyard  of  Dunnottar,  one 
Robert  Paterson,  familiarly  known  as  "Old 
Mortality,"  and  he  chooses  to  make  him  re- 
sponsible for  the  substance  of  the  tale.  It 
Is  one  of  the  "Tales  of  My  Landlord"  ;  and 
the  Landlord  of  Wallace  Inn,  Mr.  Clelshbot- 
tom  the  schoolmaster,  and  the  manuscript  of 
his  assistant,  the  frail  Mr.  Pattieson,  are  all 
a  part  of  the  fictitious  backsronnd. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


501 


intellect  have  been  confounded  by  hearing  the 
same  dull  lesson  repeated  a  hundred  times  by 
rote,  and  only  varied  by  the  various  blunders 
of  the  reciters.  Even  the  flowers  of  classic 
genius,  Avith  which  his  solitary  fancy  is  most 
gratified,  have  been  rendered  degraded,  in  his 
imagination,  by  their  connexion  with  tears,  with 
errors,  and  with  punishment;  so  that  the 
Eclogues  of  Virgil  and  Oden  of  Horace  are 
each  inseparably  allied  in  association  with  the 
sullen  figure  and  monotonous  recitation  of  some 
blubbering  school-bo}\  If  to  these  mental  dis- 
tresses are  added  a  delicate  frame  of  body,  and 
a  mind  ambitious  of  some  higher  distinction 
than  that  of  being  the  tyrant  of  childhood,  the 
reader  may  have  some  slight  conception  of  the 
relief  which  a  solitary  walk,  in  the  cool  of  a 
fine  summer  evening,  affords  to  the  head  which 
has  ached,  and  the  nerves  which  have  been 
shattered,  for  so  many  hours,  in  plying  the 
irksome  task  of  public  instruction. 

* '  To  me  these  evening  strolls  have  been  the 
happiest  hours  of  an  unhappy  life;  and  if  any 
gentle  reader  shall  hereafter  find  pleasure  in 
perusing  these  lucubrations,  I  am  not  unwilling 
he  should  know,  that  the  plan  of  them  has  been 
usually  traced  in  those  moments,  when  relief 
from  toil  and  clamour,  combined  with  the  quiet 
scenery  around  me,  has  disposed  my  mind  to  the 
task  of  composition. 

' '  My  chief  haunt,  in  these  hours  of  golden 
leisure,  is  the  banks  of  the  small  stream,  which, 
winding  through  a  'lone  vale  of  green  bracken,' 
passes  in  front  of  the  village  school-house  of 
Gandercleugh.  For  the  first  quarter  of  a  mile, 
perhaps,  I  may  be  disturbed  from  my  medita- 
tions, in  order  to  return  the  scrape,  or  doffed 
bonnet,  of  such  stragglers  among  my  pupils  as 
fish  for  trouts  or  minnows  in  the  little  brook, 
or  seek  rushes  and  wild-flowers  by  its  margin. 
But,  beyond  the  space  I  have  mentioned,  the 
juvenile  anglers  do  not,  after  sunset,  volun- 
tarily extend  their  excursions.  The  cause  is, 
that  farther  \ip  the  narrow  valley,  and  in  a 
recess  which  seems  scooped  out  of  the  side  of 
the  steep  heathy  bank,  there  is  a  deserted 
burial-ground,  Avhich  the  little  cowards  are  fear- 
ful of  approaching  in  the  twilight.  To  me, 
however,  the  place  has  an  inexpressible  charm. 
It  has  been  long  the  favourite  termination  of 
my  walks,  and.  if  my  kind  patron  forgets  not 
his  promise,  will  (and  probably  at  no  very  dis- 
tant day)  be  my  final  resting-place  after  my 
mortal  pilgrimage. 

"It  is  a  spot  which  possesses  all  the  solem- 
nity of  feeling  attached  to  a  burial-ground, 
without  exciting  those  of  a  more  unpleasing 
description.     Having  been  very  little  used   for 


many  years,  the  few  hillocks  wliich  rise  above 
the  level  plain  are  covered  with  the  same  short 
velvet  turf.  The  monuments,  of  which  there 
are  not  above  seven  or  eight,  are  half  sunk  in 
the  ground,  and  overgrown  with  moss.  No 
newly-erected  tomb  disturbs  the  sober  serenity 
of  our  reflections  by  reminding  us  of  recent 
calamity,  and  no  rank-springing  grass  forces 
u})on  our  imagination  the  recollection,  that  it 
owes  its  dark  luxuriance  to  the  foul  and  fester- 
ing remnants  of  mortality  which  ferment  be- 
neath. The  daisy  which  sprinkles  the  sod,  and 
the  harebell  which  hangs  over  it,  derive  their 
pure  nourishment  from  the  dew  of  heaven,  and 
their  growth  impresses  us  with  no  degrading 
or  disgusting  .recollections.  Death  has  indeed 
been  here,  and  its  traces  are  before  us;  but 
tliey  are  softened  and  deprived  of  their  horror 
by  our  distance  from  the  period  when  they  have 
been  first  impressed.  Those  who  sleep  beneath 
are  only  connected  with  us  by  the  reflection, 
that  they  have  once  been  what  we  now  are,  and 
that,  as  their  relics  are  now  identified  with  their 
mother  earth,  ours  shall,  at  some  future  period, 
undergo  the  same  transformation. 

"Yet,  although  the  moss  has  been  collected 
on  the  most  modern  of  these  humble  tombs 
during  four  generations  of  mankind,  the  memory 
of  some  of  those  who  sleep  beneath  them  is  still 
held  in  reverent  remembrance.  It  is  true,  that, 
upon  the  largest,  and,  to  an  antiquary,  the  most 
interesting  monument  of  the  group,  which  bears 
the  eftigies  of  a  doughty  knight  in  his  hood  of 
mail,  with  his  shield  hanging  on  his  breast,  the 
armorial  bearings  are  defaced  by  time,  and  a 
few  worn-out  letters  may  be  read,  at  the  pleasure 
of  the  decipherer,  Dns.  Johan  —  de  Eamcl,  -  -  - 
or  Johan  -  -  -  de  Lamel  — .  And  it  is  also  true, 
that  of  another  tomb,  richly  sculptured  with  an 
ornamental  cross,  mitre,  and  pastoral  staff,  tra- 
dition can  only  aver,  that  a  certain  nameless 
bishop  lies  interred  there.  But  upon  other  two 
stones  which  lie  beside,  may  still  be  read  in 
rude  prose,  and  ruder  rhyme,  the  history  of 
those  who  sleep  beneath  them.  They  belong, 
we  are  assured  by  the  epitaph,  to  the  class 
of  persecuted  Presbyterians  who  afforded  a 
melancholy  subject  for  history  in  the  times  of 
Charles  II.  and  his  successor.  In  returning 
from  the  battle  of  Pentland  Hills,  a  party  of 
the  insurgents  had  been  attacked  in  this  glen 
by  a  small  detachment  of  the  King's  troops, 
and  three  or  four  either  killed  in  the  skirmish, 
or  shot  after  being  made  prisoners,  as  rebels 
taken  with  arms  in  their  hands.  The  peasantry 
continued  to  attach  to  the  tombs  of  those  vic- 
tims of  prelacy  an  honour  which  they  do  not 
render  to  more  splendid  mausoleums;  and,  when 


502 


THE  EOM ANTIC  IJEVIVAL 


they  point  them  out  to  their  sons,  and  narrate 
the  fate  of  the  sufferers,  usually  conclude,  by 
exhorting  them  to  be  ready,  should  times  call 
for  it,  to  resist  to  the  death  in  the  cause  of 
civil  and  religious  liberty,  like  their  brave 
forefathers. 

' '  Although  I  am  far  from  venerating  the 
peculiar  tenets  asserted  by  those  who  call  them- 
selves the  followers  of  those  men,  and  whose 
intolerance  and  narrow-minded  bigotry  are  at 
least  as  conspicuous  as  their  devotional  zeal, 
yet  it  is  without  depreciating  the  memory  of 
those  sufferers,  many  of  whom  united  the  inde- 
pendent sentiments  of  a  Hampden^  with  the 
suffering  zeal  of  a  Hooper  or  Latimer.2  On  the 
other  hand,  it  would  be  unjust  to  forget,  that 
many  even  of  those  who  had  been  most  active 
in  crushing  what  they  conceived  the  rebellious 
and  seditious  spirit  of  those  unhappy  wander- 
ers, displayed  themselves,  when  called  upon  to 
suffer  for  their  political  and  religious  opinions, 
the  same  daring  and  devoted  zeal,  tinctured,  in 
their  case,  with  chivalrous  loyalty,  as  in  the 
former  with  republican  enthusiasm.  It  has 
often  been  remarked  of  the  Scottish  character, 
that  the  stubbornness  with  which  it  is  moulded 
shows  most  to  advantage  in  adversity,  when  it 
seems  akin  to  the  native  sycamore  of  their  hills, 
which  scorns  to  be  biased  in  its  mode  of  growth, 
even  by  the  influence  of  the  prevailing  wind, 
but,  shooting  its  branches  with  equal  boldness 
in  every  direction,  shows  no  weather-side  to  the 
storm,  and  may  be  broken,  but  can  never  be 
bended.  It  must  be  understood  that  I  speak 
of  my  countrymen  as  they  fall  under  my  own 
observation.  When  in  foreign  countries,  I  have 
been  informed  that  they  are  more  docile.  But 
it  is  time  to  return  from  this  digression. 

"One  summer  evening,  as  in  a  stroll,  such  as 
I  have  described,  I  approached  this  deserted 
mansion  of  the  dead,  I  was  somewhat  surprised 
to  hear  sounds  distinct  from  those  which  usually 
soothe  its  solitude,  the  gentle  chiding,  namely, 
of  the  brook,  and  the  sighing  of  the  wind  in  the 
boughs  of  three  gigantic  ash-trees,  which  mark 
the  cemetery.  The  clink  of  a  hammer  was,  on 
this  occasion,  distinctly  heard ;  and  T  enter- 
tained some  alarm  that  a  march-dike,  long 
meditated  by  the  two  proprietors  whose  estates 
were  divided  by  my  favourite  brook,  was  about 
to  be  drawn  up  the  glen,  in  order  to  substitute 
its  rectilinear  deformity  for  the  graceful  wind- 
ing of  the  natural  boundary.  As  I  approached, 
T  was  agreeably  undeceived.     An  old  man  was 


1  .Tohn  !Iampden,  who 
rofuBed  to  pay 
taxPH  levied  by 
Charles   I. 


2John  Hooper  and 
Bishop  Lati- 
mer were  both 
Imrned  for  heresy 
In  1565. 


seated  upon  the  monument  of  the  slaughtered 
presbyterians,  and  busily  employed  in  deepening, 
with  his  chisel,  the  letters  of  the  inscription, 
which,  announcing,  in  scriptural  language,  the 
promised  blessings  of  futurity  to  be  the  lot  of 
the  slain,  anathematised  the  murderers  with 
corresponding  violence.  A  blue  bonnet  of  un- 
usual dimensions  covered  the  grey  hairs  of  the  • 
pious  workman.  His  dress  was  a  large  old- 
fashioned  coat  of  the  coarse  cloth  called  hoddin- 
iirey,  usually  worn  by  the  elder  peasants,  with 
waistcoat  and  breeches  of  the  same;  and  the 
whole  suit,  though  still  in  decent  repair,  had 
obviously  seen  a  train  of  long  service.  Strong 
clouted  shoes,  studded  with  hobnails,  and  gra- 
moches  or  leg  gins,  made  of  thick  black  cloth, 
completed  his  equipment.  Beside  him,  fed 
among  the  graves  a  pony,  the  companion  of  his 
journey,  whose  extreme  whiteness,  as  well  as 
its  projecting  bones  and  hollow  eyes,  indicated 
its  antiquity.  It  was  harnessed  in  the  most 
simple  manner,  with  a  pair  of  branks,3  a  hair 
tether,  or  halter,  and  a  s%mTc,  or  cushion  of 
straw,  instead  of  bridle  and  saddle.  A  canvas 
pouch  hung  around  the  neck  of  the  animal,  for 
the  purpose,  probabh'.  of  containing  the  rider's  ■ 
tools,  and  any  tiling  else  he  might  have  occasion 
to  carry  with  him.  Although  I  had  never  seen 
the  old  man  before,  yet  from  the  singularity  of 
his  employment,  and  the  style  of  his  equipage, 
I  had  no  difficulty  in  recognising  a  religious 
itinerant  whom  I  had  often  heard  talked  of, 
and  who  was  known  in  various  parts  of  Scotland 
by  the  title  of  Old  Mortality. 

"Where  this  man  was  born,  or  what  was  his 
real  name,  I  have  never  been  able  to  learn;  nor 
are  the  motives  which  made  him  desert  his  home, 
and  adopt  the  erratic  mode  of  life  which  he  pur- 
sued, known  to  me  except  very  generally.  Ac- 
cording to  the  belief  of  most  people,  he  was  a 
native  of  either  the  county  of  Dumfries  or 
Galloway,  and  lineally  descended  from  some  of 
those  champions  of  the  Covenant,  whose  deeds 
and  sufferings  were  his  favourite  theme.  He  is 
said  to  have  held,  at  one  period  of  his  life,  a 
small  moorland  farm;  but,  whether  from  pecu- 
niary losses,  or  domestic  misfortune,  he  had 
long  renounced  that  and  every  other  gainful 
calling.  In  the  language  of  Scripture,  ho 
left  his  house,  his  home,  and  his  kindred,  and 
wandered  about  until  the  day  of  his  death,  a 
period  of  nearly  thirty  years. 

"During  this  long  pilgrimage,  the  pious  en- 
thusiast regulated  his  circuit  so  as  annually  to 
visit  the  graves  of  the  unfortunate  Covenanters, 
who  suffered  by  the  sword,  or  by  the  execu- 
tioner, during  the  reigns  of  the  two  hist  mon- 
8  curbs,  or  bridle 


SIR  WALTEK  SCOTT 


503 


archs  of  the  Stewart  line.  These  are  most 
numerous  in  the  western  districts  of  Ayr,  Gallo- 
way, and  Dumfries;  but  they  are  also  to  be 
found  in  other  parts  of  Scotland,  wherever  the 
fugitives  had  fought,  or  fallen,  or  suffered  by 
military  or  civil  execution.  Their  tombs  are 
often  apart  from  all  human  habitation,  in  the 
remote  moors  and  wilds  to  which  the  wanderers 
had  fled  for  concealment.  But  wherever  they 
existed,  Old  Mortality  was  sure  to  visit  them 
when  his  annual  round  brought  them  within  his 
reach.  In  the  most  lonely  recesses  of  the  moun- 
tains, the  moor-fowl  shooter  has  been  often  sur- 
prised to  find  him  busied  in  cleaning  the  moss 
from  the  grey  stones,  renewing  with  his  chisel 
the  half-defaced  inscriptions,  and  repairing  the 
emblems  of  death  with  Avhicli  these  simple  monu- 
ments are  usually  adorned.  Motives  of  the  most 
sincere,  though  fanciful  devotion,  induced  the 
old  man  to  dedicate  so  many  years  of  existence 
to  perform  this  tribute  to  the  memory  of  the 
deceased  warriors  of  the  church.  He  considered 
himself  as  fulfilling  a  sacred  duty,  while  renew- 
ing to  the  eyes  of  posterity  the  decaying  em- 
blems of  the  zeal  and  sufferings  of  their  fore- 
fathers, and  thereby  trimming,  as  it  were,  the 
beacon-light,  which  was  to  warn  future  genera- 
tions to  defend  their  religion  even  unto  blood. 

"In  all  his  wanderings,  the  old  pilgrim  never 
seemed  to  need,  or  was  known  to  accept,  pecu- 
niary assistance.  It  is  true,  his  wants  were 
very  few ;  for  wherever  he  went,  he  found  ready 
quarters  in  the  house  of  some  Cameronian*  of 
liis  own  sect,  or  of  some  other  religious  person. 
The  hosjiitality  which  was  reverentially  paid  to 
him  he  always  acknowledged,  by  repairing  the 
gravestones  (if  there  existed  any)  belonging  to 
the  family  or  ancestors  of  his  host.  As  the 
wanderer  was  usually  to  be  seen  bent  on  this 
pious  task  within  the  precincts  of  some  country 
churchyard,  or  reclined  en  the  solitary  tomb- 
stone among  the  heath,  disturbing  the  plover 
and  the  black-cock  with  the  clink  of  his  chisel 
and  mallet,  with  his  old  white  pony  grazing  by 
his  side,  he  acquired  from  his  converse  among 
the  dead,  the  popular  appellation  of  Old 
Mortality. 

"The  character  of  such  a  man  could  have  in 
it  little  connexion  even  with  innocent  gaiety. 
Yet,  among  those  of  his  own  religious  persua- 
sion, he  is  reported  to  have  been  cheerful.  The 
descendants  of  persecutors,  or  those  whom  he 
supposed  guilty  of  entertaining  similar  tenets, 
and  the  scoffers  at  religion  by  whom  he  was 
sometimes  assailed,  he  usually  termed  the  gen- 
eration of  vipers.''     Conversing  with  others,  he 

i  .\n  austere  sect  of  Presbyterians.     5  Matthew  iii,  7.  ! 


was  grave  and  sententious,  not  without  a  cast 
of  severity.  But  he  is  said  never  to  have  been 
observed  to  give  way  to  violent  passion,  except- 
ing upon  one  occasion,  when  a  mischievous 
truant-boy  defaced  with  a  stone  the  nose  of  a 
cherub's  face,  which  the  old  man  was  engaged 
in  retouching.  I  am  in  general  a  sparer  of  the 
rod,  notwithstanding  the  maxim  of  Solomon, 
for  which  school-boys  have  little  reason  to 
thank  his  memory;  but  on  this  occasion  I 
deemed  it  proper  to  show  that  I  did  not  hate 
the  child. — But  I  must  return  to  the  circum- 
stances attending  my  first  interview  with  this 
interesting  enthusiast. 

"In  accosting  Old  Mortality,  I  did  not  fail 
to  pay  respect  to  his  years  and  his  principles, 
beginning  my  address  by  a  respectful  apology 
for  interrupting  his  labours.  The  old  man  inter- 
mitted the  operation  of  the  chisel,  took  off  his 
spectacles  and  wiped  them,  then,  replacing  them 
on  his  nose,  acknowledged  my  courtesy  by  a 
suitable  return.  Encouraged  by  his  affability, 
I  intruded  upon  him  some  questions  concerning 
the  sufferers  on  whose  monument  he  was  now 
employed.  To  talk  of  the  exploits  of  the 
Covenanters  was  the  delight,  as  to  repair  their 
monuments  was  the  business,  of  his  life.  He 
was  profuse  in  the  communication  of  all  the 
minute  information  which  he  had  collected  con- 
cerning them,  their  wars,  and  their  wanderings. 
One  would  almost  have  sup]iosed  he  must  have 
been  their  contemporary,  and  have  actually  be- 
I'.eld  the  passages  which  he  related,  so  much  had 
he  identified  his  feelings  and  opinions  with 
theirs,  and  so  much  had  his  narratives  the 
circumstantiality  of  an  eye-witness. 

' '  '  We, '  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  exultation, — 
' ue  are  the  only  true  whigs.  Carnal  men  have 
assumed  that  triumphant  appellation,  following 
him  whose  kingdom  is  of  this  world.  Which  of 
them  would  sit  six  hours  on  a  wet  hill-side  to 
hear  a  godly  sermon?  I  trow  an  hour  o't  wad 
staws  them.  They  are  ne'er  a  hair  better  than 
them  that  shamena  to  take  upon  themsells  the 
l)ersecuting  name  of  bludethirsty  tories.  Self- 
seekers  all  of  them,  strivers  after  wealth,  power, 
and  worldly  ambition,  and  forgetters  alike  of 
what  has  been  dree'd*'  and  done  by  the  mighty 
men  who  stood  in  the  gap  in  the  great  day  of 
wrath.  Nae  wonder  they  dread  the  accomplish- 
ment of  what  was  spoken  by  the  mouth  of  the 
worthy  Mr.  Pedens  (that  precious  servant  of  the 
Lord,  none  of  whose  words  fell  to  the  ground), 
that  the  French  monzies"  sail  rise  as  fast  in  the 

6  disgust  7  suffered 

8  Alexander  Peden.  an  eloquent  minister  who  was 

supposed  to  have  prophetic  gifts. 
0  monsieurs  ( referring  to  a  possible  invasion  from 

France) 


504 


THE  KOMANTIC  KEVIVAL 


glens  of  Ayr,  and  the  kennsio  of  Galloway,  as 
ever  the  Highlandmen  did  in  1677.  And  now 
they  are  gripping  to  the  bow  and  to  the  spear, 
when  they  siild  be  mourning  for  a  sinfu'  land 
and  a  broken  covenant.' 

"Soothing  the  old  man  by  letting  his  pecu- 
liar opinions  pass  without  contradiction,  and 
anxious  to  prolong  conversation  with  so  singu- 
lar a  character,  I  prevailed  upon  him  to  accept 
that  hospitality,  which  ]Mr.  Cleishbotham  is 
always  willing  to  extend  to  those  who  need  it. 
In  our  way  to  the  schoolmaster's  house,  we 
called  at  the  Wallace  Inn,  wliere  I  was  pretty 
certain  I  should  find  my  patron  about  that  hour 
of  the  evening.  After  a  courteous  interchange 
of  civilities.  Old  Mortality  was,  with  difficulty, 
prevailed  upon  to  join  his  host  in  a  single  glass 
of  liquor,  and  that  on  condition  that  he  should 
be  permitted  to  name  the  pledge,  which  he 
prefaced  with  a  grace  of  about  five  minutes, 
and  then,  with  bonnet  doffed  and  eyes  uplifted, 
drank  to  the  memory  of  those  heroes  of  the 
Kirkii  who  had  first  uplifted  her  banner  upon 
the  mountains.  As  no  persuasion  could  prevail 
on  him  to  extend  his  conviviality  to  a  second 
cup,  my  patron  accompanied  him  home,  and 
accommodated  him  in  the  Prophet's  Chamber, 
as  it  is  his  pleasure  to  call  the  closet  which 
holds  a  spare  bed,  and  which  is  frequently  a 
place  of  retreat  for  the  poor  traveller. 

' '  The  next  day  I  took  leave  of  Old  Mortality, 
who  seemed  affected  by  the  unusual  attention 
with  which  I  had  cultivated  his  acquaintance 
and  listened  to  his  conversation.  After  he  had 
mounted,  not  without  difficulty,  the  old  white 
pony,  he  took  me  by  the  hand  and  said,  'The 
blessing  of  our  Master  be  with  you,  young  man! 
My  hours  are  like  the  ears  of  the  latter  harvest, 
and  your  days  are  yet  in  the  spring;  and  yet 
you  may  be  gathered  into  the  garner  of  mor- 
tality before  me,  for  the  sickle  of  death  cuts 
down  the  green  as  oft  as  the  ripe,  and  there  is 
a  colour  in  your  cheek,  that,  like  the  bud  of  the 
rose,  serveth  oft  to  hide  the  worm  of  corruption. 
Wherefore  labour  as  one  who  knoweth  not  when 
his  master  calleth.  And  if  it  be  my  lot  to  re- 
turn to  this  village  after  ye  are  gane  hame  to 
your  ain  place,  these  auld  withered  hands  will 
frame  a  stane  of  memorial,  that  your  name  may 
not  perish  from  among  the  people. ' 

"I  thanked  Old  Mortality  for  his  kind  inten- 
tions in  my  behalf,  and  heaved  a  sigh,  not,  I 
think,  of  regret  so  much  as  of  resignation,  to 
think  of  the  chance  that  T  might  soon  require 
his  good  offices.  Biit  though,  in  all  human 
probability,  he  did  not  err  in   supposing  that 

10  From  Gaelic  ceann,  head,  headland,  mountain. 

11  The  Scotch,  or   Pr«*iibyterlan  Church. 


my  span  of  life  may  be  abridged  in  youth,  he 
had  over-estimated  the  period  of  his  own  pil 
grimage  on  earth.  It  is  now  some  years  since 
he  has  been  missed  in  all  his  usual  haunts,  while 
moss,  lichen,  and  deer-hair,  are  fast  covering 
those  stones,  to  cleanse  which  had  been  the  busi- 
ness of  his  life.  About  the  beginning  of  this 
century  he  closed  liis  mortal  toils,  being  found 
on  the  highway  near  Lockerby,  in  Dumfries- 
shire, exhausted  and  just  expiring.  The  old 
white  pony,  the  companion  of  all  his  wander- 
ings, was  standing  b}-  the  side  of  his  dying 
master.  There  was  found  about  his  person  a 
sum  of  money  sufficient  for  his  decent  inter- 
ment, which  serves  to  show  that  his  death  Avas 
in  no  ways  hastened  by  violence  or  by  want. 
The  common  people  still  regard  his  memory 
with  great  respect;  and  many  are  of  opinion, 
that  the  stones  which  he  repaired  will  not  again 
require  the  assistance  of  the  chisel.  They  even 
assert  that  on  the  tombs  where  the  manner  of 
the  martyrs'  murder  is  recorded,  their  names 
have  remained  indelibly  legible  since  the  deatli 
of  Old  Mortality,  while  those  of  the  persecutors, 
sculptured  on  tiie  same  monuments,  have  been 
entirely  defaced.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say 
that  this  is  a  fond  imagination,  and  that,  since 
the  time  of  the  pious  pilgrim,  the  monuments 
which  were  the  objects  of  his  care  are  hastening, 
like  all  earthly  memorials,  into  ruin  or  decay." 


CHARLES  LAMB  (1775-1834) 

From  ELIA* 

Dream-Children:    A  Reverie 

Children  love  to  listen  to  stories  about  their 
elders,  when  thci/  were  children;  to  stretch  their 
imagination  to  the  conception  of  a  traditionary 
great-uncle,  or  grandame,  whom  they  never  saw. 
It  was  in  this  spirit  that  my  little  ones  crept 
about  me  the  other  evening  to  hear  about  their 
great-grandmother  Field,  who  lived  in  a  great 
house  in  Norfolk  (a  hundred  times  bigger  than 

•  "Ella."  the  sljmature  under  which  Lamb  pub 
lished  his  essays  In  the  London  Mapazlno.  wan 
the  name  of  an  Italian  clerk  «t  tho  Soiith-Soa 
IIoiiso  whorp  Lamb  hnrt  boon  employi'd  nearly 
thirty  vears  boforo.  The  tfsay  ontltlod  Urcani- 
Chtlihni  was  written  some  (iinf  after  tb( 
death  of  his  brother  .lohn.  late  In  the  yea'- 
1821.  when  he  and  his  sister  Mary    ("Hrldget 

Klla")    were   left    alone.      ".Mice    W n"    or 

"Allcp  Wlnterton"  may  have  stood.  In  part  at 
least,  for  one  Ann  Simmons  (later  Mrs.  Har- 
trnm)  for  whom  Lamb  seems  to  have  fell 
some  attachment.  The  "Rreat  house  In  Nor- 
folk" was  a  manor-house  in  Hertfordshire 
where  his  grandmother.  Mary  Field,  had  for 
many   years  been  housekeeper. 


CHABLES  LAMB 


505 


that  iu  which  they  aucl  papa  lived)  which  had 
been  the  scene  (so  at  least  it  was  generally 
believed  in  that  part  of  the  country)  of  the 
tragic  incidents  which  they  had  lately  become 
familiar  with  from  the  ballad  of  the  Children 
in  the  Wood.  Certain  it  is  that  the  whole  story 
of  the  children  and  their  cruel  uncle  was  to  be 
seen  fairly  carved  out  in  wood  upon  the 
chimney-piece  of  the  great  hall,  the  whole  story 
down  to  the  Robin  Bedbreasts;  till  a  foolish 
rich  person  pulled  it  down  to  set  up  a  marble 
one  of  modern  invention  in  its  stead,  with  no 
story  upon  it.  Here  Alice  put  out  one  of  her 
dear  mother's  looks,  too  tender  to  be  called  up- 
braiding. Then  I  went  on  to  say  how  religious 
and  how  good  their  great-grandmother  Field 
was,  how  beloved  and  respected  by  everybody, 
though  she  was  not  indeed  the  mistress  of  this 
great  house,  but  had  only  the  charge  of  it 
(and  yet  in  some  respects  she  might  be  said  to 
be  the  mistress  of  it  too)  committed  to  her  by 
the  owner,  who  preferred  living  in  a  newer  and 
more  fashionable  mansion  which  he  had  pur- 
chased somewhere  in  the  adjoining  county ;  but 
still  she  lived  in  it  in  a  manner  as  if  it  had  been 
her  own,  and  kept  up  the  dignity  of  the  great 
house  in  a  sort  while  she  lived,  which  after- 
wards came  to  decay,  and  was  nearly  pulled 
down,  and  all  its  old  ornaments  stripped  and 
carried  away  to  the  owner's  other  house,  where 
they  were  set  up,  and  looked  as  awkward  as  if 
some  one  were  to  carry  away  the  old  tombs 
they  had  seen  lately  at  the  Abbey ,t  and  stick 
them  up  in  Lady  C. 's  tawdry  gilt  drawing- 
room.  Here  John  smiled,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"that  would  be  foolish  indeed."  And  then  I 
told  how,  when  she  came  to  die,  her  funeral 
was  attended  by  a  concourse  of  all  the  poor, 
and  some  of  the  gentry  too,  of  the  neighbour- 
hood for  many  miles  round,  to  show  their  re- 
spect for  her  memory,  because  she  had  been 
such  a  good  and  religious  woman ;  so  good  in- 
deed that  she  knew  all  the  Psaltery  by  heart, 
ay,  and  a  great  ])art  of  the  Testament  besides. 
Here  little  Alice  sjuead  her  hands.  Then  I  told 
what  a  tall,  upright,  graceful  person  their 
great-grandmother  Field  once  was;  and  how  in 
her  youth  she  was  esteemed  the  best  dancer — 
here  Alice's  little  right  foot  played  an  invol- 
untary movement,  till,  upon  my  looking  grave, 
it  desisted — the  best  dancer,  I  was  saying,  in 
the  county,  till  a  cruel  disease,  called  a  cancer, 
came,  and  bowed  her  down  with  pain ;  but  it 
could  never  bend  her  good  spirits,  or  make 
them    stoop,    but    they    were    still    upright,    be- 

t  Lamb  was  fond  of  visitlnfr  Westminster  Abbey, 
and  ho  wroto  an  ossay  in  protest  against  the 
charge  for  ."jdmittance  which  had  lately  l)een 
imposed. 


cause  she  was  so  good  and  religious.  Then  I 
told  how  she  was  used  to  sleep  by  herself  in  a 
lone  chamber  of  the  great  lone  house;  and  how 
she  believed  that  an  apparition  of  two  infants 
was  to  be  seen  at  midnight  gliding  up  and  down 
the  great  staircase  near  where  she  slept,  but 
she  said,  "those  innocents  would  do  her  no 
harm ;  ' '  and  how  frightened  I  used  to  be, 
though  in  those  days  I  had  my  maid  to  sleep 
with  me,  because  I  was  never  half  so  good  or 
religious  as  she — and  yet  I  never  saw  the  in- 
fants. Here  John  expanded  all  his  eyebrows 
and  tried  to  look  courageous.  Then  I  told  how 
good  she  was  to  all  her  grandchildren,  having 
us  to  the  great  house  in  the  holidays,  where  I 
in  particular  used  to  spend  many  hours  by  my- 
self, in  gazing  upon  the  old  busts  of  the  Twelve 
Caesars,  that  had  been  Emperors  of  Borne,  till 
the  olil  marble  heads  would  seem  to  live  again, 
or  I  to  be  turned  into  marble  with  them;  how 
I  never  could  be  tired  with  roaming  about  that 
huge  mansion,  with  its  vast  empty  rooms,  with 
their  worn-out  hangings,  fluttering  tapestry, 
and  carved  oaken  panels,  with  the  gilding  al- 
most rubbed  out — sometimes  in  the  spacious 
old-fashioned  gardens,  which  I  had  almost  to 
myself,  unless  when  now  and  then  a  solitary 
gardening  man  would  cross  me — and  how  the 
nectarines  and  peaches  hung  upon  the  walls, 
without  my  ever  offering  to  pluck  them,  be- 
cause they  were  forbidden  fruit,  unless  now 
and  then, — and  because  I  had  more  pleasure  in 
strolling  about  among  the  old  melancholy-look- 
ing yew-trees,  or  the  firs,  and  picking  up  the 
red  berries,  and  the  fir-apples,  which  were  good 
for  nothing  but  to  look  at — or  in  lying  about 
upon  the  fresh  grass  with  all  the  fine  garden 
smells  around  me — or  basking  in  the  orangery, 
till  I  could  almost  fancy  myself  ripening  too 
along  with  the  oranges  and  the  limes  in  that 
grateful  Avarmth — or  in  watching  the  dace  that 
darted  to  and  fro  in  the  fish-pond,  at  the  bottom 
of  the  garden,  with  here  and  there  a  great  sulky 
pike  hanging  mi<lway  down  the  water  in  silent 
state,  as  if  it  mocked  at  their  impertinent  frisk- 
ings, — I  had  more  pleasure  in  these  busy-idle 
diversions  than  in  all  the  sweet  flavours  of 
peaches,  nectarines,  oranges,  and  such-like  com- 
mon baits  of  children.  Here  John  slyly  depos- 
ited back  upon  the  plate  a  bunch  of  grapes, 
which,  not  unobserved  by  Alice,  he  had  medi- 
tated dividing  with  her,  and  both  seemed  willing 
to  relinquish  them  for  the  present  as  irrelevant. 
Then,  in  somewliat  a  more  heightened  tone,  I 
told  how,  though  their  great-grandmother  Field 
loved  all  her  grandchildren,  yet  in  an  especial 
manner  she  might  be  said  to  love  their  uncle, 
•Tohn  L ,  because  he  was  so  handsome  and 


506 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 


spirited  a  youth,  and  a  king  to  the  rest  of  us; 
and,  instead  of  moping  about  in  solitary  cor- 
ners, like  some  of  us,  he  would  mount  the  most 
mettlesome  horse  he  could  get,  when  but  an 
imp  no  bigger  than  themselves,  and  make  it 
carry  him  half  over  the  county  in  a  morning, 
and  join  the  hunters  when  there  were  any  out 
— and  yet  he  loved  the  old  great  house  and  gar- 
dens too,  but  had  too  much  spirit  to  be  always 
pent  up  within  their  boundaries — and  how  their 
uncle  grew  up  to  man's  estate  as  brave  as  he 
was  handsome,  to  the  admiration  of  every- 
body, but  of  their  great-grandmother  Field 
most  especially;  and  how  he  used  to  carry  me 
upon  his  back  Avhen  I  was  a  lame-footed  boy — 
for  he  was  a  good  bit  older  than  me — many  a 
mile  when  I  could  not  walk  for  pain ; — and  how 
in  after  life  he  became  lame-footed  too,  and 
I  did  not  always  (I  fear)  make  allowances 
enough  for  him  when  he  was  impatient,  and  in 
pain,  nor  remember  suflScienlly  how  considerate 
he  had  been  to  me  when  I  was  lame-footed ; 
and  how  when  he  died,  though  he  had  not  been 
dead  an  hour,  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  died  a 
great  while  ago,  such  a  distance  there  is  be- 
twixt life  and  death;  and  how  I  bore  his  death 
as  I  thought  pretty  well  at  first,  but  afterwards 
it  haunted  and  haunted  me;  and  though  I  did 
not  cry  or  take  it  to  heart  as  some  do,  and  as 
I  think  he  would  have  done  if  I  had  died,  yet 
I  missed  him  all  day  long,  and  knew  not  till 
then  how  much  I  had  loved  him.  I  missed  his 
kindness,  and  I  missed  his  crossness,  and  wished 
him  to  be  alive  again,  to  be  quarrelling  with 
him  (for  we  quarrelled  sometimes)  rather  than 
not  have  him  again,  and  was  as  uneasy  with- 
out him  as  he  their  poor  uncle  must  have 
been  when  the  doctor  took  off  his  limb.  Here 
the  children  fell  a  crying,  and  asked  if  their 
little  mourning  which  they  had  on  was  not  for 
uncle  John,  and  they  looked  up,  and  prayed  me 
not  to  go  on  about  their  uncle,  but  to  tell  them 
some  stories  about  their  pretty  dead  mother. 
Then  I  told  how  for  seven  long  years,  in  hope 
sometimes,  sometimes  in  despair,  yet  persisting 

ever,  I   courted   the   fair  Alice  W n;    and, 

as  much  as  children  could  understand,  I  ex- 
plained to  them  what  coyness,  and  difficulty, 
and  denial,  meant  in  maidens — when  suddenly, 
turning  to  Alice,  the  soul  of  the  first  Alice 
looked  out  at  her  eyes  with  such  a  reality  of 
re-presentment,  that  I  became  in  doubt  which 
of  them  stood  there  before  me,  or  whose  that 
bright  hair  was;  and  while  I  stood  gazing,  both 
the  children  gradually  grew  fainter  to  my  view, 
receding,  and  still  receding,  till  nothing  at  last 
but  two  mournful  features  were  seen  in  the 
attermoBt     distance,     which,     without     speech, 


strangely  impressed  upon  me  the  effects  of 
speech :  ' '  We  are  not  of  Alice,  nor  of  thee,  nor 
arc  we  children  at  all.  The  children  of  Alice 
call  Bartrum  father.  We  are  nothing;  less 
than  nothing,  and  dreams.  We  are  only  what 
might  have  been,  and  must  wait  upon  the 
tedious  shores  of  Lethe  millions  of  ages  before 
we  have  existence  and  a  name" and  imme- 
diately awaking,  I  found  myself  quietly  seated 
in  my  bachelor  arm-chair,  where  I  had  fallen 
asleep,  with  the  faithful  Bridget  unchanged  by 
my  side — but  John  L.  (or  James  Eli  a)  was 
gone  forever. 

A  Dissertation  Upox  Roast  Pig 

Mankind,  says  a  Chinese  manuscript,*  which 
my  friend  M.  was  obliging  enough  to  read  and 
explain  to  me,  for  the  first  seventy  thousand 
ages  ate  their  meat  raw,  clawing  or  biting  it 
from  the  living  animal,  just  as  they  do  in  Abys- 
sinia to  this  day.  This  period  is  not  obscurely 
hinted  at  by  their  great  Confucius  in  the  second 
chapter  of  his  Mundane  Mutations,  Mhere  he 
designates  a  kind  of  golden  age  by  the  term 
Chofang,  literally  the  Cooks'  Holiday.  The 
manuscript  goes  on  to  say,  that  the  art  of 
roasting,  or  rather  broiling  (which  I  take  to  be 
the  elder-brother),  was  accidentally  discovered 
in  the  manner  following.  The  swineherd,  Ho-ti, 
having  gone  out  into  the  woods  one  morning, 
as  his  manner  was,  to  collect  mast  for  his  hogs, 
left  his  cottage  in  the  care  of  his  eldest  son, 
Bo-bo,  a  great  lubberly  boy,  who  being  fond 
of  playing  with  fire,  as  younkers  of  his  age 
commonly  are,  let  some  sparks  escape  into  a 
bundle  of  straw,  which  kindling  quickly,  spread 
the  conflagration  over  every  part  of  their  poor 
mansion,  till  it  was  reduced  to  ashes.  Together 
with  the  cottage  (a  sorry  antediluvian  make- 
shift of  a  building,  you  may  think  it),  what 
was  of  much  more  importance,  a  fine  litter  of 
new-farrowed  pigs,  no  less  than  nine  in  number, 
perished.  China  pigs  have  been  esteemed  a 
luxury  all  over  the  East,  from  the  remotest 
periods  that  we  read  of.  Bo-bo  was  in  the 
utmost  consternation,  as  you  may  think,  not  so 
much  for  the  sake  of  the  tenement,  which  his 
father  and  he  could  easily  build  up  again  with 
a  few  dry  branches,  and  the  labour  of  an  hour 
or  two,  at  any  time,  as  for  the  loss  of  the  pigs. 
While  he  Mas  thinking  what  he  should  say  to 
his  father,  and  wringing  his  hands  over  the 
smoking   remnants    of    one   of    those    untimely 

*  The  manuscript,  and  the  Chinese  names  (except 
that  of  Confucius  the  great  phllosouhor).  arc 
fictitious,  but  the  tradition  Itself,  wlilcli  r.amt> 
<il)talnpd  from  the  trnvt>Ili>r  Tliomas  Manning, 
Is  an  ancl(>nt  on«>. 


CHARLES  LAMB 


507 


sufferers,  an  odour  assailed  his  nostrils,  unlike 
any  scent  which  he  had  before  experienced. 
What  could  it  proceed  from? — not  from  the 
burnt  cottage — he  had  smelt  that  smell  before 
— indeed  this  was  by  no  meaus  the  first  acci- 
dent of  the  kind  which  had  occurred  through 
the  negligence  of  this  unlucky  young  fire-brand. 
Much  less  did  it  resemble  that  of  any  known 
herb,  weed,  or  flower.  A  premonitory  moisten- 
ing at  the  same  time  overflowed  his  nether  lip. 
He  knew  not  what  to  think.  He  next  stooped 
down  to  feel  the  pig,  if  there  were  any  signs 
of  life  in  it.  He  burnt  his  fingers,  and  to  cool 
them  he  applied  them  in  his  booby  fashion  to 
his  mouth.  Some  of  the  crumbs  of  the  scorchetl 
skin  had  come  away  with  his  fingers,  and  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life  (in  the  world's  life 
indeed,  for  before  him  no  man  had  known  it) 
he  tasted — crackling!^  Again  he  felt  and  fum- 
bled at  the  pig.  It  did  not  burn  him  so  much 
now;  still  he  licked  his  fingers  from  a  sort  of 
habit.  The  truth  at  length  broke  into  his  slow 
understanding,  that  it  was  the  pig  that  smelt  so, 
and  the  pig  that  tasted  so  delicious;  and,  sur- 
rendering himself  up  to  the  new-born  pleasure, 
he  fell  to  tearing  up  whole  handfuls  of  the 
scorched  skin  with  the  flesh  next  it,  and  was 
cramming  it  down  his  throat  in  his  beastly 
fashion,  when  his  sire  entered  amid  the  smoking 
rafters,  armed  with  retributory  cudgel,  and 
finding  how  affairs  stood,  began  to  rain  blows 
upon  the  young  rogue 's  shoulders,  as  thick  as 
hail-stones,  which  Bo-bo  heeded  not  any  more 
than  if  they  had  been  flies.  The  tickling 
pleasure,  which  he  experienced  in  his  lower 
regions,  had  rendered  him  quite  callous  to  any 
inconveniences  he  might  feel  in  those  remote 
quarters.  His  father  might  lay  on,  but  he 
could  not  beat  him  from  his  pig,  till  he  had 
fairly  made  an  end  of  it,  when,  becoming  a 
little  more  sensible  of  his  situation,  something 
like  the  following  dialogue  ensued. 

"You  graceless  whelp,  what  have  you  got 
there  devouring?  Is  it  not  enough  that  you 
have  burnt  me  down  three  houses  with  your 
dog's  tricks,  and  be  hanged  to  you!  but  you 
must  be  eating  fire,  and  T  know  not  what — what 
have  you  got  there,  T  say  ? ' ' 

"O  father,  the  pig,  the  pig!  do  come  and 
taste  how  nice  the  burnt  pig  eats." 

The  ears  of  Ho-ti  tingled  with  horror.  He 
cursed  his  son,  and  he  cursed  himself,  that  ever 
he  should  beget  a  son  that  should  eat  burnt  pig. 

Bo-bo,  whose  scent  was  wonderfully  sharp- 
ened since  morning,  soon  raked  out  another  pig, 
and  fairly  rending  it  asunder,  thrust  the  lesser 

1  The  crisp  skin  of  roast  pork. 


half  by  main  force  into  the  fists  of  Ho-ti,  still 
shouting  out,  "Eat,  eat,  eat  the  burnt  pig, 
father ;  only  taste — O  Lord ! ' ' — with  such-liko 
barbarous  ejaculatious,  cramming  all  the  while 
as  if  he  would  choke. 

Ho-ti  trembled  every  joint  while  he  grasped 
the  abominable  thing,  wavering  whether  he 
should  not  put  his  son  to  death  for  an  un- 
natural young  monster,  when  the  crackling 
scorching  his  fingers,  as  it  had  done  his  son's, 
and  applying  the  same  remedy  to  them,  he  in 
his  turn  tasted  some  of  its  flavour,  which,  make 
what  sour  mouths  he  would  for  a  pretense, 
proved  not  altogether  displeasing  to  him.  In 
conclusion  (for  the  manuscript  here  is  a  little 
tedious),  both  father  and  son  fairly  sat  down 
to  the  mess,  and  never  left  oft'  till  they  had 
despatched  all  that  remained  of  the  litter. 

Bo-bo  was  strictly  enjoined  not  to  let  the 
secret  escape,  for  the  neighbours  would  cer- 
tainly have  stoned  them  for  a  couple  of  abomi- 
nable wretches,  who  could  think  of  improving 
upon  the  good  meat  which  God  had  sent  them. 
Nevertheless,  strange  stories  got  about.  It  was 
observed  that  Ho-ti 's  cottage  was  burnt  down 
now  more  frequently  than  ever.  Nothing  but 
fires  from  this  time  forward.  Some  would 
break  out  in  broad  day,  others  in  the  night- 
time. As  often  as  the  sow  farrowed,  so  sure 
was  the  house  of  Ho-ti  to  be  in  a  blaze;  and 
Ho-ti  himself,  which  was  the  more  remarkable, 
instead  of  chastising  his  son,  seemed  to  grow 
more  indulgent  to  him  than  ever.  At  length 
they  were  watched,  the  terrible  mystery  dis- 
covered, and  father  and  son  summoned  to  take 
their  trial  at  Pekin,  then  an  inconsiderable 
assize  town.  Evidence  was  given,  the  obnoxious 
food  itself  produced  in  court,  and  verdict  about 
to  be  pronounced,  when  the  foreman  of  the  jury 
begged  that  some  of  the  burnt  pig,  of  which 
the  culprits  stood  accused,  might  be  handed  int  j 
the  box.  He  handled  it,  and  they  all  handled 
it;  and  burning  their  fingers,  as  Bo-bo  and  his 
father  had  done  before  them,  and  nature 
proinpting  to  each  of  them  the  same  remedy, 
against  the  face  of  all  the  facts,  and  the  clear- 
est charge  which  judge  had  ever  given, — to  the 
surprise  of  the  whole  court,  townsfolk,  strangers, 
reporters,  and  all  present — without  leaving  the 
box,  or  any  manner  of  consultation  whatever, 
they  brought  in  a  simultaneous  verdict  of  Not 
Guilty. 

The  judge,  who  was  a  shrewd  fellow,  winked 
at  the  manifest  iniquity  of  the  decision;  and 
when  the  court  was  dismissed,  went  privily,  and 
bought  up  all  the  pigs  that  could  be  had  for 
love  or  money.  In  a  few  days  his  Lordship's 
town-house  was  observed   to   be  on  fire.     The 


508 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 


thing  took  wing,  and  now  there  was  nothing  to 
be  seen  but  fires  in  every  direction.  Fuel  and 
pigs  grew  enormously  dear  all  over  the  district. 
The  insurance-offices  one  and  all  shut  up  shop. 
People  built  slighter  and  slighter  every  day, 
until  it  was  feared  that  the  very  science  of 
architecture  would  in  no  long  time  be  lost  to 
the  world.  Thus  this  custom  of  firing  houses 
continued,  till  in  process  of  time,  says  my 
nianuscrii)t,  a  sage  arose,  like  our  Locke.s  who 
made  a  discovery,  that  the  flesh  of  swine,  or 
indeed  of  any  other  animal,  might  be  cooked 
(burnt,  as  they  called  it)  without  the  necessity 
of  consuming  a  whole  house  to  dress  it.  Then 
first  began  the  rude  form  of  a  gridiron.  Roast- 
ing by  the  string,  or  spit,  came  in  a  century  or 
two  later,  I  forget  in  whose  dynasty.  By  such 
slow  degrees,  concludes  the  manuscript,  do  the 
most  useful,  and  seemingly  the  most  obvious 
arts,  make  their  way  among  mankind. — 

Without  placing  too  implicit  faith  in  the 
account  above  given,  it  must  be  agreed,  that  if 
a  worthy  pretext  for  so  dangerous  an  experi- 
ment as  setting  houses  on  fire  (especially  in 
these  days)  could  be  assigned  in  favour  of  any 
culinary  object,  that  pretext  and  excuse  might 
be  found  in  roast  pig. 

Of  all  the  delicacies  in  the  whole  mtindm 
edibilis,^  I  will  maintain  it  to  be  the  most 
delicate — princeps  obsoniorum.* 

I  speak  not  of  your  grown  porkers — things 
between  pig  and  pork — those  hobbydehoys^ — 
but  a  young  and  tender  suckling — under  a  moon 
old — guiltless  as  yet  of  the  sty — with  no  original 
speck  of  the  amor  immunditice ,^  the  hereditary 
failing  of  the  first  parent,  yet  manifest — his 
voice  as  yet  not  broken,  but  something  between 
a  childish  treble  and  a  grumble — the  mild  fore- 
runner, or  priehidium,  of  a  grunt. 

He  must  be  roasied.  I  am  not  ignorant  that 
our  ancestors  ate  them  seethed,  or  boiled — but 
what  a  sacrifice  of  the  exterior  tegument! 

There  is  no  flavour  comparable,  I  will  con- 
tend, to  that  of  the  crisp,  tawny,  well-watched, 
not  over-roasted,  cracUitu/,  as  it  is  well  called — 
the  very  teeth  are  invited  to  their  share  of  the 
pleasure  at  this  banquet  in  overcoming  the  coy, 
brittle  resistance — with  the  adliesive  oleaginous 
—  O  call  it  not  fat!  but  an  indefinable  sweetness 
growing  up  to  it — the  tender  blossoming  of  fat 
— fat  cropped  in  the  bud — taken  in  the  shoot — in 
the  first  innocence — the  cream  and  quintessence 
of  the  child-pig's  yet  pure  food — die  lean,  no 
lean,  but  a  kind  of  animal  manna — or,  rather, 


2  John  Locke,  a  British 

plillosoplior. 
8  world  of  cdibloN 


*  chief  of  tidbits 
(■•youths    at     tlu»    awlc- 

ward  HK<' 
«  lovp  of  dirt 


fat  and  lean  (if  it  must  be  so)  so  blended  and 
running  into  each  other,  that  both  together  make 
but  one  ambrosian  result,  or  common  substance. 

Behold  him,  while  he  is  "doing" — it  seemeth 
rather  a  refreshing  warmth,  than  a  scorching 
heat,  that  he  is  so  passive  to.  How  equably  he 
twirleth  round  the  string! — Now  he  is  just  done. 
To  see  the  extreme  sensibility  of  that  tender 
age!  he  hath  wept  out  his  pretty  eyes — radiant 
jellies — shooting  stars" — 

See  him  in  tlie  dish,  his  second  cradle,  how 
meek  he  lieth! — wouldst  thou  have  had  this 
innocent  grow  up  to  the  grossness  and  indo- 
cility  whicli  too  often  accompany  maturer  swine- 
lioodl  Ten  to  one  he  would  have  ])roved  a  glut- 
ton, a  sloven,  an  ol)stinate  disagreeable  animal 
— wallowing  in  all  manner  of  filthy  conversation. 
From  these  sins  he  is  happily  snatched  away — 

Ere  sin  could  blight  or  sorrow  fade, 
Death   came  with   timely   cares — 

his  memory  is  odoriferous — no  clown  curseth, 
while  his  stomach  half  rejecteth,  the  rank  liacon 
— no  coalheaver  bolteth  him  in  reeking  sausages 
— lie  hath  a  fair  sepulchre  in  the  grateful 
stomach  of  the  judicious  epicure — and  for  such 
a  tomb  might  be  content  to  die. 

He  is  the  best  of  sapors.o  Pine-apple  is 
great.  She  is  indeed  almost  too  transcendent 
— a  delight,  if  not  sinful,  yet  so  like  to  sinning, 
that  really  a  tender-conscienced  person  would  do 
well  to  pause — too  ravishing  for  mortal  taste, 
she  woundeth  and  excoriateth  the  lips  that 
approach  her — like  lovers'  kisses,  she  biteth — 
she  is  a  pleasure  bordering  on  pain  from  tlie 
fierceness  and  insanity  of  her  relish — but  she 
stoppeth  at  the  palate — she  meddleth  not  witli 
the  appetite — and  the  coarsest  hunger  might 
barter  her  consistently  for  a  mutton  chop. 

Pig — let  me  speak  his  praise — is  no  less  jiro- 
vocative  of  the  appetite,  than  he  is  satisfactory 
to  the  criticalness  of  the  censorious  palate.  The 
strong  man  may  batten  on  him,  and  the  weak- 
ling refuseth  not  his  mild  juices. 

Fnlike  to  mankind's  mixed  characters,  a 
bundle  of  virtues  and  vices,  inexplicably  inter- 
twisted and  not  to  be  unravelled  without  hazard, 
he  is — good  throughout.  No  part  of  him  is  bet- 
ter or  worse  than  another.  He  helpeth,  as  far 
as  his  little  means  extend,  all  around.  He  is  the 
least  envious  of  banquets.  He  is  all  neighbours ' 
fare. 

1   nm  one  of  those  who   freely  and  ungrudg- 

r  Ancli'nt  superstition  roKardpd  cortain  Jellv-llko 
fuuKi  as  fallen  shootinK-stnrs.  ronipnri'. 
moreover,  Cornwall's  "Out.  vile  jelly"  {Kiii</ 
Lear,  III,  vll.  8.S). 

H  ('ol(<rld;.'p  :  Enitnph  oil  an  Infant. 

n  Kiivors 


CHARLES  LAMB 


;09 


iiigly  impart  a  share  of  the  good  things  of  this 
life  which  fall  to  their  lot  (few  as  mine  are  iu 
this  kind)  to  a  friend.  1  protest  I  take  as 
great  an  interest  in  my  friend's  pleasures,  his 
relishes,  and  proper  satisfactions,  as  in  mine 
own.  "Presents,"  I  often  say,  "endear  Ab- 
sents." Hares,  pheasants,  partridges,  snipes, 
barn-door  chickens  (those  "tame  villatici^ 
fowl"),  capons,  plovers,  brawn,ii  barrels  of 
oysters,  I  dispense  as  freely  as  I  receive  them. 
I  love  to  taste  them,  as  it  were,  upon  the  tongue 
of  my  friend.  But  a  stop  must  be  put  some- 
where. One  would  not,  like  Lear,  "give  every- 
thing. '  '12  I  make  my  stand  uponis  pig.  Me- 
thinks  it  is  an  ingratitude  to  the  Giver  of  all 
good  flavours,  to  extra-domiciliate,  or  send  out 
of  the  house  slightingly  (under  pretext  of 
friendship,  or  I  know  not  what),  a  blessing  so 
particularly  adapted,  predestined,  I  may  say,  to 
my  individual  palate — it  argues  an  insensibility. 
I  remember  a  touch  of  conscience  in  this  kind 
at  school.  My  good  old  aunt,  who  never  parted 
from  me  at  the  end  of  a  holiday  without  stuffing 
a  sweet-meat,  or  some  nice  thing,  into  my 
jiocket,  had  dismissed  me  one  evening  with  a 
smoking  plum-cake,  fresh  from  the  oven.  In 
my  way  to  school  (it  was  over  London  Bridge) 
a  gray-headed  old  beggar  saluted  me  (I  have  no 
doubt  at  this  time  of  day  that  he  was  a  counter- 
feit). I  had  no  pence  to  console  him  with,  and 
in  the  vanity  of  self-denial,  and  the  very  cox- 
combry of  charity,  schoolboy-like,  I  made  him  a 
present  of — the  whole  cake!  I  walked  on  a 
little,  buoyed  up,  as  one  is  on  such  occasions, 
with  a  sweet  soothing  of  self-satisfaction;  but 
before  I  had  got  to  the  end  of  the  bridge,  my 
better  feelings  returned,  and  I  burst  into  tears, 
thinking  how  ungrateful  I  had  been  to  my  good 
aunt,  to  go  and  give  her  good  gift  away  to  a 
stranger  that  I  had  never  seen  before,  and  who 
might  be  a  bad  man  for  aught  I  knew;  and 
then  I  thought  of  the  pleasure  my  aunt  would 
be  taking  in  thinking  that  I — I  myself  and  not 
another — would  eat  her  nice  cake —  and  what 
should  I  say  to  her  the  next  time  I  saw  her — 
how  naughty  I  was  to  part  with  her  pretty 
l)resent! —  and  the  odour  of  that  spicy  cake 
came  back  upon  my  recollection,  and  the 
pleasure  and  the  curiosity  I  had  taken  in  seeing 
her  make  it,  and  her  joy  when  she  had  sent  it 
to  the  oven,  and  how  disappointed  she  would 
feel  tiiat  I  had  never  had  a  bit  of  it  in  my 
mouth  at  last — and  I  blamed  my  impertinent 
spirit   of   alms-giving,   and   out-of-place   hypoc- 

10  farm -yard     (Milton:      n  pickled  boar's  flesh 
l<<jmh>n     Agonixten,      12  Kiiif/  Leor,  II.  iv.  2.").'*.. 
line  1695)  i'.  halt  at 


risy  of  goodness;  and  above  all,  I  wisheil  never 
to  see  the  face  again  of  that  insidious,  good-for- 
nothing,  old  gray  impostor. 

Our  ancestors  were  nicei*  in  their  method  of 
sacrificing  these  tender  victims.  We  read  of 
pigs  whipt  to  death  with  something  of  a  shock, 
as  we  hear  of  any  other  obsolete  custom.  The 
age  of  discipline  is  gone  b}',  or  it  would  be 
curious  to  inquire  (in  a  philosophical  light 
merely)  what  effect  this  process  might  have 
towards  intenerating  and  dulcifying  a  sub- 
stance, naturally  so  mild  and  dulcet  as  the  flesh 
of  young  pigs.  It  looks  like  refining  a  violet. 
Yet  we  should  be  cautious,  while  we  condemn 
the  inhumanity,  how  we  censure  the  wisdom  of 
the  practice.    It  might  impart  a  gusto — 

I  remember  an  hypothesis,  argued  upon  by 
the  young  students,  when  I  was  at  St.  Omer's,!^ 
and  maintained  with  much  learning  and  pleas- 
antry on  both  sides,  ' '  Whether,  supposing  that 
the  flavour  of  a  pig  who  obtained  his  death  by 
whipping  (per  ffagellationem  extremam)  super- 
added a  pleasure  upon  the  palate  of  a  man 
more  intense  than  any  possible  suffering  we  can 
conceive  in  the  animal,  is  man  justified  in  using 
that  method  of  putting  the  animal  to  death?" 
I  forget  the  decision. 

His  sauce  should  be  considered.  Decidedly  a 
few  bread  crumbs,  done  up  with  his  liver  and 
brains,  and  a  dash  of  mild  sage.  But  banish, 
dear  Mrs.  Cook,  I  beseech  you,  the  whole  onion 
tribe.  Barbecue  your  whole  hogs  to  your  palate, 
steep  them  in  shalots,  stuff  them  out  with  jjlan- 
tations  of  the  rank  and  guilty  garlic ;  you  can- 
not poison  them,  or  make  them  stronger  than 
they  are — but  consider,  he  is  a  weakling — a 
flower. 

From  THE  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELIA 
Old  China 

I  have  an  almost  feminine  partiality  for  old 
china.  When  I  go  to  see  any  great  house,  I 
inquire  for  the  china-closet,  and  next  for  the 
picture-gallery.  I  cannot  defend  the  order  of 
preference,  but  by  saying  that  we  have  all  some 
taste  or  other,  of  too  ancient  a  date  to  admit  of 
our  remembering  distinctly  that  it  was  an  ac 
quired  one.  I  can  call  to  mind  the  first  play, 
and  the  first  exhibition,  that  I  was  taken  to; 
but  I  am  not  conscious  of  a  time  when  china 
jars  and  saucers  were  introduced  into  my  imagi- 
nation. 

I  had  no  repugnance  then — why  should  I  now 
have? — to    those   little,   lawless,   azure-tinctured 

H  particular 

ir,  A    .lesuit   Collpse    (Lamb   was   never   a   student 
thorci. 


510 


THE  ROMANTIC  BEVIVAL 


grotesques,  that,  under  the  notion  of  men  and 
women,  float  about,  uncircumscribed  by  any 
element,  in  that  world  before  perspective — a 
china  tea-cup. 

I  like  to  see  my  old  friends — whom  distance 
cannot  diminish — figuring  up  in  the  air  (so  they 
appear  to  our  optics),  yet  on  terra  fir  ma  still — 
for  so  we  must  in  courtesy  interpret  that  speck 
of  deeper  blue,  which  the  decorous  artist,  to 
prevent  absurdity,  has  made  to  siiring  up 
beneath  their  sandals. 

I  love  the  men  with  women's  faces,  and  the 
women,  if  possible,  with  still  more  womanish 
expressions. 

Here  is  a  young  and  courtly  Mandarin,  hand- 
ing tea  to  a  lady  from  a  salver — two  miles  off. 
See  how  distance  seems  to  set  off  respect!  And 
here  the  same  lady,  or  another — for  likeness  is 
identity  on  tea-cups — is  stepping  into  a  little 
fairy  boat,  moored  on  the  hither  side  of  this 
calm  garden  river,  with  a  dainty  mincing  foot, 
which  in  a  rights  angle  of  incidence  (as  angles 
go  in  our  world)  must  infallibly  land  her  in  the 
midst  of  a  flowery  mead — a  furlong  off  on  the 
other  side  of  the  same  strange  stream! 

Farther  on — if  far  or  near  can  be  predicated 
of  their  world — see  horses,  trees,  pagodas, 
dancing  the  hays.2 

Here — a  cow  and  rabbit  couchant  and  co- 
extensive— so  objects  show,  seen  through  the 
lucid  atmosphere  of  fine  Cathaj'.s 

I  was  pointing  out  to  my  cousin  last  evening, 
over  our  Hyson*  (which  we  are  old-fasliioned 
enough  to  drink  unmixed  still  of  an  afternoon), 
some  of  these  speciosa  Diiracula''  upon  a  set  of 
extraordinary  old  blue  china  (a  recent  pur- 
chase) which  we  were  now  for  the  first  time 
using;  and  could  not  help  remarking,  how 
favourable  circumstances  had  been  to  us  of  late 
years,  that  we  could  afford  to  please  the  eye 
sometimes  with  trifles  of  this  sort — when  a 
passing  sentiment  seemed  to  overshade  the 
brows  of  my  companion.  I  am  quick  at  detect- 
ing these  summer  clouds  in  Bridget.^ 

* '  I  wish  the  good  old  times  would  come 
again,"  she  said,  "when  we  were  not  quite  so 
rich.  I  do  not  mean  that  I  want  to  be  poor; 
but  there  was  a  middle  state" — so  she  was 
pleased  to  ramble  on — "in  which  I  am  sure  we 
were  a  great  deal  happier.  A  purchase  is  but 
a  purchase,  now  that  you  have  money  enough 
and  to  spare.  Formerly  it  used  to  be  a  tri- 
umph. Wlien  we  coveted  a  cheap  luxury  (and 
O!  how  much  ado  I  had  to  get  you  to  consent  in 


1  proporly   calonlatod 

2  An  old  KnKliHh  danro. 
sChtnoKc  Tartary  (used 

liMtsely   for  China) 


*  grocn  tea 
5  radiant  wondora 
0  Sco   Introductory   note 
on   "Ella." 


those  times ! )  we  were  used  to  have  a  debate 
two  or  three  days  before,  and  to  weigh  the  fort 
and  ofjainst,  and  think  what  we  might  spare  itj 
out  of,  and  what  saving  avc  could  hit  upon,  thati 
should  be  an  equivalent.  A  thing  was  Avorthj 
buying  then  when  we  felt  the  money  that  wej 
paid  for  it. 

' '  Do  you  remember  the  brown  suit,  which  you 
made  to  hang  upon  you,  till  all  your  friends 
cried  shame  upon  you,  it  grew  so  threadbare — 
and  all  because  of  that  folio  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher*  which  you  dragged  home  late  at  night 
from  Barker's  in  Covent  Garden ?7  Do  you 
remember  how  we  eyed  it  for  weeks  before  we 
could  make  up  our  minds  to  the  purchase,  and 
had  not  come  to  a  determination  till  it  was  near 
ten  o  'clock  of  the  Saturday  night,  when  you  set 
off  from  Islington,^  fearing  you  should  be  too 
late — and  when  the  old  bookseller  with  some 
grumbling  opened  his  shop,  and  by  the  twinkling 
taper  (for  he  was  setting  bedwards)  lighted  out 
the  relic  from  his  dusty  treasures — and  when 
you  lugged  it  home,  wishing  it  were  twice  as 
cumbersome — and  when  you  presented  it  to  me 
— and  when  we  were  exploring  the  perfectuess 
of  it  (collating,  you  called  it) — and  while  I  was 
repairing  some  of  the  loose  leaves  with  paste, 
which  your  impatience  would  not  suffer  to  be 
left  till  day-break — was  there  no  pleasure  in 
being  a  poor  man?  or  can  those  neat  black 
clothes  which  you  wear  now,  and  are  so  careful 
to  keep  brushed,  since  we  have  become  rich  and 
finical,  give  you  half  the  honest  vanity  with 
which  you  flaunted  it  about  in  that  overworn 
suit — your  old  corbeau^ — for  four  or  five  weeks 
longer  than  yon  should  have  done,  to  pacify 
your  conscience  for  the  mighty  sum  of  fifteen — 
or  sixteen  shillings  was  itf — a  great  affair  we 
thought  it  then — which  you  had  lavished  on  tlie 
old  folio.  Now  you  can  afford  to  buy  any  book 
that  pleases  you,  but  I  do  not  see  that  you  ever 
bring  me  home  any  nice  old  purchases  now. 

*  *  When  you  came  home  with  twenty  apologies 
for  laying  out  a  less  number  of  shillings  upon 
that  print  after  Lionardo,io  which  we  christened 
the  '  Lady  Blanche ; '  when  you  looked  at  the 
purchase,  and  thought  of  the  money  —  and 
thought  of  the  money,  and  looked  again  at  the 
picture — was  there  no  pleasure  in  being  a  poor 
man  ?  Now-,  you  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  walk 
into  Colnaghi's,  and  buy  a  wildernessn  of 
Lionardos.     Yet  do  youf 

7  A  squarp  In  the  heart      »  black  coat 

of    London,    best  lo  Leonardo     da     Vinci, 
known  for  Its  fruit  the  Italian  painter, 

and  flower  markets.  ii  Merchant    of    Venice. 

8  In   nortborn   London.  HL  1.  128. 

•  This    particular    vohime.    with    notes    In    It    by 
C"ol«TldBe.   is  now   In   the   Rritlsh    Mnsoum. 


CHARLES  LAMB 


ill 


"Then,  do  you  remember  our  pleasant  walks 
to  Enfield,  and  Potter's  Bar,  and  Waltham,i^ 
^vhen  we  had  a  holiday — holidays  and  all  other 
fun  are  gone,  now  we  are  rich — and  the  little 
nandbasket  in  w  hich  I  used  to  deposit  our  day 's 
fare  of  savory,  cold  lamb  and  salad — and  how 
you  would  pry  about  at  noontide  for  some 
decent  house,  where  we  might  go  in,  and  pro- 
duce our  store — only  paying  for  the  ale  that 
you  must  call  for — and  speculate  upon  the  looks 
of  the  landlady,  and  whether  she  was  likely  to 
allow  us  a  table-cloth — and  wish  for  such  an- 
other honest  hostess,  as  Izaak  Walton  has  de- 
scribed many  a  one  on  tlie  pleasant  banks  of 
the  Lea,  when  he  went  a-fishing — and  sometimes 
they  would  prove  obliging  enough,  and  some- 
times they  would  look  grudgingly  upon  us — but 
we  had  cheerful  looks  still  for  one  another,  and 
would  eat  our  plain  food  savorily,  scarcely 
grudging  Piscatoris  his  Trout  Hall?  Now, 
when  we  go  out  a  day 's  pleasuring,  which  is 
seldom  moreover,  we  ride  part  of  the  way — and 
go  into  a  fine  inn,  and  order  the  best  of  dinners, 
never  debating  the  expense — which,  after  all, 
never  has  half  the  relish  of  those  chance  country 
snaps,  when  we  were  at  the  mercy  of  uncertain 
usage,  and  a  precarious  welcome. 

"You  are  too  proud  to  see  a  play  anywhere 
now  but  in  the  pit.  Do  you  remember  where  it 
was  we  used  to  sit,  when  we  saw  the  Battle  of 
Hexam  and  the  Surrender  of  Calais,i*  and  Ban- 
nisteris  and  Mrs.  Bland  in  the  Children  in  the 
Woodis — when  we  squeezed  out  our  shilling 
a-piece  to  sit  three  or  four  times  in  a  season  in 
the  one-shilling  gallery — where  you  felt  all  the 
time  that  you  ought  not  to  have  brought  me — 
and  more  strongly  I  felt  obligation  to  you  for 
having  brought  me — and  the  pleasure  was  the 
better  for  a  little  shame — and  when  the  curtain 
drew  up,  what  cared  we  for  our  place  in  the 
house,  or  what  mattered  it  where  we  were  sit- 
ting, when  our  thoughts  were  with  Bosalind  in 
Arden,  or  with  Viola  at  the  court  of  Illyria?i' 
You  used  to  say,  that  the  gallery  was  the  best 
place  of  all  for  enjoying  a  jday  socially — that 
the  relish  of  such  exhibitions  must  be  in  propor- 
tion to  the  infrequeney  of  going — that  the  com- 
pany we  met  there,  not  being  in  general  readers 
of  plays,  were  obliged  to  attend  the  more,  and 
did  attend,  to  what  was  going  on,  on  the  stage 
— because  a  word  lost  would  have  been  a  chasm, 
which  it  was  impossible   for  them  to  fill  up. 


12  London  suburbs. 

13  See      Walton's      The 

Complete  Angler,  p. 
264. 

14  Plays  by  George  Col- 

man  the  younger. 


15  John      Bannister,      a 

pupil  of  Garrick. 

16  A  comedy  by  Tbomas 

Morton. 

17  In    As    Yoii    Like    It 

and  Tirelfth  yight. 


With  such  reflections  we  consoled  our  pride  then 
— and  I  appeal  to  you,  whether,  as  a  woman,  I 
met  generally  with  less  attention  and  accommo- 
ilation  than  I  have  done  since  in  more  expensive 
situations  in  the  house  ?  The  getting  in  indeed, 
and  the  crowding  up  those  inconvenient  stair- 
cases, was  bad  enough, — but  there  was  still  a 
law  of  civility  to  women  recognized  to  quite  as 
great  an  extent  as  we  ever  found  in  the  other 
passages — and  how  a  little  diflBculty  overcome 
heightened  the  snug  seat,  and  the  play,  after- 
wards! Now  we  can  only  pay  our  money,  and 
walk  in.  You  cannot  see,  you  say,  in  the  gal- 
leries now.  I  am  sure  we  saw,  and  heard  too, 
well  enough  then — but  sight,  and  all,  I  think  is 
gone  with  our  poverty. 

"There  was  pleasure  in  eating  strawberries, 
before  they  became  quite  common — in  the  first 
dish  of  peas,  while  they  were  yet  dear — to  have 
them  for  a  nice  supper,  a  treat.  What  treat 
can  we  have  now?  If  we  were  to  treat  ourselves 
now — that  is,  to  have  dainties  a  little  above  our 
means,  it  would  be  selfish  and  wicked.  It  is  the 
very  little  more  that  we  allow  ourselves  beyond 
what  the  actual  poor  can  get  at,  that  makes 
what  I  call  a  treat — when  two  people,  living  to- 
gether as  we  have  done,  now  and  then  imlulge 
themselves  in  a  cheap  luxury  which  both  like; 
while  each  apologizes,  and  is  willing  to  take 
both  halves  of  the  blame  to  his  single  share. 
1  see  no  harm  in  people  making  njuch  of  them- 
selves, in  that  sense  of  the  word.  It  may  give 
them  a  hint  how  to  make  much  of  others.  But 
now — what  I  mean  by  the  word — we  never  do 
make  much  of  ourselves.  None  but  the  poor 
can  do  it.  I  do  not  mean  the  veriest  poor  of 
all,  but  i)ersons  as  we  were,  just  above  poverty. 

'  *  I  know  what  you  were  going  to  say,  that  it 
is  mighty  pleasant  at  tiie  end  of  the  year  to 
make  all  meet — and  much  ado  we  used  to  have 
every  Thirty-first  Night  of  December  to  account 
for  our  exceedings — many  a  long  face  did  you 
make  over  your  jmzzled  accounts,  and  in  con- 
tri\-ing  to  make  it  out  how  we  had  spent  so 
much — or  that  we  had  not  spent  so  much — or 
that  it  was  impossible  we  should  spend  so  much 
next  year — ami  still  we  found  our  slender  capi- 
tal decreasing — but  then,  betwixt  ways,  and 
projects,  and  compromises  of  one  sort  or  an- 
other, an.l  talk  of  curtailing  this  charge,  and 
doing  without  that  for  the  future — and  the  hope 
that  youth  brings,  and  laughing  spirits  (in 
which  you  were  never  poor  till  now),  we  pock- 
eted up  our  loss,  and  in  conclusion,  with  'lusty 
brimmers'  (as  you  used  to  quote  it  out  of 
hearty  cheerful  Mr.  Cotton,i»  as  you  called 
IS  Charles  Cotton  :    The  Xeir  Tear. 


512 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 


him),  we  used  to  welcome  in  the  'coming  guest.' 
Now  we  have  no  reckoning  at  all  at  the  end  of 
the  old  year — no  flattering  promises  about  the 
new  year  doing  better  for  us. ' ' 

Bridget  is  so  sparing  of  her  speech  on  most 
occasions,  that  when  she  gets  into  a  rhetorical 
vein,  I  am  careful  how  I  interrupt  it.  I  could 
not  help,  however,  smiling  at  the  phantom  of 
wealth  which  her  dear  imagination  had  conjured 

up  out  of  a  clear  income  of  poor hundred 

pounds  a  year.  "It  is  true  we  were  happier 
when  we  were  poorer,  but  we  were  also  younger, 
my  cousin.  I  am  afraid  we  must  put  up  with 
the  excess,  for  if  we  were  to  shake  the  superflux 
into  the  sea,  we  should  not  much  mend  ourselves. 
That  we  had  much  to  struggle  with,  as  we  grew 
up  together,  we  have  reason  to  be  most  thank- 
ful. It  strengthened,  and  knit  our  compact 
closer.  "We  could  never  have  been  what  we  have 
been  to  each  other,  if  we  had  always  had  the 
sufficiency  which  you  now  complain  of.  The 
resisting  power — those  natural  dilations  of  the 
youthful  spirit,  which  circumstances  cannot 
straiten — with  us  are  long  since  passed  away. 
Competence  to  age  is  supplementary  youth;  a 
sorry  supplement  indeed,  but  I  fear  the  best  that 
is  to  be  had.  We  must  ride,  where  we  formerly 
walked;  live  better,  and  lie  softer — and  shall  be 
wise  to  do  so — than  we  had  means  to  do  in  those 
good  old  days  you  speak  of.  Yet  could  those 
days  return — could  you  and  I  once  more  walk 
our  thirty  miles  a-day — could  Bannister  and 
Mrs.  Bland  again  be  young,  and  you  and  I  be 
young  to  see  them — could  the  good  old  one- 
shilling  gallery  days  return — they  are  dreams, 
my  cousin,  now — but  could  you  and  I  at  this 
moment,  instead  of  this  quiet  argument,  by  our 
well-carpeted  fireside,  sitting  on  this  luxurious 
sofa — be  once  more  struggling  up  those  incon- 
venient staircases,  pushed  about,  and  squeezed, 
and  elbowed  by  the  poorest  rabble  of  poor 
gallery  scramblers — could  I  once  more  hear 
those  anxious  shrieks  of  yours — and  the  deli- 
cious Thank  God,  we  are  safe,  which  always 
followed  when  the  topmost  stair,  conquered,  let 
in  the  first  light  of  the  whole  cheerful  theatre 
down  beneath  us — I  know  not  the  fathom  line 
that  ever  touched  a  descent  so  deep  as  I  would 
be  willing  to  bury  more  wealth  in  than  Croesusi" 

had,  or  the  great  Jew  R 20  is  supposed  to 

have,  to  purchase  it. 

"And  now  do  just  look  at  that  merry  little 
Chinese  waiter  holding  an  umbrella,  big  enough 
for  a  bed-tester ,21  over  the  head  of  that  pretty 
insipid  half-Madona-ish  chit  of  a  lady  in  that 
very  blue  summer-house. ' ' 


in  King  of  T.rdla. 
2oltothH<blld 


21  l)od  <nnopy 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 
(1775-1864) 

From  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS 
Metellus  and  Maeius* 

MeteUus.  Well  met,  Cains  Marius!  My  or- 
ders are  to  find  instantly  a  centurion  who  shall 
mount  the  walls;  one  capable  of  observation, 
acute  in  remark,  prompt,  calm,  active,  intrepid. 
The  Numantians  are  sacrificing  to  the  gods  in 
secrecy;  they  have  sounded  the  horn  once  only, 
— and  hoarsely  and  low  and  mournfully. 

Marius.  Was  that  ladder  I  see  yonder 
among  the  caper-bushes  and  purple  lilies,  un- 
der where  the  fig-tree  grows  out  of  the  ram- 
part, left  for  me? 

Metellus.  Even  so,  wert  thou  willing. 
Wouldst  thou  mount  it? 

Marius.  Rejoicingly.  If  none  are  below  or 
near,  may  I  explore  the  state  of  things  by 
entering  the  city? 

Metellus.     Use  thy  discretion  in  that. 

What  seest  thou?  Wouldst  thou  leap  down? 
Lift  the  ladder. 

]ilarius.  Are  there  spikes  in  it  where  it 
sticks  in  the  turf?     I  should  slip  else. 

Metellus.  How!  bravest  of  our  centurions, 
art  even  thou  afraid?     Seest  thou  any  one  by? 

^farius.  Ay;  some  hundreds  close  beneath 
me. 

Metellus.  Retire,  then.  Hasten  back;  I  will 
protect  thy  descent. 

Marius.  May  I  speak,  O  Metellus,  without 
an  offence  to  discipline? 

Metellus.     Say. 

Marius.    Listen!     Dost  thou  not  hear? 

Metellus.  Shame  on  thee!  alight,  alight!  my 
shield  shall  cover  thee. 

Marius.  There  is  a  murmur  like  the  hum  of 
bees  in  the  bean-field  of  Cereat4;i  for  the  sun 
is  hot,  and  the  ground  is  thirsty.     When  will  it 

1  The    rustic    home   of    Marius's    childhood,    near 
Arpiuum. 

*  The  sie«o  and  oaptuio,  in  l.'?2  B.  C,  of  the 
Numantlnns,  struggling  with  8,000  men 
against  the  whole  power  of  Rome,  was  one  of 
the  stages  in  the  disgracefnl  tliird  I'lmio  war, 
which  was  conducted  by  Scipio  Africanus  the 
Youngor.  Caius  Caecillus  Motcllus,  the  tribune, 
was  a  comparatively  unimportant  personage. 
Marius.  the  centurion,  of  obscure  birth,  rose 
later  to  be  seven  times  consul.  IMutarch  tells 
us  that  Scipio  had  marked  the  youth's  good 
qnalltles,  and  when  asked  who  should  succeed 
himself  in  case  of  accident,  had  touched  the 
shoulder  of  Marius,  saying.  "Perhaps  this 
man ;"  which  saying  "raised  the  hopes  of 
Marius  like  a  divine  oracle."  On  this  slight 
historical  foundation  I.andor  constructs  his 
dramatic  scene.  The  Numantians,  in  all  prob 
ability,  had  no  regular  walla ;  and  Appian 
says  that  some  of  them  preferred  surrender  to 
death  and  were  led  in  a  Roman  Triumph. 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 


513 


have  drunk  up  for  me  the  blood  that  has  run, 
and  is  yet  oozing  on  it,  from  those  fresh 
bodies  I 

Metellus.  How!  We  have  not  fought  for 
many  days;    what  bodies,  then,  are  fresh  ones? 

Mariun.  Close  beneath  the  wall  are  those  of 
infants  and  of  girls;  in  the  middle  of  the  road 
are  youths,  emaciated;  some  either  unvvounded 
or  wounded  months  ago;  some  on  their  spears, 
others  on  their  swords:  no  few  have  received 
in  mutual  death  the  last  interchange  of  friend- 
ship; their  daggers  unite  them,  hilt  to  hilt, 
bosom  to  bosom. 

Metellus.  Mark  rather  the  living, — what  are 
they  about? 

Marias.  About  the  sacrifice,  which  portends 
them,  I  conjecture,  but  little  good, — it  burns 
sullenly  and  slowly.  The  victim  will  lie  upon 
the  pyre  till  morning,  and  still  be  unconsumed. 
unless  they  bring  more  fuel. 

I  will  leap  down  and  Avalk  on  cautiously,  and 
return  with  tidings,  if  death  should  spare  me. 

Never  was  any  race  of  mortals  so  unmilitary 
as  these  Numantians;  no  watch,  no  stations, 
no  palisades  across  the  streets. 

Metellus.  Did  they  want,  then,  all  the  wood 
for  the  altar? 

Marius.     It  appears  so — I  will  return  anon. 

Metellus.  The  gods  speed  thee,  my  brave, 
honest  Marius! 

Marhi^  (returned).  The  ladder  should  have 
been  better  spiked  for  that  slippery  ground. 
I  am  down  again  safe,  however.  Here  a  man 
may  walk  securely,  and  without  picking  his 
steps. 

Metellus.     Tell  me,  Caius,  what  thou  sawest. 

Marius.     The  streets  of  Numantia. 

Metellus.     Doubtless;     but  what  else? 

Marius.  The  temples  and  markets  and  places 
of  exercise  and  fountains. 

Metellus.  Art  thou  crazed,  centurion?  what 
more?     Speak  plainly,  at  once,  and  briefly. 

Marius.     I  beheld,  then,  all  Nuniantia. 

Metellus.  Has  terror  maddened  thee?  hast 
Ihou  descried  nothing  of  the  inhabitants  but 
those  carcasses  under  the  ramparts? 

Marius.  Those,  0  Metellus,  lie  scattered,  al- 
though not  indeed  far  asunder.  The  greater 
part  of  the  soldiers  and  citizens — of  the 
fathers,  husbands,  widows,  wives,  espoused — 
were  assembled  together. 

Metellus.     About  the  altar? 

Marhis.     Upon  it. 

Metellus.  So  busy  and  earnest  in  devotion! 
but  how  all  upon  it? 

Marius.  It  blazed  under  them,  and  over 
them,  and  round  about  them. 

Metellus.     Immortal   gods!      Art   thou   sane, 


Caius  Marius?  Thy  \isage  is  scorched:  thy 
speech  may  wander  after  such  an  enterprise; 
thy  shield  burns  my  hand. 

Marius.  I  thought  it  had  cooled  again.  Why, 
truly,  it  seems  hot:    1  now  feel  it. 

Metellus.     W'ipe  off  those  embers. 

Marius.  'Twere  better:  there  will  be  none 
opposite  to  shake  them  upon,  for  some  time. 

The  funereal  horn,  that  sounded  with  such 
feebleness,  sounded  not  so  from  the  faint  heart 
of  him  wiio  blew  it.  Him  I  saw ;  him  only  of 
the  living.  Should  I  say  it?  there  was  an- 
other: there  was  one  child  whom  its  parent 
could  not  kill,  could  not  part  from.  She  had 
hidden  it  in  her  robe,  I  suspect;  and,  when  the 
fire  had  reached  it,  either  it  shrieked  or  she 
did.  For  suddenly  a  cry  pierced  through  the 
crackling  pinewood,  and  something  of  round 
in  figure  fell  from  brand  to  brand,  until  it 
reached  the  pavement,  at  the  feet  of  him  who 
had  blown  the  horn.  I  rushed  toward  him,  for 
I  wanted  to  hear  the  whole  story,  and  felt  the 
pressure  of  time.     Condemn  not  my  weakness, 

0  Caecilius!  I  wished  an  enemy  to  live  an 
hour  longer ;  for  my  orders  were  to  explore  and 
bring  intelligence.  When  I  gazed  on  him,  in 
height  almost  gigantic,  I  wondered  not  that  the 
blast  of  his  trumpet  was  so  weak :    rather  did 

1  wonder  that  Famine,  whose  hand  had  in- 
dented everj-  limb  and  feature,  had  left  him 
any  voice  articulate.  I  rushed  toward  him, 
however,  ere  my  eyes  had  measured  eitlier  his 
form  or  strength.  He  held  the  child  against 
me,  and  staggered  under  it. 

"Behold,"  he  exclaimed,  "the  glorious  or- 
nament of  a  Roman  triumph!" 

I  stood  horror-stricken ;  when  suddenly  drops, 
as  of  rain,  pattered  down  from  the  pyre.  I 
looked;  and  many  were  the  precious  stones, 
many  were  the  amulets  and  rings  and  brace- 
lets, and  other  barbaric  ornaments,  unknown  to 
me  in  form  or  purpose,  that  tinkled  on  the 
hardened  and  black  branches,  from  mothers  and 
wives  and  betrothed  maids;  and  some,  too,  I 
can  imagine,  from  robuster  arms — things  of 
joyance.  won  in  battle.  The  crowd  of  incum- 
bent bodies  was  so  dense  and  heavy,  that 
neither  the  fire  nor  the  smoke  could  penetrate 
upward  from  among  them ;  and  they  sank, 
whole  and  at  once,  into  the  smouldering  cavern 
eaten  out  below.  He  at  whose  neck  hung  the 
trumpet  felt  this,  and  started. 

"There  is  yet  room,"  he  cried,  "and  there 
is  strength  enough  yet,  both  in  the  element  and 
in  me." 

He  extended  his  withered  arms,  he  thrust 
forward  the  gaunt  links  of  his  throat,  and  upon 
gnarled  knees,   that   smote  each   other  audibly, 


514 


THE  KOMANTIG  REVIVAL 


tottered  into  the  civic-  fire.  It — like  some  hun- 
gry and  strangest  beast  on  the  innermost  wild 
of  Africa,  pierced,  broken,  prostrate,  motion- 
less, gazed  at  by  its  hunter  in  the  impatience 
of  glory,  in  the  delight  of  awe — panted  once 
more,  and  seized  him. 

I  have  seen  within  this  hour,  O  Metellus, 
what  Rome  in  the  cycle  of  her  triumphs  will 
never  see,  what  the  Sun  in  his  eternal  course 
can  never  show  her,  what  the  Earth  has  borne 
l)Ut  now,  and  must  never  rear  again  for  her, 
what  Victory  herself  has  envied  her, — a 
JVumantian. 

Metelhis.  We  shall  feast  to-morrow.  Hope, 
fains  Mai'ius,  to  become  a  tribune:  trust  in 
fortune. 

Marius.  Auguries  are  surer:  surest  of  all  is 
perseverance. 

Metellus.  I  hope  the  wine  has  not  grown 
vapid  in  my  tent:  I  have  kept  it  waiting,  and 
must  now  report  to  Scipio  the  intelligence  of 
our  discovery.     Come  after  me,  Caius. 

Marhis  (alone).  The  tribune  is  the  discov- 
erer! the  centurion  is  the  scout!  Caius 
Marius  must  enter  more  Numantias.  Light- 
hearted  Caecilius,  thou  mayest  perhaps  here- 
after, and  not  with  humbled  but  with  exulting 
pride,  take  orders  from  this  hand.  If  Scipio  's 
words  are  fate,  and  to  me  they  sound  so,  the 
])ortals  of  the  Capitol  may  shake  before  my 
chariot,  as  my  horses  plunge  back  at  the  ap- 
plauses of  the  people,  and  Jove  in  his  high 
domiciles  may  welcome  the  citizen  of  Arpinum. 

Leofric  and  Godiva* 

Godiva.  There  is  a  dearth  in  the  land,  my 
sweet  Leofric!  Remember  how  many  weeks 
of  drought  we  have  had,  even  in  the  deep  pas- 
tures of  Leicestershire;  and  how  many  Sundays 
ive  have  heard  the  same  prayers  for  rain,  and 
supplications  that  it  would  please  the  Lord  in 
his  mercy  to  turn  aside  his  anger  from  the  poor, 
pining  cattle.  You,  my  dear  husband,  have  im- 
prisoned more  than  one  malefactor  for  leaving 
his  dead  ox  in  the  public  way;  and  other  hinds* 
have  fled  before  you  out  of  the  traces,  in  which 
they,  and  their  sons  and  their  daughters,  and 

2  citizens'     (perhaps    after    the    analogy    of  •  the 

"civic"  crown,  conferred  for  distinction) 

3  The  Temple  of  Jupiter,  whither  the  leader  of  a 

Triumph  went  lo  offer  sacrifice. 

4  peasants. 

•  According  to  legend,  Leofric,  Earl  of  Mercla  in 
the  11th  century,  acceded  to  his  wife's  plea, 
that  he  remit  n  certain  burdensome  tax  on 
the  people,  on  the  harsh  condillon  that  she 
should  ride  through  the  street  naked  at  noon- 
day. She  fulfilled  the  condition  with  modesty, 
owing  to  her  luxuriant  hair. 


haply  their  old  fathers  and  njothcrs,  were  drag- 
ging the  abandoned  wain  homeward.  Although 
we  were  accompanied  by  many  brave  spearmen 
and  skilful  archers,  it  was  perilous  to  pass  the 
creatures  which  the  farm-yard  dogs,  driven 
from  the  hearth  by  the  poverty  of  their  mas- 
ters, were  tearing  and  devouring;  while  others, 
bitten  and  lamed,  filled  the  air  either  with 
long  and  deep  howls  or  sharp  and  quick  bark- 
ings, as  they  struggled  with  hunger  and  feeble- 
ness, or  were  exasperated  by  heat  and  pain. 
Nor  could  the  thyme  from  the  heath,  nor  the 
bruised  branches  of  the  fir-tree,  extinguish  or 
abate  the  foul  odour, 

Leofric.    And  now,  Godiva,  my  darling,  thou 
art   afraid  we  should  be  eaten   up  before  we 
enter  the  gates  of  Coventry;  or  perchance  that 
in  the  gardens  there  are  no  roses  to  greet  thee^ 
no  sweet  herbs  for  thy  mat  and  pillow.  * 

Godiva.  Leofric,  I  have  no  such  fears.  This 
is  the  month  of  roses:  I  find  them  everywhere 
since  my  blessed  marriage.  They,  and  all  other 
sweet  herbs,  I  know  not  why,  seem  to  greet  me 
wherever  I  look  at  them,  as  though  they  knew 
and  expected  me.  Surely  they  cannot  feel  that 
I  am  fond  of  them. 

Leofric.  O  light,  laughing  simpleton!  But 
what  wouldst  thou  1  I  came  not  hither  to  pray  ; 
and  yet  if  praying  would  satisfy  thee,  or  re 
move  the  drought,  I  would  ride  up  straightway 
to  Saint  Michael 's  and  pray  until  morning. 

Godiva.  I  would  do  the  same,  O  Leofric! 
but  God  hath  turned  away  his  ear  from  holier 
lips  than  mine.  Would  my  own  dear  husbaml 
hear  me,  if  I  implored  him  for  what  is  easier 
to  accomplish, — what  he  can  do  like  God? 

Leofric.    How !  what  is  it  f 

Godiva.  I  would  not,  in  the  first  hurry  of 
your  wrath,  appeal  to  you,  my  loving  Lord,  in 
behalf  of  these  unhappy  men  who  have  offende<l 
you. 

Leofric.    Unhappy!  is  that  all? 

Godiva.  Unhappy  they  must  surely  be,  to 
have  otfended  you  so  grievously.  What  a  soft 
air  breatlies  over  us!  how  quiet  and  serene  and 
still  an  evening!  how  calm  are  the  heavens  and 
the  earth! — Shall  none  enjoy  them;  not  even 
we,  my  Leofric?  The  sun  is  ready  to  set:  let 
it  never  set,  O  Leofric,  on  your  anger.  These 
are  not  my  words:  they  are  better  than  mine."' 
Should  they  lose  their  virtue  from  my  unworlhi- 
nesa  in  uttering  them? 

Leofric.  Godiva,  wouldst  thou  plead  to  uu\ 
for  rebels? 

Godiva.     They  have,  then,  drawn  the  sword 
against  you?    Indeed,  I  knew  it  not. 
'  Epheiiaii}!.  Iv.  2fi. 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOE 


51^ 


Lcofric.  Tliey  have  omitted  to  send  me  my 
dues,  established  by  my  ancestors,  well  knowing 
of  our  nuptials,  and  of  the  charges  and  festivi- 
ties they,  require,  and  that  in  a  season  of  such 
scarcity  my  own  lauds  are  insufficient. 

Godiva.  If  they  were  starving,  as  they  said 
they  were 

Leofric.  Must  I  starve  tool  Is  it  not  enough 
to  lose  my  vassals? 

Godiva.  Enough!  O  God!  too  much!  too 
much!  May  you  never  lose  them!  Give  them 
life,  peace,  comfort,  contentment.  There  are 
those  among  them  who  kissed  me  in  my  in- 
fancy, and  who  blessed  me  at  the  baptismal 
font.  Leofric,  Leofric!  the  first  old  man  I 
meet  I  shall  think  is  one  of  those;  and  I  shall 
think  on  the  blessing  he  gave  me,  and  (ah  me!) 
on  the  blessing  1  bring  back  to  him.  My  heart 
will  bleed,  will  burst ;  and  he  will  weep  at  it ! 
he  will  weep,  poor  soul,  for  the  wife  of  a  cruel 
lord  who  denounces  vengeance  on  him,  who 
carries  death  into  his  family! 

Leofric.     We  must  hold  solemn  festivals. 

Godiva.     We  must,  indeed. 

Leofric.     Well,  then? 

Godiva.  Is  the  clamorousness  that  succeeds 
the  death  of  God  's  dumb  creatures,  are  crowded 
halls,  are  slaughtered  cattle,  festivals? — are 
maddening  songs,  and  giddy  dances,  and  hire- 
ling praises  from  parti-coloured  coats?  Can  the 
voice  of  a  minstrel  tell  us  better  things  of  our- 
selves than  our  own  internal  one  might  tell  us; 
or  can  his  breath  make  our  breath  softer  in 
sleep?  O  my  beloved!  let  everything  be  a 
joyance  to  us:  it  will,  if  we  will.  Sad  is  the 
day,  and  worse  must  follow,  when  we  hear  the 
blackbird  in  the  garden,  and  do  not  throb  with 
joy.  But,  Leofric,  the  high  festival  is  strown 
by  the  servant  of  God  upon  the  heart  of  man. 
It  is  gladness,  it  is  thanksgiving;  it  is  the 
orphan,  the  starveling,  pressed  to  the  bosom, 
and  bidden  as  its  first  commandment  to  remem- 
ber its  benefactor.  We  will  hold  this  festival; 
the  guests  are  ready;  we  may  keep  it  up  for 
weeks,  and  months,  and  years  together,  and 
always  be  the  happier  and  the  richer  for  it. 
The  beverage  of  this  feast,  O  Leofric,  is  sweeter 
than  bee  or  flower  or  vine  can  give  us:^  it 
flows  from  heaven ;  and  in  heaven  will  it  abun- 
dantly be  poured  out  again  to  him  who  pours 
it  out  here  unsparingly. 

Leofric.     Thou  art  wild. 

Godtva.  I  have,  indeed,  lost  myself.  Some 
Power,  some  good  kind  Power,  melts  me  (body 
and  soul  and  voice)  into  tenderness  and  love.   O 

6  Honey,  nectar,  and  wine  are  the  conptituents  of 
mead. 


my  husband,  we  must  obey  it.  Look  upon  me! 
look  upon  me!  lift  your  sweet  eyes  from  the 
ground!  I  will  not  cease  to  supplicate;  I  dare 
not. 

Leofric.     We  may  think  upon  it. 

Godiva.  Never  say  that !  What !  think  upon 
goodness  when  you  can  be  good?  Let  not 
the  infants  cry  for  sustenance!  The  mother  of 
(Hir  blessed  Lord  wiU  hear  them ;  us  never,  never 
afterward. 

Leofric.  Here  comes  the  Bishop :  we  are  but 
one  mile  from  the  walls.  Why  dismountest 
thou?  no  bishop  can  expect  it.  Godiva!  my 
honour  and  rank  among  men  are  humbled  by 
this.  Earl  Godwin  will  hear  of  it.  Up!  up! 
the  Bishop  hath  seen  it:  he  urgeth  his  horse 
onward.  Dost  thou  not  hear  him  now  upon  the 
solid  turf  behind  thee? 

Godiva.  Never,  no,  never  will  I  rise,  O 
Leofric,  until  you  remit  this  most  impious  tax 
— this  tax  on  hard  labour,  on  hard  life. 

Leofric.  Turn  round:  look  how  the  fat  nag 
canters,  as  to  the  tune  of  a  sinner 's  psaJm, 
slow  and  hard-breathing.  AVhat  reason  or  right 
can  the  people  have  to  complain,  while  their 
bishop  's  steed  is  so  sleek  and  well  caparisoned  ? 
Inclination  to  change,  desire  to  abolish  old 
usages. — Up!  up!  for  shame!  They  shall 
smart  for  it,  idlers!  Sir  Bishop,  I  must  blush 
for  my  young  bride. 

Godiva.  My  husband,  my  husband!  will  you 
pardon  the  city? 

Leofric.  Sir  Bishop!  I  could  not  think  you 
would  have  seen  her  in  this  plight.  Will  I 
pardon?  Yea,  Godiva,  by  the  holy  rood|»will  I 
pardon  the  city,  when  thou  ridest  naked  at 
noontide  through  the  streets! 

Godiva.  O  my  dear,  cruel  Leofric,  where  is 
the  heart  you  gave  me?  It  was  not  so:  can 
mine  have  hardened  it? 

Bishop.  Earl,  thou  abashest  thy  spouse;  she 
turneth  pale,  and  weepeth.  Lady  Godiva,  peace 
be  with  thee. 

Godiva.  Thanks,  holy  man!  peace  will  be 
with  me  when  peace  is  with  your  city.  Did  you 
hear  my  Lord  's  cruel  word  ? 

Bishop.     I  did,  lady. 

Godiva.  Will  you  remember  it,  and  pray 
against  it? 

Bishop.     Wilt  thou  forget  it,  daughter? 

Godiva.     I  am  not  offended. 

Bishop.     Angel  of  peace  ai^d  purity! 

Godiva.  But  treasure  it  up  in  your  heart: 
deem  it  an  incense,  good  only  when  it  is  con 
sumed  and  spent,  ascending  with  prayer  and 
sacrifice.    And.  now.  what  was  it? 

Bishop.     Christ  save  us!    that  he  will  pardon 


516 


THE  KOMANTIC  REVIVAL 


the  city  when   thou  ridest  naked   through  the 
streets  at  noon, 

Godiva.     Did  he  not  swear  an  oathf 
Bishop.     He  sware  by  the  holy  rood. 
Godiva.     My  Kedeemer,   thou  hast  heard  it  I 
save  the  city! 

Leofric.  We  are  now  upon  the  beginning  of 
the  pavement:  these  are  the  suburbs.  Let  us 
think  of  feasting:  we  may  pray  afterward; 
to-morrow  we  shall  rest. 

Godiva.  No  judgments,  then,  to-morrow, 
Leofric  f 

Leofric.     None:   we  will  carouse. 
Godiva.     The  saints  of  heaven  have  given  me 
strength  and  confidence ;    my  prayers  are  heard ; 
the  hesirt  of  my  beloved  is  now  softened. 

Leofric  (aside).  Ay,  ay — they  shall  smart, 
though. 

Godiva.  Say,  dearest  Leofric,  is  there  indeed 
no  other  hope,  no  other  mediation? 

Leofric.  I  have  sworn.  Beside,  thou  hast 
made  me  redden  and  turn  my  face  away  from 
thee,  and  all  the  knaves  have  seen  it:  this  adds 
to  tlie  city  's  crime. 

Godiva.  I  have  blushed  too,  Leofric,  and 
was  not  rash  nor  obdurate. 

Leofric.  But  thou,  my  sweetest,  art  given  to 
blushing:  there  is  no  conquering  it  in  thee.  I 
wish  then  hadst  not  alighted  so  hastily  and 
roughly :  it  liath  shaken  dow  n  a  sheaf  of  thy 
hair.  Take  heed  thou  sit  not  upon  it,  lest  it 
anguish  thee.  Well  done!  it  mingleth  now 
sweetly  with  the  cloth  of  gold  upon  the  saddle, 
running  here  and  there,  as  if  it  had  life  and 
faculties  and  business,  and  were  working  there- 
upon some  newer  and  cunninger  device.  O  my 
beauteous  P>ve!  there  is  a  Paradise  about  thee! 
the  world  is  refreshed  as  thou  movest  and  breath- 
est  on  it.  I  cannot  see  or  think  of  evil  where 
thou  art.  I  could  throw  my  arms  even  here 
about  thee.  No  signs  for  me!  no  shaking  of 
sunbeams!  no  reproof  or  frown  or  wonderment 
— I  will  say  it — now,  then,  for  worse — I  could 
close  with  my  kisses  thy  half-open  lips,  ay,  and 
those  lovely  and  loving  eyes,  before  the  people. 
Godiva.  To-morrow  you  shall  kiss  me,  and 
they  shall  bless  you  for  it.  I  shall  be  very  pale, 
for  to-night  I  must  fast  and  pray. 

Leofric.  T  do  not  hear  thee;  the  voices  of 
the  folk  are  so  loud  under  this  archway. 

Godiva  {to  Inrxelf).  God  help  them!  good 
kind  souls!  T  hope  they  will  not  crowd  about 
me  so  tomorrow.  O  Leofric!  could  my  name 
be  forgotten,  and  yours  alone  remembered! 
But  perhaps  my  innocence  may  save  me  from 
reproach;  and  how  many  as  innocent  are  in 
fear  and  famine!  No  eye  will  open  on  me  but 
fresh  from  tears.    What  a  young  mother  for  so 


large  a  family!  Shall  my  youth  harm  me? 
Under  God's  hand  it  gives  me  courage.  Ah! 
when  Avill  the  morning  come?  Ah!  when  will 
the  noon  be  over? 

THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 
(1785-1859) 

Fkom     confessions     OF    AN     ENGLISH 

OPIUM-EATER* 

The  Pains  of  Opium 

I  now  pass  to  what  is  the  main  subject  of 
these  latter  confessions,  to  the  history  and 
journal  of  wliat  took  place  in  my  dreams;  for 
these  were  the  immediate  and  proximate  cause 
of  my  aeutest  suflfering. 

The  first  notice  I  had  of  any  important 
change  going  on  in  this  part  of  my  physical 
economy,  was  from  the  re-awakening  of  a  state 
of  eye  generally  incident  to  childhood,  or  exalted 
states  of  irritability.  I  know  not  Avhether  my 
reader  is  aware  that  many  children,  perhaps 
most,  have  a  jjowor  of  painting,  as  it  were, 
upon  the  darkness,  all  sorts  of  i)hantoms;  in 
some,  that  power  is  simply  a  mechanic  aflfectioii 
of  the  eye;  others  have  a  voluntary,  or  semi- 
voluntarj'  power  to  dismiss  or  to  summon  them; 
or,  as  a  child  once  said  to  me  when  I  questioned 
him  on  this  matter,  "I  can  tell  them  to  go,  and 
they  go ;  but  sometimes  they  come,  when  I  don  't 
tell  them  to  come."  Whereupon  I  told  him  that 
he  had  almost  as  unlimited  a  command  over 
apjiaritions  as  a  Eonian  centurion  over  his  sol- 
diers. In  the  middle  of  1817,  I  think  it  was, 
that  this  faculty  became  positively  distressing 
to  me:  at  night,  when  I  lay  awake  in  bed,  vast 
processions   passed   along    in    mournful    pomp; 

*  De  Quincey  says :  "The  Opium  Confensionfi  were 
written  with  some  Hllght  secondary  purpose 
of  exposing  the  spedtic  power  of  opium  upon 
the  faculty  of  drcaminj;,  but  much  more  with 
the  purpose  of  displaying  the  faculty  itself." 
And  again  :  "Th*"  madiinciy  for  dreaming 
planted  in  the  human  brain  was  not  planted 
for  nothing.  That  faculty,  in  alliance  with 
the  mystery  of  darkness,  is  tlie  oni>  gn-at  tube 
through  which  man  (ommnnicates  with  the 
shadowy.  .\nd  the  dreaming  organ,  in  con- 
nection with  the  heart,  the  eye.  and  the  ear. 
compose  the  magnillcent  apparatus  whl<li 
forces  the  infinite  into  the  chambers  of  the 
human  brnln.  and  throws  dark  reflections 
from  eternities  below  all  life  upon  the  mirrors 
of  that  mvsterious  rnmrrn  ohnriini  -  \ho  sleen- 
Ing  mind."  Such,  In  substance,  is  De  Quincey's 
ac<'onnt  of  what  may  very  well  be  resrarded  a^; 
an  almost  unhnie  contribution  to  the  literature 
of  the  world.  To  English  literature  he  has  made, 
moreover,  the  important  contribution  of  a 
style  of  "Impassioned  prose"  which  has  no 
counterpart.  See  Knfi.  Lit.,  p.  27i'>.  Late  in 
life,  he  revised  his  CnnfrsKinuM,  but  the  (>arly 
text  of  1S21-1S22  Is  from  a  rhetorical  point 
of  view  generally  the  superior  and  is  here 
retained. 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 


517 


friezes  of  never-ending  stories,  that  to  ray  feel- 
ings were  as  sad  and  solemn  as  if  they  were 
stories  drawn  from  times  before  (Edipus  or 
Priam — before  Tyre — before  Memphis.i  And, 
at  the  same  time,  a  corresponding  change  took 
place  in  my  dreams;  a  theatre  seemed  suddenly 
opened  and  lighted  up  within  my  brain,  which 
presented  nightly  spectacles  of  more  than  earthly 
splendour.  And  the  four  following  facts  may 
be  mentioned,  as  noticeable  at  this  time: 

1.  That  as  the  creative  state  of  the  eye  in- 
creased, a  sympathy  seemed  to  arise  between 
the  waking  and  the  dreaming  states  of  the  brain 
in  one  point — that  whatsoever  I  happened  to 
call  up  and  to  trace  by  a  voluntary  act  upon 
the  darkness  was  very  apt  to  transfer  itself  to 
my  dreams;  so  that  I  feared  to  exercise  this 
faculty ;  for,  as  Midas  turned  all  things  to  gold, 
that  yet  baffled  his  hopes  and  defrauded  his 
human  desires,  so  whatsoever  things  capable  of 
being  visually  represented  I  did  but  think  of 
in  the  darkness,  immediately  shaped  themselves 
into  phantoms  of  the  eye;  and,  by  a  process 
apparently  no  less  inevitable,  when  thus  once 
traced  in  faint  and  visionary  colours,  like 
writings  in  sympathetic  ink,  they  were  drawn 
out  by  the  fierce  chemistry  of  my  dreams,  into 
•nsuflPerable  splendour  that  fretted  my  heart. 

2.  For  this,  and  all  other  changes  in  my 
dreams,  were  accompanied  by  deep-seated  anxi- 
ety and  gloomy  melancholy,  such  as  are  wholly 
incommunicable  by  words.  I  seemed  every 
night  to  descend,  not  metaphorically,  but  liter- 
ally to  descend,  into  chasms  and  sunless  abysses, 
depths  below  depths,  from  which  it  seemed 
hopeless  that  I  could  ever  re-ascend.  Nor  did 
1,  by  waking,  feel  that  I  had  re-ascended.  This 
I  do  not  dwell  upon;  because  the  state  of 
gloom  which  attended  these  gorgeous  spectacles, 
amounting  at  last  to  utter  darkness,  as  of  some 
suicidal  despondency,  cannot  be  approached  by 
words. 

3.  The  sense  of  space,  and,  in  the  end,  the 
sense  of  time,  were  both  powerfully  affected. 
Buildings,  landscapes,  etc.,  were  exhibited  in 
proportions  so  vast  as  the  bodily  eye  is  not  fit- 
ted to  receive.  Space  swelled,  and  was  ampli- 
fied to  an  extent  of  unutterable  infinity.  This, 
liowever,  did  not  disturb  me  so  much  as  the  vast 
expansion  of  time ;  I  sometimes  seemed  to  have 
lived  for  seventy  or  a  hundred  years  in  one 
night;  nay,  sometimes  had  feelings  representa- 
tive of  a  millennium  passed  in  that  time,  or, 
however,^  of  a  duration  far  beyond  the  limits 
of  any  human  experience. 

4.  The   minutest   incidents   of   childhood,   or 

J  Grpofo.    I'hoenicia.   Egypt,   form   a   climax  of  an- 
ti<iuit.v.  2  at  any  rate. 


forgotten  scenes  of  later  years,  were  often  re- 
vived; 1  could  not  be  said  to  recollect  them; 
for  if  I  had  been  told  of  them  when  waking,  I 
should  not  have  been  able  to  acknowledge  them 
as  parts  of  my  past  experience.  But  placed  as 
thej'  were  before  me,  in  dreams  like  intuitions, 
and  clothed  in  all  their  evanescent  circumstances 
and  accompanying  feelings,  I  recognised  them 
instantaneously.  I  was  once  told  by  a  near 
relative  of  mine,  that  having  in  her  childhood 
fallen  into  a  river,  and  being  on  the  very  verge 
of  death  but  for  the  critical  assistance  which 
reached  her,  she  saw  in  a  moment  her  whole  life, 
in  its  minutest  incidents,  arrayed  before  her 
simultaneously  as  in  a  mirror;  and  she  had  a 
faculty  developed  as  suddenly  for  comprehend- 
ing the  whole  and  every  part.  This,  from  some 
opium  experiences  of  mine,  I  can  believe;  I 
have,  indeed,  seen  the  same  thing  asserted  twice 
in  modern  books,  and  accompanied  by  a  remark 
which  I  am  convinced  is  true — viz.,  that  the 
dread  book  of  account,  which  the  Scriptures 
speak  of,3  is,  in  fact,  the  mind  itself  of  each 
individual.  Of  this,  at  least,  I  feel  assured, 
that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  forgetting  pos- 
sible to  the  mind;  a  thousand  accidents  may 
and  will  interpose  a  veil  between  our  present 
consciousness  and  the  secret  inscriptions  on  the 
mind;  accidents  of  the  same  sort  will  also  rend 
away  this  veil;  but  alike,  whether  veiled  or 
unveiled,  the  inscription  remains  for  ever;  just 
as  the  stars  seem  to  withdraw  before  the  com- 
mon light  of  day,  whereas,  in  fact,  we  all  know 
that  it  is  the  light  which  is  drawn  over  them 
as  a  veil,  and  that  they  are  waiting  to  be 
revealed  when  the  obscuring  daylight  shall  have 
withdrawn. 

Having  noticed  these  four  facts  as  memorably 
distinguishing  my  dreams  from  those  of  health, 
I  shall  now  cite  a  case  illustrative  of  the  first 
fact ;  and  shall  then  cite  any  others  that  I  re- 
member, either  in  their  chronological  order,  or 
any  other  that  may  give  them  more  effect  as 
pictures  to  the  reader. 

I  had  been  in  youth,  and  even  since,  for  occa- 
sional amusement,  a  great  reader  of  Livy,  whom, 
I  confess,  that  I  prefer,  both  for  style  and  mat- 
ter, to  any  other  of  the  Eoman  historians;  and 
I  had  often  felt  as  most  solemn  and  appalling 
sounds,  and  most  emphatically  representative  of 
the  majesty  of  the  Roman  people,  the  two  words 
so  often  occurring  in  Livy — Consid  Bamanus: 
especially  when  the  consul  is  introduced  in  his 
military  character.  I  mean  to  say  that  the 
words  king — sultan — regent,  etc.,  or  any  other 
titles  of  those  who  embody  in  their  own  persons 
the  collecti%-e  majesty  of  a  great  people,  had 
o  Kcilation,  xx,  12. 


518 


THE  ROMANTIC  ItEVIVAL 


less  power  over  my  reverential  feelings.  I  had 
also,  though  no  great  reader  of  history,  made 
myself  minutely  and  critically  familiar  with 
one  period  of  English  history — viz.,  the  period 
of  the  Parliamentary  War — having  been  at- 
tracted by  the  moral  grandeur  of  some  who 
figured  in  that  day,  and  by  the  many  interesting 
memoirs  which  survive  those  unquiet  times. 
Both  tliese  parts  of  my  lighter  reading,  having 
furnished  me  often  with  matter  of  reflection, 
now  furnished  me  with  matter  for  my  dreams. 
Often  I  used  to  see,  after  painting  upon  the 
blank  darkness  a  sort  of  rehearsal  whilst  wak- 
ing, a  crowd  of  ladies,  and  perhaps  a  festival, 
and  dances.  And  I  heard  it  said,  or  I  said  to 
myself,  ' '  These  are  English  ladies  from  the  un- 
happy times  of  Charles  I.  These  are  the  wives 
and  the  daughters  of  those  who  met  in  peace, 
and  sat  at  the  same  tables,  and  were  allied  by 
marriage  or  by  blood;  and  yet,  after  a  certain 
day  in  August,  1642,4  never  smiled  upon  each 
other  again,  nor  met  but  in  the  field  of  battle; 
and  at  Marston  Moor,  at  Newbury,  or  at  Nase- 
by,  cut  asunder  all  ties  of  love  by  the  cruel 
sabre,  and  washed  away  in  blood  the  memory  of 
ancient  friendship."  The  ladies  danced,  and 
looked  as  lovely  as  the  court  of  George  IV.  Yet 
I  knew,  even  in  my  dreams,  that  they  had  been 
in  the  grave  for  nearly  two  centuries.  This 
pageant  would  suddenly  dissolve;  and,  at  a 
clapping  of  hands,  would  be  heard  the  heart- 
quaking  sound  of  Consul  Bomanus;  and  imme- 
diately came  "sweeping  by,"  in  gorgeous  palu- 
daments,''  Paulus  or  Marius,^  girt  round  by  a 
company  of  centurions,  with  the  crimson  tunic 
hoisted  on  a  spear,7  and  followed  by  the 
alalagnws^  of  the  Roman  legions. 

And  now  came  a  tremendous  change,  which, 
unfolding  itself  slowly  like  a  scroll,  through 
many  months,  promised  an  abiding  torment; 
and,  in  fact,  it  never  left  me  until  the  winding 
up  of  my  case.  Hitherto  the  human  face  had 
mixed  often  in  my  dreams,  but  not  despotically, 
nor  with  any  special  power  of  tormenting.  But 
now  that  which  I  have  called  the  tyranny  of  the 
human  face  began  to  unfold  itself.  Perhaps 
some  part  of  my  London  life  might  be  answer- 
able for  this.  Be  that  as  it  niaj',  now  it  was 
that  upon  the  rocking  waters  of  the  ocean  the 
human  face  began  to  aj)i)ear:    the  sea  appeared 

4  Charles's  standard  was  raised.  Riving  the  signal 

for  civil  war,  August  22,  1042. 
fi  mllltar)-  cloaks 
« For    this    latter    Consul,    see    note    to    Landor's 

MrtelliiD  and  Mariiix,  p.  r)12. 
7  A   signal   (if  battle. 
»  ".V  word  cxproHKlnK  collectively  the  gathering  of 

tlio    Itoinan    wur-crlPH —    Al6Ui,    AlAla." — I)c 

<juliirey. 


paved  with  innumerable  faces,  upturned  to  the 
heavens;  faces  imploring,  wrathful,  despairing, 
surged  upwards  by  thousands,  by  myriads,  by 
generations,  by  centuries: — my  agitation  was 
infinite, — my  mind  tossed — and  surged  with  the 
ocean. 

May,  1818. 

The  Malayo  has  been  a  fearful  enemy  for 
months.  I  have  been  every  night,  through  his 
means,  transported  into  Asiatic  scenes.  I  know- 
not  whether  others  share  in  my  feelings  on  this 
point;  but  I  have  often  thought  that  if  I  were 
compelled  to  forego  England,  and  to  live  in 
China,  and  among  Chinese  manners  and  modes 
of  life  and  scenery,  I  should  go  mad.  The 
causes  of  my  horror  lie  deep;  and  some  of  them 
must  be  common  to  others.  Southern  Asia,  in 
general,  is  the  seat  of  awful  images  and  asso- 
ciations. As  the  cradle  of  the  human  race,  it 
would  alone  have  a  dim  and  reverential  feeling 
connected  with  it.  But  there  are  other  reasons. 
No  man  can  pretend  that  the  wild,  barbarous, 
and  capricious  superstitions  of  Africa,  or  of 
savage  tribes  elsewhere,  affect  him  in  the  way 
that  he  is  affected  by  the  ancient,  monumental, 
cruel,  and  elaborate  religions  of  Indostan,  etc. 
The  mere  antiquity  of  Asiatic  things,  of  their 
institutions,  histories,  modes  of  faith,  etc.,  is 
so  impressive,  that  to  me  the  vast  age  of  the 
race  and  name  overpowers  the  sense  of  youth 
in  the  individual.  A  young  Chinese  seems  to 
me  an  antediluvian  man  renewed.  Even  Eng- 
lishmen, though  not  bred  in  any  knowledge  of 
such  institutions,  cannot  but  shudder  at  the 
mystic  sublimity  of  castes  that  have  flowed 
apart,  and  refused  to  mix,  through  such  imme- 
morial tracts  of  time ;  nor  can  any  man  fail 
to  be  awed  by  the  names  of  the  Ganges,  or  the 
Euphrates.  It  contributes  much  to  these  feel- 
ings, that  Southern  Asia  is,  and  has  been  for 
thousands  of  years,  the  part  of  the  earth  most 
swarming  with  human  life ;  the  great  oflicina 
.^/e)iti«»i.i'>  Man  is  a  Aveed  in  those  regions. 
Tne  vast  empires  also,  in  which  the  enormous 
population  of  Asia  has  always  been  cast,  give 
a  further  sublimity  to  the  feelings  associated 
with  all  oriental  names  or  images.  In  China, 
over  and  above  what  it  has  in  common  with  tlic 
rest  of  Southern  Asia,  1  am  terrified  by  the 
modes  of  life,  by  the  manners,  and  the  barrier 
of  utter  abhorrence,  and  want  of  sympathy, 
I)laced  between  us  by  feelings  deeper  than  I 
can  analyse.  I  could  sooner  live  with  lunatics, 
or  brute  animals.    All  this,  and  much  more  than 

n  A  Malnv.  as  related  In  nn  earlier  part  of  the 
Confessions,  onre  knocked  at  IX'  (juincey's 
d<M)r. 

lu  luboriilory  of  nations 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 


519 


I  can  say,  or  have  time  to  say,  the  reader  must 
enter  into  before  he  can  comprehend  the  un- 
imaginable horror  which  these  dreams  of  orien- 
tal imagery,  and  mythological  tortures,  im- 
pressed upon  me.  Under  the  connecting  feeling 
of  tropical  heat  and  vertical  sun-lights,  1 
brought  together  all  creatures,  birds,  beasts, 
reptiles,  all  trees  and  plants,  usages  «nd  appear- 
ances, that  are  found  in  all  tropical  regions, 
and  assembled  them  together  in  China  or  Indo- 
stan.  From  kindred  feelings,  I  soon  brought 
Egypt  and  all  her  gods  under  the  same  law. 
I  was  stared  at,  hooted  at,  grinned  at,  chat- 
tered at,  by  monkeys,  by  paroquets,  by  cocka- 
toos. I  ran  into  pagodas:  and  was  fixed,  for 
centuries,  at  the  summit,  or  in  secret  rooms; 
I  was  the  idol ;  I  was  the  priest ;  I  was  wor- 
shipped ;  I  was  sacrificed.  I  fled  from  the 
wrath  of  Brama  through  all  the  forests  of 
Asia:  Vishnu  hated  me:  Seeva  laid  wait  for 
me.ii  I  came  suddenly  upon  Isis  and  Osiris: 
I  had  done  a  deed,  they  said,  which  the  ibis 
and  the  crocodile  trembled  at.  I  was  buried, 
for  a  thousand  years,  in  stone  coffins,  with 
mummies  and  sphinxes,  in  narrow  chambers 
at  the  heart  of  eternal  pyramids.  I  was  kissed, 
with  cancerous  kisses,  by  crocodiles;  and  laid, 
confounded  with  all  unutterable  slimy  things, 
amongst  reeds  and  Nilotic  mud. 

I  thus  give  the  reader  some  slight  abstraction 
of  my  oriental  dreams,  wliich  always  filled  me 
with  such  amazement  at  the  monstrous  scenery, 
that  horror  seemed  absorbed,  for  a  while,  in 
sheer  astonishment.  Sooner  or  later,  came  a 
reflux  of  feeling  that  swallowed  up  the  aston- 
ishment, and  left  me,  not  so  much  in  terror,  as 
in  hatred  and  abomination  of  what  I  saw.  Over 
every  form,  and  threat,  and  punishment,  and 
dim  sightless  incarceration,  brooded  a  sense  of 
eternity  and  infinity  that  drove  me  into  an 
oppression  as  of  madness.  Into  these  dreams 
only,  it  was,  with  one  or  two  slight  exceptions, 
that  any  circumstances  of  physical  horror  en- 
tered. All  before  had  been  moral  and  spiritual 
terrors.  But  here  the  main  agents  were  ugly 
birds,  or  snakes,  or  crocodiles;  especially  the 
last.  The  cursed  crocodile  became  to  me  the 
object  of  more  horror  tlian  almost  all  the  rest. 

I  was  compelled  to  live  with  him;  and  (as  was 
always  the  case  almost  in  my  dreams)  for  cen- 
turies. I  escaped  sometimes,  and  found  myself 
in  Chinese  houses,  with  cane  tables,  etc.  All 
the  feet  of  the  tables,  sofas,  etc.,  soon  became 

II  Brahma  the  creator,  Vishnu  the  preserver,  and 

Sivji  the  destroyer,  constitute  the  s;reat  triad 
of  Hindu  mythology.  Osiris  the  creator,  and 
Isis.  his  sister  and  wife,  were  Egyptian 
deities,  and  the  ibis  and  crocodile  were  re- 
garded as  sacred  animals. 


instinct  with  life:  the  abominable  head  of  the 
crocodile,  and  his  leering  eyes,  looked  out  at 
me,  multiplied  into  a  thousand  repetitions:  and 
I  stood  loathing  and  fascinated.  And  so  often 
did  this  hideous  reptile  haunt  my  dreams,  that 
many  times  the  very  same  dream  was  broken 
up  in  the  very  same  way :  I  heard  gentle  voices 
speaking  to  me  (I  hear  everything  when  I  am 
sleeping)  ;  and  instantly  I  awoke:  it  was  broad 
noon;  and  my  children  were  standing,  hand  in 
hand,  at  my  bed-side;  come  to  show  me  their 
coloured  shoes,  or  new  frocks,  or  to  let  me  see 
them  dressed  for  going  out.  I  protest  that  so 
awful  was  the  transition  from  the  damned  croco- 
dile, and  the  other  unutterable  monsters  and 
abortions  of  my  dreams,  to  the  sight  of  inno- 
cent human  natures  and  of  infancy,  that,  in 
the  mighty  and  sudden  revulsion  of  mind,  1 
wept,  and  could  not  forbear  it,  as  I  kissed  their 
faces. 


From  SUSPIEIA  DE  PROFUNDIS* 
Levaxa  axd  Our  Ladies  of  Sorrow 

Oftentimes  at  Oxford  I  saw  Levana  in  my 
dreams.  1  knew  her  by  her  Koman  symbols. 
Who  is  Levana?  Eeader,  that  do  not  pretend 
to  have  leisure  for  very  much  scholarship,  you 
will  not  be  angry  with  me  for  telling  you. 
Levana  was  the  Roman  goddess  that  performed 
for  the  new-born  infant  the  earliest  office  of 
ennobling  kindness, — typical,  by  its  mode,  of 
that  grandeur  which  belongs  to  man  everywhere, 
and  of  that  benignity  in  powers  invisible  which 
even  in  Pagan  worlds  sometimes  descends  to 
sustain  it.  At  the  very  moment  of  birth,  just 
as  the  infant  tasted  for  the  first  time  the  atmos- 
phere of  our  troubled  planet,  it  was  laid  on  the 
ground.  I'hat  might  bear  different  interpreta- 
tions. But  immediately,  lest  so  grand  a  crea- 
ture should  grovel  there  for  more  than  one 
instant,  either  the  paternal  hand,  as  proxy  for 
the  goddess  Levana,  or  some  near  kinsman,  as 

"  Suspiria  de  Profiindis  (Sighs  from  the  Depths) 
is  the  title  under  which  De  Quincey  began  in 
1845  to  publish  a  series  of  articles  which  were 
to  liave  closed  with  a  crowning  succession  of 
"some  twenty  or  twenty-tive  dreams  and  noon- 
day visions.'"  Most  of  the  articles  were  either 
never  written  or  were  destroyed.  Of  Levana, 
one  of  the  earliest.  Professor  Masson  has  said 
that  "it  is  a  permanent  addition  to  tlie  myth- 
ology of  the  human  race,"  typifying  as  it 
does  "the  varieties  and  degrees  of  liiisery  that 
there  are  in  the  world."  As  for  De  Qulncey's 
own  education  through  initiation  into  these 
several  degrees  of  sorrow,  it  is  to  be  remem- 
bered that  in  childhood  he  lost  by  death  his 
father  and  two  sisters,  in  youth  he  ran  away 
from  an  uncongenial  school  and  wandered  lil<e 
an  outcast  in  Wales  and  London,  and  in  man- 
hood his  bodv.  intellect,  and  will  became 
enslaved  to  opium. 


520 


THE  BOMANTIC  BEVIVAL 


proxy  for  the  father,  raised  it  upright,  bade  it 
look  erect  as  the  king  of  all  this  world,  and  pre- 
sented its  forehead  to  the  stars,  saying,  perhaps, 
in  his  heart,  "Behold  what  is  greater  than 
yourselves!"  This  symbolic  act  represented 
the  function  of  Levana.  And  that  mysterious 
lady,  who  never  revealed  her  face  (except  to 
me  in  dreams),  but  always  acted  by  delegation, 
had  her  name  from  the  Latin  verb  (as  still  it  is 
the  Italian  verb)  levare,  to  raise  aloft. 

This  is  the  explanation  of  Levana,  and  hence 
it  has  arisen  that  some  people  have  understood 
by  Levana  the  tutelary  power  that  controls  the 
education  of  the  nursery.  She,  that  would  not 
suffer  at  his  birth  even  a  prefigurative  or  mimic 
degradation  for  her  awful  ward,  far  less  could 
be  supposed  to  suffer  the  real  degradation  at- 
taching to  the  non-development  of  his  powers. 
She  therefore  watches  over  human  education. 
Now  the  word  educo,  with  the  penultimate 
short,  was  derived  (by  a  process  often  exempli- 
fied in  the  crystallisation  of  languages)  from 
the  word  educo,  with  the  penultimate  long. 
Whatsoever  educes,  or  develops,  educates.  By 
the  education  of  Levana,  therefore,  is  meant, — 
not  the  poor  machinery  that  moves  by  spelling- 
books  and  grammars,  but  that  mighty  system  of 
central  forces  hidden  in  the  deep  bosom  of 
human  life,  which  by  passion,  by  strife,  by 
temptation,  by  the  energies  of  resistance,  works 
for  ever  upon  children, — resting  not  day  or 
night,  any  more  than  the  mighty  wheel  of  day 
and  night  themselves,  whose  moments,  like  rest- 
less spokes,  are  glimmering  for  ever  as  they 
revolve. 

If,  then,  these  are  the  ministries  by  which 
Levana  works,  how  profoundly  must  she  rever- 
ence the  agencies  of  grief!  But  you,  reader, 
think  that  children  generally  are  not  liable  to 
grief  such  as  mine.  There  are  two  senses  in  the 
word  generally, — the  sense  of  Euclid,  where  it 
means  universally  (or  in  the  whole  extent  of  the 
genus),  and  a  foolish  sense  of  this  word,  where 
it  means  usually.  Now,  I  am  far  from  saying 
that  children  universally  are  capable  of  grief 
like  mine.  But  there  are  more  than  you  ever 
heard  of  who  die  of  grief  in  this  island  of  ours. 
I  will  tell  you  a  common  case.  The  rules  of 
Eton  require  that  a  boy  on  the  foundation^ 
should  be  there  twelve  years:  he  is  superannua- 
ted at  eighteen,  consequently  he  must  come  at 
six.  Children  torn  away  from  mothers  and 
sisters  at  that  age  not  unfrequently  die.  I 
speak  of  what  I  know.  The  complaint  is  not 
entered  by  the  registrar  as  grief;  but  that  it  is. 
Grief  of  that  sort,  and  at  that  age,  has  killed 

1  holding  a  scholarship  provided  by  the  fogndation, 
or  endowment 


more  than  ever  have  been  counted  amongst  its 
martyrs. 

Therefore  it  is  that  Levana  often  communes 
with  the  powers  that  shake  man's  heart:  there- 
fore it  is  that  she  dotes  upon  grief.  "These 
ladies,"  said  I  softly  to  myself,  on  seeing  the 
ministers  with  whom  Levana  was  conversing, 
"these  are  the  Sorrows;  and  they  are  three  in 
number,  as  the  Graces  are  three,  who  dress 
man's  life  with  beauty;  the  Parcce^  are  thi-ee, 
who  weave  the  dark  arras  of  man's  life  in  their 
mysterious  loom,  always  with  colours  sad  in 
part,  sometimes  angry  with  tragic  crimson  and 
black;  the  Furies  are  three,  who  visit  with 
retributions  called  from  the  other  side  of  the 
grave  offences  that  walk  upon  this;  and  once 
even  the  Muses  were  but  three,  who  fit  the  harp, 
the  trumpet,  or  the  lute,  to  the  great  burdens 
of  man's  impassioned  creations.  These  are  the 
SorroAvs,  all  three  of  whom  I  know."  The  last 
words  I  say  noiv ;  but  in  Oxford  I  said,  '  *  One 
of  whom  I  know,  and  the  others  too  surely  I 
shall  know. ' '    For  already,  in  my  fervent  youth, 

1  saw  (dimly  relieved  upon  the  dark  background 
of  my  dreams)  the  imperfect  lineaments  of  the 
awful  sisters.  These  sisters — by  what  name 
shall  we  call  them?  If  I  say  simply,  "The 
Sorrows,"  there  will  be  a  chance  of  mistaking 
the  term ;  it  might  be  understood  of  individual 
sorrow, — separate  cases  of  sorrow, — whereas  I 
want  a  term  expressing  the  mighty  abstractions 
that  incarnate  themselves  in  all  individual  suf- 
ferings of  man 's  heart ;  and  I  wish  to  have 
these  abstractions  presented  as  impersonations, 
that  is,  as  clothed  with  human  attributes  of  life, 
and  with  functions  pointing  to  flesh.  Let  us 
call    them,    therefore,    Our   Ladies   of   Sorrow. 

1  know  them  thoroughly,  and  have  walked  in 
all  their  kingdoms.  Three  sisters  they  are,  of 
one  mysterious  household ;  and  their  paths  are 
wide  apart;  but  of  their  dominion  there  is  no 
end.  Them  I  saw  often  conversing  with  Levana, 
and  sometimes  about  myself.  Do  they  talk, 
then?  0,  no!  Mighty  phantoms  like  these  dis- 
dain the  infirmities  of  language.  They  may 
utter  voices  through  the  organs  of  man  when 
they  dwell  in  human  hearts,  but  amongst 
themselves  is  no  voice  nor  sound;  eternal 
silence  reigns  in  their  kingdoms.  They  spoke 
not,  as  they  talked  with  Levana;  they  whis- 
pered not;  they  sang  not;  though  oftentimes 
methought  they  might  have  sung:  for  I  upon 
earth  had  heard  their  mysteries  oftentimes  de- 
ciphered by  harp  and  timbrel,  by  dulcimer  and 
organ.  Like  God,  whose  servants  they  are,  they 
utter  their  pleasure,  not  by  sounds  that  perish, 
or  by  words  that  go  astray,  but  by  signs  in 

2  Fates 


THOMAS  DE  gUlNCEY 


521 


heaven,  by  changes  on  earth,  by  pulses  in  secret 
rivers,  heraldries  painted  on  darkness,  and  liiero- 
glyphics  written  on  the  tablets  of  the  brain. 
They  wheeled  in  mazes;  /  spelled  the  steps. 
They  telegraphed^  from  afar;  /  read  the  sig- 
nals. They  conspired  together;  and  on  the 
mirrors  of  darkness  my  eye  traced  the  plots. 
Tlitirs  were  the  symbols;  mine  are  the  words. 

What  is  it  the  sisters  are?  What  is  it  that 
tliey  do?  Let  me  describe  their  form,  and  their 
presence:  if  form  it  were  that  still  fluctuated 
in  its  outline,  or  presence  it  were  that  for  ever 
advanced  to  the  front,  or  for  ever  receded 
amongst  shades. 

The  eldest  of  the  three  is  named  Mater  Lach- 
lymarum,  Our  Lady  of  Tears.  She  it  is  that 
night  and  day  raves  and  moans,  calling  for 
vanished  faces.  She  stood  in  Rama,  where  a 
voice  was  heard  of  lamentation, — Rachel  weep- 
ing for  her  children,  and  refusing  to  be  com- 
forted.* She  it  was  that  stood  in  Bethlehem  on 
the  night  when  Herod's  sword  swept  its  nur- 
series of  Innocents,  and  the  little  feet  were 
stiffened  for  ever,  which,  heard  at  times  as  they 
totlered  along  floors  overhead,  woke  pulses  of 
love  in  household  hearts  that  were  not  unmarked 
in  heaven. 

Her  eyes  are  sweet  and  subtle,  wild  and 
sleepy,  by  turns ;  oftentimes  rising  to  the  clouds, 
oftentimes  challenging  the  heavens.  She  wears 
a  diadem  round  her  head.  And  I  knew  by  child- 
ish memories  that  she  could  go  abroad  upon  the 
winds,  when  she  heard  the  sobbing  of  litanies  or 
the  thundering  of  organs,  and  when  she  beheld 
the  mustering  of  summer  clouds.  This  sister, 
the  eldest,  it  is  that  carries  keys  more  than 
papain  at  her  girdle,  which  open  every  cottage 
and  every  palace.  She,  to  my  knowledge,  sat 
all  last  summer  by  the  bedside  of  the  blind  beg- 
gar, him  that  so  often  and  so  gladly  I  talked 
with,  whose  pious  daughter,  eight  years  old, 
with  the  sunny  countenance,  resisted  the  temp- 
tations of  play  and  village  mirth  to  travel  all 
day  long  on  dusty  roads  with  her  afflicted  father. 
For  this  did  God  send  her  a  great  reward.  In 
the  spring-time  of  the  year,  and  whilst  yet  her 
own  spring  was  budding,  He  recalled  her  to  him- 
self. But  her  blind  father  mourns  for  ever  over 
her;  still  he  dreams  at  midnight  that  the  little 
guiding  hand  is  locked  within  his  own;  and 
still  he  wakens  to  a  darkness  that  is  note  within 
a  second  and  a  deeper  darkness.  This  Mater 
Lachrymarum    also    has    been    sitting    all    this 


3  The  word  was  formprly  used  of  various  methods 

<>t  signalling,  as  bv  beacon-fires. 
iJrremidh.  xxxi.  l.">:  itatthcir.  ii.  16-18. 
•*'  St.    Peter's    kevs,    emblem    of    papal    power.      Cp. 

Milton's  Liiriflax,  1.   110. 


winter  of  1844-5  within  the  bed-chamber  of  tlio 
Czar,«  bringing  before  his  eyes  a  daughter  (not 
less  pious)  that  vanished  to  God  not  less  sud- 
denly, and  left  behind  her  a  darkness  not  less 
profountl.  By  the  power  of  the  keys  it  is  that 
Our  Lady  of  Tears  glides  a  ghostly  intruder 
into  the  chambers  of  sleepless  men,  sleepless 
women,  sleepless  children,  from  Ganges  to  Nile, 
from  Nile  to  Mississippi.  And  her,  because  she 
is  the  first-born  of  her  house,  and  has  the 
widest  empire,  let  us  honour  with  the  title  of 
"Madonna!" 

The  second  sister  is  called  Mater  Smpiriorum 
— Our  Lady  of  Sighs.  She  never  scales  the 
clouds,  nor  walks  abroad  upon  the  winds.  She 
wears  no  diadem.  And  her  eyes,  if  they  were 
ever  seen,  would  be  neither  sweet  nor  subtle; 
no  man  could  read  their  story;  they  would  be 
found  filled  with  perishing  dreams,  and  with 
wrecks  of  forgotten  delirium.  But  she  raises 
not  her  eyes;  her  head,  on  which  sits  a  dilapi- 
dated turban,  droops  for  ever,  for  ever  fastens 
on  the  dust.  She  weeps  not.  She  groans  not. 
But  she  sighs  inaudibly  at  intervals.  Her  sister. 
Madonna,  is  oftentimes  stormy  and  frantic, 
raging  in  the  highest  against  heaven,  and  de- 
manding back  her  darlings.  But  Our  Lady  of 
Sighs  never  clamours,  never  defies,  dreams  not 
of  rebellious  aspirations.  She  is  humble  to 
abjectness.  Hers  is  the  meekness  that  be- 
longs to  the  hopeless.  Murmur  she  may,  but  it 
is  in  her  sleep.  Whisper  she  may,  but  it  is  to 
herself  in  the  twilight.  Mutter  she  does  at 
times,  but  it  is  in  solitary  places  that  are  deso- 
late as  she  is  desolate,  in  ruined  cities,  and  when 
the  sun  has  gone  down  to  his  rest.  This  sister 
is  the  visitor  of  the  Pariah,^  of  the  Jew,  of  the 
bondsman  to  the  oar  in  the  Mediterranean  gal- 
leys; and  of  the  English  criminal  in  Norfolk 
Island,8  blotted  out  from  the  books  of  remem- 
brance in  sweet  far-off  England;  of  the  baffled 
penitent  reverting  his  eyes  for  ever  upon  a  soli- 
tary grave,  which  to  him  seems  the  altar  over- 
thrown of  some  past  and  bloody  sacrifice,  on 
which  altar  no  oblations  can  now  be  availing, 
whether  towards  pardon  that  he  might  implore, 
or  towards  reparation  that  he  might  attempt. 
Every  slave  that  at  noonday  looks  up  to  the 
tropical  sun  with  timid  reproach,  as  he  points 
with  one  hand  to  the  earth,  our  general  mother, 
but  for  him  a  stepmother, — as  he  points  with 
the  other  hand  to  the  Bible,  our  general  teacher, 
but  against  him  sealed  and  sequestered; — every 
woman  sitting  in  darkness,  without  love  to  shel- 

«  Xicholas  I.,  whose  daughter  Alexandra  had  late- 
ly died. 

7  social  ontcast   (Hindu  term) 

8  A   penal   colony   in   the  south   raciflc,   1825-1845. 


)22 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 


ter  her  head,  or  hope  to  illumine  her  solitude, 
bec-ause  the  heaven-born  instincts  kindlino;  iu 
her  nature  germs  of  holy  affections  which  God 
implanted  in  her  womauly  bosom,  having  been 
stifled  by  social  necessities,  now  burn  sullenly 
to  waste,  like  sepulchral  lamps  amongst  the  an- 
cients; every  nun  defrauded  of  her  unreturning 
May-time  by  wicked  kinsman,  whom  God  will 
judge;  every  captive  in  every  dungeon;  all 
that  are  betrayed  ami  all  that  are  rejected ;  out- 
casts by  traditionary  law,  and  children  of 
Jiereditarij  disgrace, — all  these  walk  with  Our 
Lady  of  Sighs.  She  also  carries  a  key ;  but 
she  needs  it  little.  For  her  kingdom  is  chiefly 
amongst  the  tents  of  Shem,o  and  the  houseless 
vagrant  of  every  clime.  Yet  in  the  very  highest 
ranks  of  man  she  finds  chapels  of  her  own ;  and 
even  in  glorious  England  there  are  some  that,  to 
the  world,  carry  their  heads  as  proudly  as  the 
reindeer,  who  yet  secretly  have  received  her 
mark  upon  their  foreheads. 

But  the  third  sister,  who  is  also  the  youngest 

!      Hush,  whisper  whilst  we  talk   of  her! 

Her  kingdom  is  not  large,  or  else  no  flesh  should 
live;  but  within  that  kingdom  all  power  is  hers. 
Her  head,  turreted  like  that  of  Cybele,io  rises 
almost  beyond  the  reach  of  sight.  She  droops 
not;  and  her  eyes  rising  so  high  might  be  hid- 
den by  distance;  but,  being  what  they  are,  they 
cannot  be  hidden;  through  the  treble  veil  of 
crape  which  she  wears,  the  fierce  light  of  a 
blazing  misery,  that  rests  not  for  matins  or  for 
vespers,  for  noon  of  clay  or  noon  of  night,  for 
ebbing  or  for  flowing  tide,  may  be  read  from 
the  very  ground.  She  is  the  defier  of  God.  She 
also  is  the  mother  of  lunacies,  and  the  suggest- 
ress  of  suicides.  Deep  lie  the  roots  of  her 
power;  but  narrow  is  the  nation  that  she  rules. 
For  she  can  approach  only  those  in  whom  a  pro- 
found nature  has  been  upheaved  by  central  con- 
vulsions; in  whom  the  heart  trembles,  and  the 
brain  rocks  under  conspiracies  of  tempest  from 
without  and  tempest  from  within.  Madonna 
moves  with  uncertain  steps,  fast  or  slow,  but 
still  with  tragic  grace.  Our  Lady  of  Sighs 
creeps  timidly  and  stealthily.  But  this  youngest 
sister  moves  with  incalculable  motions,  bound- 
ing, and  with  tiger's  leaps.  She  carries  no  key; 
for,  though  coming  rarely  amongst  men,  she 
storms  all  doors  at  which  she  is  permitted  to 
enter  at  all.  And  her  name  is  Mater  Tenchra- 
in.m — Our  Lady  of  Darkness. 

These  were  the  Sevumi  Theai,  or  Sublime 
Goddesses,  these  were  the  Eumenides,^^  or  Gra- 
ft Ron  of  Noah,  reputed  ancestor  of  the  Roraitlc 
races — the  Ilpbrcws,  Arnhs,  otc.  For  the 
phriiKc,  Kce  (IrncHlH,  Ix,  27. 
10  Spp  note  on  Chilrie  Harold,  IV.  2. 
n  A  (Miphomfstlo  nnnip  for  the  Furies. 


cious  Ladies  (so  called  by  antiquity  in  shud 
dering  propitiation),  of  my  Oxford  dreams. 
-Madonna  spoke.  She  spoke  by  her  mysterious 
hand.  Touching  my  head,  she  beckoned  to  Our 
Lady  of  Sighs;  and  what  she  spoke,  translated 
out  of  the  signs  which  (except  in  dreams)  no 
man  reads,  was  this: — 

"Lo!  here  is  he,  whom  in  childhood  T  <ledi- 
cated  to  my  altars.  This  is  lie  that  once  1  made 
my  darling.  Him  I  led  astray,  him  I  beguiled, 
and  from  heaven  I  stole  away  his  young  heart 
to  mine.  Through  me  did  he  become  idolatrous; 
and  through  me  it  was,  by  languisliing  desires, 
that  he  worshipped  the  worm,  and  prayed  to  the 
wormy  gra\  e.  Holy  was  the  grave  to  him ; 
lovely  was  its  darkness;  saintly  its  corruption. 
Him,  this  young  iilolater,  I  have  seasoned  for 
thee,  dear  gentle  Sister  of  Sighs!  Do  thou  take 
him  now  to  thy  heart,  and  season  him  for  our 
dreadful  sister.  And  thou, ' ' — turning  to  the 
Mater  Tenebranim,  she  said, — "wicked  sister, 
that  temptest  and  hatest,  do  thou  take  him  from 
her.  See  that  thy  sceptre  lie  heavy  on  his  head. 
Suffer  not  woman  and  her  tenderness  to  sit  near 
him  in  his  darkness.  Banish  the  frailties  of 
hope,  wither  the  relenting  of  love,  scorch  tlie 
fountains  of  tears,  curse  him  as  only  thou  canst 
curse.  So  shall  he  be  accomplished i^  in  the  fur- 
nace, so  shall  he  see  the  things  that  ought  not  to 
be  seen,  sights  that  are  abominable,  and  secrets 
that  are  unutterable.  So  shall  he  read  elder 
truths,  sad  truths,  grand  truths,  fearful  truths. 
So  shall  he  rise  again  before  he  dies,  and  so 
shall  our  commission  be  accomplished  which 
from  God  we  had, — to  plague  his  heart  until  we 
had  unfolded  the  capacities  of  his  spirit." 

Savannah-la-Mar* 

God  smote  Savannah-la-mar,  and  in  one  night, 
by  earthquake,  removed  her,  with  all  her  towers 
standing  and  population  sleeping,  from  the 
steadfast  foundations  of  the  shore  to  the  coral 
floors  of  ocean.  And  God  said, — "Pompeii  did 
I  bury  and  conceal  from  men  through  seventeen 
centuries :  this  city  I  will  bury,  but  not  conceal. 
She  shall  be  a  monument  to  men  of  my  myste- 
rious anger,  set  in  azure  light  through  genera- 
tions to  come;  for  I  will  enshrine  her  in  a 
crystal  dome  of  my  trojjic  seas."  This  city, 
therefore,  like  a  mighty  galleon  with  all  her 
apparel  mounted,  streamers  flyiug,  and  tackling 
perfect,  seems  floating  along  the  noiseless  depths 

1 2  perfected. 

•  "IMnin  (of)  the  Sea" — n  fanciful  name  adopted 
liv  Dp  Qnlncev  for  this  vision  of  a  sunken  city. 
I'he  "Dark  Interpreter"  mentioned  here  gives 
name  to  another  of  the  Susplria  papers. 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 


523 


of  ocean ;  and  oftentimes  in  glassy  calms, 
through  the  trauslucid  atmosphere  of  water 
that  now  stretches  like  an  air-woven  awning 
above  the  silent  encampment,  mariners  from 
every  clime  look  down  into  her  courts  and  ter- 
races, count  her  gates,  and  number  the  spires  of 
her  churches.  She  is  one  ample  cemetery,  and 
has  been  for  many  a  year;  but,  in  the  mighty 
calms  that  brood  for  weeks  over  tropic  latitudes, 
she  fascinates  the  eye  with  a  Fata-Morgana'\ 
revelation,  as  of  human  life  still  subsisting  in 
submarine  asylums  sacred  from  the  storms  that 
torment  our  upper  air. 

Thither,  lured  by  the  loveliness  of  cerulean 
depths,  by  the  peace  of  human  dwellings  privi- 
leged from  molestation,  by  the  gleam  of  marble 
altars  sleeping  in  everlasting  sanctity,  often- 
times in  dreams  did  I  and  the  Dark  Interpreter 
cleave  the  watery  veil  that  divided  us  from  her 
streets.  We  looked  into  the  belfries,  where  the 
pendulous  bells  were  waiting  in  vain  for  the 
summons  which  should  awaken  their  marriage 
peals;  together  we  touched  the  mighty  organ- 
keys,  that  sang  no  jubilates^  for  the  ear  of 
heaven,  that  sang  no  requiems  for  the  ear  of 
human  sorrow;  together  we  searched  the  silent 
nurseries,  where  the  children  were  all  asleep, 
and  had  been  asleep  through  five  generations. 
"They  are  waiting  for  the  heavenly  dawn," 
whispered  the  Interpreter  to  himself:  "and, 
when  that  comes,  the  bells  and  organs  will  utter 
a  jubilate  repeated  by  the  echoes  of  Paradise. ' ' 
Then,  turning  to  me,  he  said, — "This  is  sad, 
this  is  piteous;  but  less  would  not  have  suf- 
ficed for  the  purpose  of  God.  Look  here.  Put 
into  a  Roman  clepsydras  one  hundred  drops  of 
water;  let  these  run  out  as  the  sands  in  an 
hour-glass,  every  drop  measuring  the  hundredth 
part  of  a  second,  so  that  each  shall  represent 
but  the  three-hundred-and-sixty-thousandth  part 
of  an  hour.  Now,  count  the  drops  as  they  race 
along;  and,  when  the  fiftieth  of  the  hundred  is 
passing,  behold!  forty-nine  are  not,  because 
already  they  have  perished,  and  fifty  are  not, 
because  they  are  yet  to  come.  You  see,  there- 
fore, how  narrow,  how  incalculably  narrow,  is 
the  true  and  actual  present.  Of  that  time  which 
we  call  the  present,  hardly  a  hundredth  part  but 
belongs  either  to  a  past  which  has  fled,  or  to  a 
future  which  is  still  on  the  wing.  It  has  perished, 
or  it  is  not  bom.  It  was,  or  it  is  not.  Yet  even 
this  approximation  to  the  truth  is  infinitely 
false.  For  again  subdivide  that  solitary  drop, 
which  only  was  found  to  represent  the  present, 

1  hymns  of  rejoicing  (specifically  the  100th  Psalm) 

2  water-clock 

t  Here  "mirasip-likp" :  from  the  fata  morgana  of 
the  Sicilian  coast — a  plipnomcnon  attributed 
to  Morgan  le  F'ay,  or  Morjrana  tiio  Fairy. 


into  a  lower  scries  of  similar  fractions,  and  the 
actual  present  which  you  arrest  measures  now 
but  the  thirty-sixth-milliouth  of  an  hour;  and 
so  by  infinite  declensions  the  true  and  very 
present,  in  which  only  we  live  and  enjoy,  will 
vanish  into  a  mote  of  a  mote,  distinguishable 
nly  by  a  heavenly  vision.  Therefore  the  present, 
which  only  man  possesses,  offers  less  capacity 
for  his  footing  than  the  slenderest  film  that 
ever  spider  twisted  from  her  womb.  Therefore, 
also,  even  this  incalculable  shadow  from  the  nar- 
rowest pencil  of  moonlight  is  more  transitory 
than  geometry  can  measure,  or  thought  of  angel 
can  overtake.  The  time  which  is  contracts  into 
a  mathematic  point;  and  even  that  point  per- 
ishes a  thousand  times  before  we  can  utter  its 
birth.  All  is  finite  in  the  present ;  and  even 
that  finite  is  infinite  in  its  velocity  of  flight 
towards  death.  But  in  God  there  is  nothing 
finite;  but  in  God  there  is  nothing  transitory; 
but  in  God  there  can  be  nothing  that  tends  to 
death.  Therefore,  it  follows,  that  for  God  there 
can  be  no  present.  The  future  is  the  present  of 
God,  and  to  the  future  it  is  that  he  sacrifices 
the  human  j)resent.  Therefore  it  is  that  he 
works  by  earthquake.  Therefore  it  is  that  he 
works  by  grief.  O,  deep  is  the  ploughing  of 
earthquake!  O,  deep" — (and  his  voice  swelled 
like  a  sanctiis^  rising  from  the  choir  of  a  cathe- 
dral)— "O,  deep  is  the  ploughing  of  grief.  But 
oftentimes  less  would  not  suffice  for  the  agricul- 
ture of  God.  Upon  a  night  of  earthquake  he 
builds  a  thousand  years  of  pleasant  habitations 
for  man.  Upon  the  sorrow  of  an  infant  he 
raises  oftentimes  from  human  intellects  glorious 
vintages  that  could  not  else  have  been.  Less 
than  these  fierce  ploughshares  would  not  have 
stirred  the  stubborn  soil.  The  one  is  needed  for 
Earth,  our  planet, — for  Earth  itself  as  the 
dwelling-place  of  man ;  but  the  other  is  needed 
yet  oftener  for  God's  mightiest  instrument, — 
yes"  (and  he  looked  solemnly  at  mj-self),  "is 
needed  for  the  mvsterious  children  of  the 
Earth!" 

From  JOAX  OF  ABC* 

What  is  to  be  thought  of  her?  What  is  to  be 
thought  of  the  poor  shepherd  girl  from  the  hills 
and  forests  of  Lorraine,  that — like  the  Hebrew 

3  The     anthem      "Holy,    Holy,  Holy." 

*  De  Quincey's  venture  into  this  particular  field 
of  liistory,  which  is  so  obscure  and  so  acri- 
moniously debated,  was  inspired  by  Michelet's 
Histoire  de  France,  then  (1847)  appearing, 
and  his  avowed  object  was  to  do  justice  to 
the  maligned  Maid,  defending  hor  even  against 
her  own  countrymen.  The  body  of  his  arti- 
cle, which  is  narrative  and  argumentative,  is 
here  omitted,  only  the  introduction  and  con- 
clusion being  given.     See  Enff.  Lit.,  p.  274. 


524 


THE  KOMANTKJ  REVIVAL 


ahephenl  boy  from  the  hills  and  forests  of 
Judea — rose  suddenly  out  of  the  quiet,  out  of 
the  safety,  out  of  the  religious  inspiration, 
rooted  in  deep  pastoral  solitudes,  to  a  station 
in  the  van  of  armies,  and  to  the  more  perilous 
station  at  the  right  hand  of  kings!  The  Hebrew- 
boy  inaugurated  his  patriotic  mission  by  an  act. 
by  a  victorious  act,  such  as  no  man  could  deny.i 
But  so  did  the  girl  of  Lorraine,  if  we  read  her 
story  as  it  was  read  by  those  who  saw  her 
nearest.  Adverse  armies  bore  witness  to  the 
boy  as  no  pretender;  but  so  they  did  to  the 
gentle  girl.  Judged  by  the  voices  of  all  who 
saw  them  frofii  a  station  of  good  will,  both  were 
found  true  and  loyal  to  any  promises  involved 
in  their  first  acts.  Enemies  it  was  that  made 
the  difference  between  their  subsequent  fortunes. 
The  boy  rose  to  a  splendour  and  a  noonday  pros- 
perity, both  personal  and  public,  that  rang 
through  the  records  of  his  people,  and  became  a 
byword  among  his  posterity  for  a  thousand 
years,  until  the  sceptre  was  departing  from 
Judah.2  The  poor  forsaken  girl,  on  the  con- 
trary, drank  not  herself  from  that  cup  of  rest 
which  she  had  secured  for  France.  She  never 
sang  together  with  the  songs  that  rose  in  her 
native  Domremy  as  echoes  to  the  departing 
steps  of  invaders.  She  mingled  not  in  the 
festal  dances  at  Vaucouleurss  Avhich  celebrated 
in  rapture  the  redemption  of  France.  No!  for 
her  voice  was  then  silent ;  no !  for  her  feet  were 
dust.  Pure,  innocent,  noble-hearted  girl !  whom, 
from  earliest  youth,  ever  I  believed  in  as  full 
of  truth  and  self-sacrifice,  this  was  among  the 
strongest  pledges  for  thy  truth,  that  never  once 
■ — no,  not  for  a  moment  of  weakness — didst  thou 
revel  in  the  vision  of  coronets  and  honour  from 
man.  Coronets  for  thee!  Oh,  no!  Honours,  if 
they  come  when  all  is  over,  are  for  those  that 
share  thy  blood.  Daughter  of  Domremy,  when 
the  gratitude  of  thy  king  shall  awaken,  thou 
wilt  be  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  dead.  Call  her, 
king  of  France,  but  she  will  not  hear  thee.  Cite 
her  by  the  apparitors*  to  come  and  receive  a 
robe  of  honour,  but  she  will  be  found  en  con- 
tumaceJ'  When  the  thunders  of  universal 
France,  as  even  yet  may  happen,t  shall  proclaim 
the  grandeur  of  the  poor  shepherd  girl  that  gave 
up  all  for  her  country,  thy  ear,  young  shepherd 
girl,  will  have  been  deaf  for  five  centuries.  To 
suffer  and  to  do,  that  was  thy  portion  in  this  life, 
that  was  thy  destiny ;  and  not  for  a  moment  was 
it  hidden  from  thyself.  Life,  thou  saidst,  is  short ; 

1  The  killing  of  Goliath  ;       4  court   summoners 

/.  Samuel,  xvll.  o  A    legal    term   slgnlfy- 

2  0eneHiii,  xllx,  10.  injf    failure    to   ap- 

3  A    village    near    Potn  penr  In  court. 

r^'-my. 
t  Joan  has  lately  been  canonized  by  the  church. 


and  the  sleep  which  is  in  the  grave  is  long;  let 
mo  use  that  life,  so  transitory,  for  the  glory  of 
those  heavenly  dreams  destined  to  comfort  the 
sleep  which  is  so  long!  This  pure  creature — 
pure  from  every  suspicion  of  even  a  visionary 
self-interest,  even  as  she  was  pure  in  senses  more 
obvious — never  once  did  this  holy  child,  as  re- 
garded herself,  relax  from  her  belief  in  the 
darkness  that  was  travelling  to  meet  her.  She 
might  not  prefigure  the  very  manner  of  her 
death ;  she  saw  not  in  vision,  perhaps,  the  aerial 
altitude  of  the  fiery  scaffold,  the  spectators 
without  end,  on  every  road,  pouring  into  Rouen« 
as  to  a  coronation,  the  surging  smoke,  the  volley- 
ing flames,  the  hostile  faces  all  around,  the  pity- 
ing eye  that  lurked  but  here  and  there,  until 
nature  and  imperishable  truth  broke  loose  from 
artificial  restraints — these  might  not  be  apparent 
through  the  mists  of  the  hurrying  future.  But 
the  voice  that  called  her  to  death,  that  she  heard 
forever. 

Great  was  the  throne  of  France,  even  in  those 
days,  and  great  was  he  that  sat  upon  it;  but 
well  Joanna  knew  that  not  the  throne,  nor  he 
that  sat  upon  it,  was  for  her;  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, that  she  was  for  them;  not  she  by  them, 
but  they  by  her,  should  rise  from  the  dust. 
Gorgeous  were  the  lilies  of  France,^  and  for 
centuries  had  the  privilege  to  spread  their 
beauty  over  land  and  sea,  until,  in  another  cen- 
tury, the  wrath  of  God  and  man  combined  to 
wither  them;  but  well  Joanna  knew,  early  at 
Domremy  she  had  read  that  bitter  truth,  that 
the  lilies  of  France  would  decorate  no  garland 
for  her.  Flower  nor  bud,  bell  nor  blossom, 
would  ever  bloom  for  her! 

Bishop  of  Beauvaisis  thy  victim  died  in  fire 
upon  a  scaffold — thou  upon  a  down  bed.  But, 
for  the  departing  minutes  of  life,  both  are 
oftentimes  alike.  At  the  farewell  crisis,  when 
the  gates  of  death  are  opening,  and  flesh  is 
resting  from  i<-8  struggles,  oftentimes  the  tor- 
tured and  the  torturer  have  the  same  truce  from 
carnal  torment ;  both  sink  together  into  sleep ; 
together  both  sometimes  kindle  into  dreams. 
When  the  mortal  mists  were  gathering  fast  upon 
you  two,  bishop  and  shepherd  girl — when  the 
pavilions  of  life  were  closing  up  their  shadowy 
curtains  about  you — let  us  try,  through  the 
gigantic  glooms,  to  decipher  the  flying  features 
of  your  separate  visions. 

The  shepherd  girl  that  had  delivered  France 
— she,  from  her  dungeon,  she,  from  her  baiting 

0  The  place  of  Joan's  martyrdom. 

7  The  royal  device  of  the  fleur-de-lis. 

« The   presiding   Judge    at    Joan's    trial.      He   bad 

played  traitor  to  the  Freneh  and  abetted  the 

I'^ngllsh  In   this  exorutlon. 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 


at  the  stake,  she,  from  her  duel  with  fire,  as  she  j  Oh,  mercy!    what  a  groau  was  that  which  the 


entered  her  last  dream — saw  Domr^my,  saw  the 
fountain  of  Domremy,  saw  the  pomp  of  forests 
in  which  her  childhood  had  wandered.  That 
Easter  festival  which  man  had  denied  to  her 
languishing  l>eart — that  resurrection  of  spring- 
time, which  the  darkness  of  dungeons  had  inter- 
cepted from  her,  hungering  after  the  glorious 
liberty  of  forests — were  by  God  given  bai-k  into 
her  hands  as  jewels  that  had  been  stolen  from 
her  by  robbers.  With  those,  i)erhaps  (for  the 
minutes  of  dreams  can  stretch  into  ages),  was 
given  back  to  her  by  God  the  bliss  of  childhood. 
By  special  privilege  for  her  might  be  created, 
in  this  farewell  dream,  a  second  childhood,  inno- 
cent as  the  first ;  but  not,  like  that,  sad  with  the 
gloom  of  a  fearful  mission  in  the  rear.  This 
mission  had  now  been  fulfilled.  The  storm  was 
weathered;  the  skirts  even  of  that  mighty 
storm  were  drawing  off.  The  blood  that  she 
was  to  reckon  for  had  been  exacted;  the  tears 
that  she  was  to  shed  in  secret  had  been  paid  to 
the  last.  The  hatred  to  herself  in  all  eyes  had 
been  faced  steadily,  had  been  suffered,  had  been 
survived.  And  in  her  last  fight  upon  the  scaf- 
fold she  had  triumphed  gloriously;  victoriously 
she  had  tasted  the  stings  of  death.  For  all, 
except  this  comfort  from  her  farewell  dream, 
she  had  died — died  amid  the  tears  of  ten  thou- 
sand enemies — died  amid  the  drums  and  trum- 
pets of  armies — ilied  amid  peals  redoubling  upon 
peals,  volleys  upon  volleys,  from  the  saluting 
clarions  of  martyrs. 

Bishop  of  Beauvais!  because  the  guilt-bur- 
dened man  is  in  dreams  haunted  and  waylaid  by 
the  most  frightful  of  his  crimes,  and  because 
upon  that  fluctuating  mirror — rising  (like  the 
mocking  mirrors  of  mirage  in  Arabian  deserts) 
from  the  fens  of  death — most  of  all  are  re- 
flected the  sweet  countenances  which  the  man 
has  laid  in  ruins;  therefore  I  know,  bishoj). 
that  you  also,  entering  your  final  dream,  saw 
Domremy.  That  fountain,  of  which  the  wit- 
nesses spoke  so  much,  showetl  itself  to  your  eyes 
in  pure  morning  dews;  but  neither  dews,  nor 
the  holy  dawn,  could  cleanse  away  the  bright 
sjiots  of  innocent  blood  upon  its  surface.  By 
tlie  fountain,  bishop,  you  saw  a  woman  seated, 
that  hid  her  face.  But,  as  jioii  draw  near,  the 
woman  raises  her  wasted  features.  Would  Dom- 
remy know  them  again  for  the  features  of  her 
child?     Ah,  but  yon  know  them,  bishop,  well! 


servants,  waiting  outside  the  bishop 's  dream  at 
his  bedside,  heard  from  his  labouring  heart,  as 
at  this  moment  he  turned  away  from  the  foun- 
tain and  the  woman,  seeking  rest  in  the  forests 
afar  off.  Yet  not  so  to  escape  the  woman, 
whom  once  again  he  must  behold  before  he  dies. 
In  the  forests  to  which  he  prays  for  pity,  will 
he  find  a  respite?  What  a  tumult,  what  a 
gathering  of  feet  is  there!  In  glades  where 
only  wild  deer  should  run,  armies  and  nations 
are  assembling;  towering  in  the  fluctuating 
crowd  are  phantoms  that  belong  to  departed 
hours.  There  is  the  great  English  Prince, 
Regent  of  France.  There  is  my  Lord  of  Win- 
chester, the  princely  cardinal,  that  died  and 
made  no  sign.9  There  is  the  Bishop  of  Beauvais, 
clinging  to  the  shelter  of  thickets.  What  build- 
ing is  that  which  hands  so  rapidly  are  raising? 
Is  it  a  martyr's  scaffold?  Will  they  burn  the 
child  of  Domremy  a  second  time!  Xo;  it  is  a 
tribunal  that  rises  to  the  clouds;  and  two  na- 
tions stand  around  it,  waiting  for  a  trial.  Shall 
my  Lord  of  Beauvais  sit  again  upon  the 
judgment-seat,  and  again  number  the  hours  for 
the  innocent?  Ah,  no!  he  is  the  prisoner  at 
tlie  bar.  Already  all  is  waiting:  the  mighty 
audience  is  gathered,  the  Court  is  hurrying  to 
their  seats,  the  witnesses  are  arrayed,  the  trum- 
pets are  sounding,  the  judge  is  taking  his  place. 
Oh,  but  this  is  sudden!  My  Lord,  have  you  no 
counsel?  "Counsel  I  have  none;  in  heaven 
above,  or  on  earth  beneath,  counsellor  there  is 
none  now  that  would  take  a  brief  from  me: 
all  are  silent."  Is  it,  indeed,  come  to  this? 
Alas!  the  time  is  short,  the  tumult  is  wondrous, 
llie  crowd  stretches  away  into  infinity;  but  yet 
I  will  search  in  it  for  somebody  to  take  your 
brief ;  I  know  of  somebody  that  will  be  your 
counsel.  Who  is  this  that  cometh  from  Dom- 
h'muv?  Who  is  she  in  bloody  coronation  robes 
from  Rheims?io  Who  is  she  that  cometh  with 
l)Iackened  flesh  fmm  walking  the  furnaces  of 
Kouen  ?  This  is  she,  the  shepherd  girl,  counsellor 
that  had  none  for  herself,  whom  I  choose,  bishop, 
for  yours.  She  it  is,  I  engage,  that  shall  take 
my  lord's  brief.  She  it  is,  bishop,  that  would 
plead  for  you;  yes,  bishop,  she — when  heaven 
and  earth  are  silent. 

9  Spo  Shakespeare's  //  Henri/  VT..  Ill,  iil. 

10  Joan  was   present   at   the  coronation  of  Charles 

VII.    at   Rheinis — a    coronation    made   possible 
by  her  own  martial  exploits. 


THE   VICTORIAN  AGE 


THOMAS   CARLYLE  (I  795-1881) 

From  SARTOK  KKSARTUS 

The     Eveklastixg     Yea.       From     Book     II, 

Chapter  IX* 

"Temptations  in  the  Wilderness!  "i  exclaims 
Teufelsdrockh:  "Have  we  not  all  to  be  tried 
with  such?  Not  so  easily  can  the  old  Adam, 
lodged  in  us  by  birth,  be  dispossessed.  Our 
Life  is  compassed  round  with  Necessity;  yet 
is  the  meaning  of  Life  itself  no  other  tlian 
Freedom,  than  Voluntary  Force;  thus  have 
we  a  warfare;  in  the  beginning,  especially, 
a  hard-fought  battle.  For  the  God-given  man- 
date, 7l'o;l-  thou  dii  Welldoing,  lies  mysteriously 
written,  in  Promethean-'  Prophetic  Characters, 
in  our  hearts;  and  leaves  us  no  rest,  night  or 
day,  till  it  be  deciphered  and  obeyed;  till  it 
burn  forth,  in  our  conduct,  a  visible,  acted 
Gospel  of  Freedom.  And  as  the  clay-given 
mandate,  Eat  thou,  and  be  filled,  at  the  same 
time  persuasively  proclaims  itself  through  every 
nerve, — must  there  not  be  a  confusion,  a  con- 
test, before  the  better  influence  can  become  the 
upper  i 

"  To  me  nothing  seems  more  natural  than  that 
the  Son  of  Man,  when  such  God-given  man- 
date first  prophetically  stirs  within  him,  and 
the  Clay  must  now  be  vanquished  or  vanquish, — 

1  Spp  Luke,  iv,  1,  2. 

■■i  The  mime  of  Promothous,  the  fabled  defender  of 
man  against  .Jupiter's  tyranny,  means  "fore- 
thought. 

•  Rarlor  Rrnnrtns,  or  "The  Tailor  Ke-Tallored  "  1« 
nominally  a  work  on  clothes:  in  reality  it  is 
a  philosophy,  or  rather  gospel,  of  life!  Car 
lyle  poses  as  the  editor  merely,  professing  to 
have  received  the  work  in  manuscript  from  a 
certain  (ierman  Professor  "Teufelsdrockh"  of 
the  Iniversily  of  "Weissnichtwo"  (see  Enq 
Lit.,  pp.  345-3^«^  In  the  Second  Rook  he 
assumes  to  give  the  physical  and  spiritual 
biography  of  the  author  as  culled  from  imag- 
inary •'Paper-bags" — bundles  of  loose  docti- 
ments — derived  from  the  same  .  source.  The 
Professor,  afllicted  with  personal  sorrows,  and 
beset  by  religious  and  sp.'cuiaMve  doubts,  has 
set  forth  on  a  world-pilgrimage.  In  his  men- 
tal strugy^ie  he  passes  from  the  "Kverlasting 
No."  n  period  of  doubt  and  denial,  throiigh 
the  "Centre  of  Indlflference"  to  the  "FOverlast- 
Ing  Yea." 


should  be  carried  of  the  spirit  into  grim  Soli- 
tudes, and  there  fronting  the  Tempter  do 
grimmest  battle  with  him;  defiantly  setting  him 
at  naught,  till  he  yield  and  fly.  Name  it  as  we 
choose:  with  or  without  visible  Devil,  whether 
in  the  natural  Desert  of  rocks  and  sands,  or 
in  the  populous  moral  Desert  of  selfishness  and 
baseness, — to  such  Temptation  are  we  all  called. 
Unhappy  if  we  are  not!  Unliappy  if  we  are 
but  Half -men,  in  whom  that  divine  handwriting 
has  never  blazed  forth,  all-subtluing,  in  true 
sun-splendour;  but  quivers  dubiously,  amid 
meauer  lights:  or  smoulders,  in  dull  pain,  in 
darkness,  under  earthly  vapours! — Our  Wilder- 
ness is  the  wide  W^orld  in  an  Atheistic  Cen- 
tury; our  Forty  Days  are  long  years  of  suf- 
fering and  fasting:  nevertheless,  to  these  also 
comes  an  end.  Yes,  to  me  also  Avas  given,  if 
not  Victory,  yet  the  consciousness  of  Battle,  and 
the  resolve  to  persevere  therein  while  life  or 
faculty  is  left.  To  me  also,  entangled  in  the 
enciianted  forests,  demon-peopled,  doleful  of 
sight  and  of  sound,  it  was  given,  after  weariest 
wanderings,  to  work  out  my  way  into  the  higher 
sunlit  slopes— of  that  Mountain  which  has  no 
summit,  or  whose  summit  is  in  Heaven  only!  " 

He  says  elsewhere,  under  a  less  ambitious 
figure;  as  figures  are,  once  for  all,  natural  to 
him:  "Has  not  thy  Life  been  that  of  most 
sufficient  men  (tilchtU/en  Mlinn-er)  thou  hast 
known  in  this  generation?  An  outflush  of  fool- 
ish young  Enthusiasm,  like  tiie  first  fallow-crop, 
wherein  are  as  many  weeds  as  valuable  herbs: 
this  all  parched  away,  under  the  Droughts  of 
practical  and  spiritual  Unbelief,  as  Disappoint- 
ment, in  thought  and  act,  often-repeated  gave 
rise  to  Doubt,  and  Doubt  gradually  settled  into 
Denial!  If  I  have  had  a  second-crop,  and  now 
see  the  perennial  greensward,  and  sit  under 
umbrageous  cedars,  which  defy  all  Drought 
(and  Doubt)  ;  herein  too,  be  the  Heavens 
praised,  I  am  not  without  examples,  and  even 
exemplars." 

So  that,  for  Teufelsdrockh  also,  there  has 
been  a  "glorious  revolution:  "  these  mad  shad- 
ow-hunting and  shadow-hunted  Pilgrimings  of 
his  were  hut  some  purifying  "Temptation  in 
the    Wilderness,"    before    iiis    apostolic    work 


S2fi 


THOA[AS  CARLYLB 


(such  as  it  was)  could  begin;  which  Tempta- 
tion is  now  happily  over,  and  the  Uevil  once 
more  worsted!  Was  "that  high  moment  in 
the  Eiie  de  I'Enfer,"'^  then,  properly,  the  turn- 
ing point  of  the  battle;  when  the  P'iend  said, 
IVorship  mc,  or  be  torn  in  shreds,  and  Avas 
answered  valiantly  with  an  A  page  Satana?* — 
Singular  Teufelsdrockh,  would  thou  hadst  told 
thy  singular  story  in  plain  words!  But  it  is 
fruitless  to  look  there,  in  those  Paper-bags,  for 
such.  Nothing  but  innuendoes,  figurative 
crotchets:  a  typical  Shadow,  fitfully  wavering, 
prophetico-satiric ;  no  clear  logical  Picture. 
"How  paint  to  the  sensual  eye,"  asks  he  once, 
"what  passes  in  the  Holy-of -Holies  of  Man's 
Soul;  in  what  words,  known  to  these  profane 
times,  speak  even  afar  off  of  the  unspeakable?" 
We  ask  in  turn:  Why  perplex  these  times, 
profane  as  they  are,  with  needless  obscurity, 
by  omission  and  by  commission?  Not  mystical 
only  is  our  Professor,  but  whimsical ;  and  in- 
volves himself,  now  more  than  ever,  in  eye- 
bewildering  chiaroscuro. ■•  Successive  glimpses, 
here  faithfully  imparted,  our  more  gifted  read- 
ers must  endeavour  to  combine  for  their  own 
behoof. 

He  says:  "The  hot  Harmattan-winds  had 
raged  itself  out:  its  howl  went  silent  within 
me;  and  the  long-deafened  soul  could  now  hear. 
I  paused  in  my  wild  wanderings;  and  sat  me 
down  to  wait,  and  consider;  for  it  was  as  if 
the  hour  of  change  drew  nigh.  I  seemed  to 
surrender,  to  renounce  utterly,  and  say :  Fly, 
then,  false  shadows  of  Hope;  I  will  chase  you 
no  more,  I  will  believe  you  no  more.  And  ye 
too,  haggard  spectres  of  Fear,  I  care  not  for 
you ;  ye  too  are  all  shadows  and  a  lie.  Let  me  rest 
here:  for  I  am  way-weary  and  life-weary;  I 
will  rest  here,  were  it  but  to  die:  to  die  or  to 
live  is  alike  to  me;  alike  insignificant." — And 
again:  "Here,  then,  as  I  lay  in  that  Centre 
of  Indifference;  cast,  doubtless  by  benignant 
upper  Influence,  into  a  healing  sleep,  the  heavy 
dreams  rolled  gradually  away,  and  I  awoke  to 
a  new  Heaven  and  a  new  Earth.  The  first  pre- 
liminary moral  Act,  Annihilation  of  Self 
(Selhst-todtung) ,  had  been  happily  accom- 
plished ;  and  my  mind 's  eyes  were  now  un- 
sealed, and  its  hands  ungyved. ' ' 

Might  we  not  also  conjecture  that  the  follow- 

3  Described  in  a  previous  chapter  as  a  "dirty 
little"  street  in  tlie  French  Capital  wlieie 
fresh  courage  had  suddenly  come  to  him.  This 
passage  Cailyle  admitted  to  be  autobiograph- 
ical, and  the  street  was  l.eith  Walk,  Edin- 
burgh. 

i  "Get  thee  hence.  Satan."     Mattlicir.  iv.  10. 

''  light  and  shade 

c  A  withering  wind  of  West  Africa  ;  here  figurative 
for   Doubt. 


ing  pas.sage  refers  to  his  Locality,  during  this 
same  "healing  sleep;"  that  his  Pilgrim-staff 
lies  cast  aside  here  on  "the  high  table-laud;" 
and  indeed  that  the  repose  is  already  taking 
wholesome  effect  on  him?  If  it  were  not  that 
the  tone,  in  some  parts,  has  more  of  riancy," 
even  of  levity,  than  we  could  have  expected! 
However,  in  Teufelsdrockh,  there  is  always  the 
strangest  Dualism :  light  dancing,  with  guitar- 
music,  will  be  going  on  in  the  fore-court,  while 
by  fits  from  within  comes  the  faint  whimpering 
of  woe  and  wail.  We  transcribe  the  piece 
entire : 

'  *  Beautiful  it  was  to  sit  there,  as  in  my 
skyey  Tent,  musing  and  meditating;  on  the 
high  table-land,  in  front  of  the  ^Fountains; 
over  me,  as  roof,  the  azure  Dome,  and  around 
me,  for  walls,  four  azure  flowing  curtains, — 
namely,  of  the  Four  azure  Winds,  on  whose 
bottom-fringes  also  I  have  seen  gilding.  And 
then  to  fancy  the  fair  Castles,  that  stood  shel- 
tered in  these  Mountain  hollows;  with  their 
green  flower  lawns,  and  white  dames  and  damo- 
sels,  lovely  enough:  or  better  still,  the  straw- 
roofed  Cottages,  wherein  stood  many  a  ^lother 
baking  bread,  with  her  children  round  her: — 
all  hidden  and  protectingly  folded-up  in  the 
valley-folds;  yet  there  and  alive,  as  sure  as  if 
I  beheld  them.  Or  to  see,  as  well  as  fancy,  the 
nine  Towns  and  Villages,  that  lay  round  my 
mountain-seat,  which,  in  still  weather,  were 
wont  to  speak  to  me  (by  their  steeple-bells) 
with  metal  tongue;  and,  in  almost  all  weather, 
proclaimed  their  vitality  by  repeated  Smoke- 
clouds;  whereon,  as  on  a  culinary  horologe,  I 
might  read  the  hour  of  the  day.  For  it  was 
the  smoke  of  cookery,  as  kind  housewives  at 
morning,  midday,  eventide,  were  boiling  their 
husbands'  kettles;  and  ever  a  blue  pillar  rose 
up  into  the  air,  successively  or  simultaneously, 
from  each  of  the  nine,  saying,  as  plainly  as 
smoke  could  say:  Such  and  such  a  meal  is 
getting  ready  here.  Not  uninteresting!  For 
you  have  the  whole  Borough,  with  all  its  love- 
makings  and  scandal-mongeries,  contentions  and 
contentments,  as  in  miniature,  and  could  cover 
it  all  with  your  hat. — If.  in  my  wide  Wayfar- 
ings, I  had  learned  to  look  into  the  business 
of  the  World  in  its  details,  here  perhaps  was 
the  place  for  combining  it  into  general  propo- 
sitions, and  deducing  inferences  therefrom. 

' '  Often  also  could  I  see  the  black  Tempest 
marching  in  anger  through  the  Distance: 
round  some  Schreckhorn."  as  yet  grim-blue, 
would    the   eddying   vapour   gather,    and    there 


" laughing  gayety 
X  '"IVak   of  Terror." 


528 


'11  IK   Vle'TOKlA.N   ACE 


tumultuously  eddy,  aud  flow  down  like  a  mad 
witch's  hair;  till,  after  a  space,  it  vanished, 
and,  in  the  clear  sunbeam,  your  Hehreckhorn 
stood  smiling  grim-white,  for  the  vapour  had 
held  snow.  How  thou  fermentest  and  elabo- 
ratest  in  thy  great  fermenting-vat  and  labora- 
tory of  an  Atmosphere,  of  a  World,  O  Nature  I 
Or  what  is  Nature?  Ha!  why  do  I  not  name 
thee  God?  Art  thou  not  the  "Living  Garment 
of  God?"  O  Heavens,  is  it,  in  very  deed,  He 
then  that  ever  speaks  through  thee;  that  lives 
and  loves  in  thee,  that  lives  and  loves  in  me? 

' '  Fore-shadows,  call  them  rather  fore-splen- 
dours, of  that  Truth,  and  Beginning  of  Truths, 
fell  mysteriously  over  my  soul.  Sweeter  than 
Dayspring  to  the  Shipwrecked  in  Nova  Zem- 
bla;*  ah,  like  the  mother's  voice  to  her  little 
child  that  strays  bewildered,  weeping,  in  un- 
known tumults;  like  soft  streamings  of  celes- 
tial music  to  my  too-exasperated  heart,  came 
that  Evangel.  The  Universe  is  not  dead  and 
demoniacal,  a  charnel-house  with  spectres:  but 
godlike,  and  my  Father 's ! 

"With  other  eyes,  too,  could  I  now  look 
upon  my  fellow  man;  with  an  infinite  Love,  an 
infinite  Pity.  Poor,  wandering,  wayward  man! 
Art  thou  not  tried,  and  beaten  with  stripes, 
even  as  I  am?  Ever,  whether  thou  bear  the 
royal  mantle  or  the  beggar's  gabardine,  art 
thou  not  so  weary,  so  heavy-laden;  and  thy 
Bed  of  Rest  is  but  a  Grave.  O  my  Brother, 
my  Brother,  why  cannot  I  shelter  thee  in  my 
bosom,  and  Avipe  away  all  tears  from  thy  eyes! 
— Truly,  the  din  of  many-voiced  Life,  which  in 
this  solitude,  with  the  mind's  organ,  I  could 
hear,  was  no  longer  a  maddening  discord,  but 
a  melting  one:  like  inarticulate  cries,  and  sob- 
bings of  a  dumb  creature,  which  in  the  ear  of 
Heaven  are  prayers.  The  poor  Earth,  with  her 
poor  joys,  was  now  my  needy  Mother,  not  my 
cruel  Stepdame;  Man,  with  his  so  mad  Wants 
and  so  mean  Endeavours,  had  become  the  dearer 
to  me;  and  even  for  his  sufferings  and  his  sins, 
I  now  first  named  him  brother.  Thus  was  I 
standing  in  the  porch  of  that  'Sanctuary  of 
Sorroiv;'  by  strange,  steep  ways,  had  I  too 
been  guided  thither;  and  ere  long  its  sacred 
gates  would  open,  and  the  'Divine  Drplh  of 
Sorrow'  lie  disclosed  to  me." 

The  Profes-sor  says,  he  here  first  got  eye 
on  the  Knot  that  had  been  strangling  him,  and 
straightway   could    unfasten    it,   and   was    free. 

•  Carlylp  pot  tlip  sugReKllon  for  HIh  compariHon 
from  the  Juiirnal  ot  Williani  Rarcntz.  a  Dutch 
navigator  who  wa«  Khipwn'ck«'d  In  the  winter 
of  1.'«m;  <.ii  thcw  Arctic  iHlandH.  whore  the  sun 
returns  only  after  weeks  of  (larknesN.  Com- 
pare the  third  note  on  Addiflon's  paper  on 
"t-'.-ozen   Words."  p.  208. 


I  "A  vain  interminable  controversy,"  write;?  he, 
"touching  what  is  at  present  called  Origin  of 
Evil,  or  some  such  thing,  arises  in  every  soul, 
since  the  beginning  of  the  world;  and  in  every 
soul,  that  would  pass  from  idle  Suffering  into 
actual  Endeavouring,  must  first  be  put  an  end 
to.  The  most,  in  our  time,  have  to  go  content 
with  a  simple,  incomplete  enough  Suppression  ol' 
this  controversy;  to  a  few,  some  Solution  of 
it  is  indis{)ensable.  In  every  new  era,  too,  such 
Solution  conies  out  in  different  terms;  and 
ever  the  Solution  of  the  last  era  has  become 
obsolete,  and  is  found  unserviceable.  For  it 
is  man's  nature  to  change  his  Dialect  from 
century  to  century;  he  cannot  help  it  though 
he  would.  The  authentic  Church-Catechism  of 
our  present  century  has  not  yet  fallen  into  my 
hands:  meanwhile,  for  my  OAvn  private  behoof, 
1  attempt  to  elucidate  the  matter  so.  Man 's 
Unhappiness,  as  I  construe,  comes  of  his  Great- 
ness; it  is  because  there  is  an  Infinite  in  him, 
which  with  all  his  cunning  he  cannot  quite  bury 
under  the  Finite.  W^ill  the  whole  Finance  Min- 
isters and  Upholsterers  and  Confectioners  of 
modern  Europe  undertake,  in  joint-stock  com- 
pany, to  make  one  Shoeblack  happy.?  They 
cannot  accomplish  it,  above  an  hour  or  two ; 
for  the  Shoeblack  also  has  a  Soul  quite  other 
than  his  Stomach:  and  would  require,  if  you 
consider  it,  for  his  permanent  satisfaction  and 
saturation,  simply  this  allotment,  no  more,  and 
no  less:  God's  infinite  Universe  altogther  to 
himself,  therein  to  enjoy  infinitely,  and  fill 
every  wish  as  fast  as  it  rose.  Oceans  of  Hoch- 
heimer,!  a  Throat  like  that  of  Ophiuchus:- 
speak  not  of  them;  to  the  infinite  Shoeblack 
they  are  as  nothing.  No  sooner  is  your  ocean 
filled,  than  ho  grumbles  that  it  might  have 
been  of  better  vintage.  Try  him  with  half  of 
a  Universe,  of  an  Omnipotence,  he  sets  to 
quarrelling  with  the  proprietor  of  the  other 
half,  and  declares  himself  the  most  maltreated 
of  men. — Always  there  is  a  black  spot  in  our 
sunshine:  it  is  even,  as  I  said,  the  Shadow  of 
Ourselves. 

"But  the  whim  we  have  of  Happiness  is 
somewhat  thus.  By  certain  valuations,  and 
averages,  of  our  own  striking,  we  come  upon 
some  sort  of  average  terrestrial  lot ;  this  we 
fancy  belongs  to  us  by  nature,  and  of  inde- 
feasible right.  It  is  simple  payment  of  our 
wages,  of  our  deserts;  requires  neither  thanks 
nor  complaint :  only  such  overplus  as  there 
j  may  be  do  we  account  Happiness;  any  deficit 
again  is  Misery.  Now  consider  that  we  have 
the  valuation  of  our  own  deserts  ourselves,  and 

I  I  Hook. 
•-•  .See  /'«(•.   Loft,  II.   70S. 


THOMAS  CAKLYLE 


529 


what  a  fund  of  Self-conceit  there  is  in  each  of 
us, — do  you  wonder  that  the  balance  should  so 
often  dip  the  wrong  way,  and  many  a  Block- 
head cry:  See  there,  what  a  payment;  was 
ever  worthy  gentleman  so  used! — I  tell  thee, 
Blockhead,  it  all  comes  of  thy  Vanity;  of 
what  thou  funcicst  those  same  deserts  of  thine 
to  be.  Fancy  that  thou  deservest  to  be  hanged 
(as  is  most  likely),  thou  wilt  feel  it  happiness 
to  be  only  shot:  fancy  that  thou  deservest  to 
be  hanged  in  a  hair-halter,  it  will  be  a  luxury 
to  die  in  hemp. 

"So  true  it  is,  what  I  then  said,  that  the 
Fraction  of  Life  can  he  increased  in  value  not 
so  much  by  increa.sitig  your  Numerator  as  by 
Lsscning  your  Denominator.  Nay,  unless  my 
Algebra  deceive  me.  Unity  itself  divided  by 
Zero  will  give  Inpnity.  Make  thy  claim  of 
wages  a  zero,  then ;  thou  hast  the  worjd  under 
thy  feet.  Well  did  the  Wisest  of  our  times 
write:  'It  is  only  with  Eenunciation 
(Entsafjen)  that  Life,  properly  speaking,  can 
be  said  to  begin. ' 

"1  asked  myself:  What  is  this  that,  ever 
since  earliest  years,  thou  hast  been  fretting 
and  fuming,  and  lamenting  and  self-tormenting, 
on  account  of  ?  Say  it  in  a  word :  is  it  not 
because  thou  art  not  happy  ?  Because  the  Thou 
(sweet  gentleman)  is  not  sufficiently  honoured, 
nourished,  soft-bedded,  and  lovingly  cared-fori 
Foolish  soul  I  What  Act  of  Legislature  was 
there  that  thou  shouldst  be  Happy?  A  little 
while  ago  thou  hadst  no  right  to  be  at  all. 
What  if  thou  wert  born  and  predestined  not  to 
be  Happy,  but  to  be  Unhappy!  Art  thou  noth- 
ing other  than  a  Vulture,  then,  that  fliest 
through  the  Universe  seeking  after  somewhat 
to  eat ;  and  shrieking  dolefully  Ijecause  carrion 
enough  is  not  given  thee?  Close  thy  Byron;* 
open  thy  Goethe." 

"  Es  leuchtet  mir  ein,  I  see  a  glimpse  of  it  I  " 
cries  he  elsewhere  "there  is  in  man  a  Higher 
than  Love  of  Happiness:  he  can  do  without 
Happiness,  and  instead  thereof  find  Blessed- 
ness! Was  it  not  to  preach-forth  this  same 
Higher  that  sages  and  martyrs,  the  Poet  and 
the  Priest,  in  all  times,  have  spoken  and  suf- 
fered; bearing  testimony,  through  life  and 
through  death,  of  the  Godlike  that  is  in  ^fan. 
and  how  in  the  Godlike  only  has  he  Strength 
and  Freedom  ?  Which  God-inspired  Doctrine 
art  thou  also  honoured  to  be  taught;  O  Heav- 
ens! and  broken  with  manifold  merciful  Af- 
flictions, even  till  thou  become  contrite,  and 
learn    it!      O    thank    thy    Destiny    for    these; 

?  noetlip. 

i  nyron's  verse  is  full   of  his  persona!   grievances. 
Sm    Enn.  Lit.,  p.  2.%1, 


thankfully  bear  what  yet  remain:  thou  hadst 
need  of  them;  the  Self  in  thee  needed  to  be 
annihilated.  By  benignant  fever-paroxjsms  is 
Life  rooting  out  the  deep-seated  chronic  Dis- 
ease, and  triumphs  over  Death.  On  the  roaring 
billows  of  Time,  thou  art  not  engulfed,  but 
borne  aloft  into  the  azure  of  Paternity.  Love 
not  Pleasure;  love  God.  This  is  the  Ever- 
lasting Yea,  wherein  all  contradiction  is 
solved;  wherein  whoso  walks  and  works,  it  is 
well  with  him. ' ' 

Natural  Superxaturalism.     From  Book  III, 
Chapter  VIII 

"But  deepest  of  all  illusory  Appearances,  for 
hiding  Wonder,  as  for  many  other  ends,  are 
your  two  grand  fundamental  world-enveloping 
Appearances,  Space  and  Time.  These,  as  spun 
and  woven  for  us  from  before  Birth  itself,  to 
clothe  our  celestial  Me  for  dwelling  here,  and 
yet  to  blind  it, — lie  all-embracing,  as  the  uni- 
versal canvas,  or  warp  and  woof,  whereby  all 
minor  lllusion.s,  in  this  Pliantasm  Existence, 
weave  and  paint  themselves.  In  vain,  while 
here  on  Earth,  shall  you  endeavour  to  strip 
them  off;  you  can,  at  best,  but  rend  them 
asunder  for  moments,  and  look  through. 

"  Fortunatus"'  had  a  wishing  Hat,  which 
when  he  put  on,  and  wished  himself  Anywhere, 
behold  he  was  There.  By  this  means  had  For- 
tunatus triumphed  over  Space,  he  ha<l  anni- 
hilated Space;  for  him  there  was  no  Where, 
but  all  was  Here.  Were  a  Hatter  to  establish 
himself,  in  the  Wakngasse  of  Weissnichtwo.« 
and  make  felts  of  this  sort  for  all  mankind, 
what  a  world  we  should  have  of  it!  Still 
stranger,  should,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street,  another  Hatter  establish  himself;  and, 
as  his  fellow -craftsman  made  Space-annihilat- 
ing Hats,  make  Time-annihilating!  Of  both 
Avould  I  purchase,  were  it  with  my  last 
groschen^ ;  but  chietiy  of  this  latter.  To  clap 
on  your  felt,  and.  simply  by  wishing  that  you 
were  Knyn-here,  straightway  to  be  There!  Next 
to  clap  on  your  other  felt,  and  simply  by  wish- 
ing that  you  were  Ar\\n-hen,  straightway  to  be 
Then!  This  were  indeed  the  grander:  shooting 
at  will  from  the  Fire-Creation  of  the  World 
to  its  Fire-Con-summation ;  here  historically 
present  in  the  First  Century,  conversing  face  to 
face    with    Paul   and    Seneca ;  *    there   prophet- 

3  The  hero  of  a  popular  modern  legend. 

•J  "Dream-lane  of  Know-not-where.''  See  intro- 
ductory note. 

7  A  very  small  silver  coin  of  Germany,  now  obso- 
lete. 

*  Certain  spurious  letters  have  come  down  to  us 
which  were  said  to  have  passed  between  Paul 
and  Seneca, 


530 


THE  VlCTOlUA^s  AGE 


ically  in  the  Thirty-first,  conversing  also  face 
to  face  with  other  Pauls  and  Senecas,  who  as 
yet  stand  hidden  in  the  depth  of  that  late  Time ! 

' ' Or  thinkest  thou,  it  were  impossible,  un- 
imaginable? Is  the  Past  annihilated,  then,  or 
only  past;  is  the  Future  non-extant,  or  only 
future?  Those  mystic  faculties  of  thine.  Mem- 
ory and  Hope,  already  answer:  already  through 
those  mystic  avenues,  thou  the  Earth-blinded 
summonest  both  Past  and  Future,  and  com- 
muuest  with  them,  though  as  yet  darkly,  and 
with  mute  beckonings.  The  curtains  of  Yes- 
terday drop  down,  the  curtains  of  To-morrow 
roll  up;  but  Yesterday  and  To-morrow  both  are. 
Pierce  through  the  Time-Element,  glance  into 
the  Eternal.  Believe  what  thou  findest  written 
in  the  sanctuaries  of  Man 's  Soul,  even  as  all 
Thinkers,  in  all  ages,  have  devoutly  read  it 
there:  that  Time  and  Space  are  not  God,  but 
creations  of  God;  that  with  God  as  it  is  a 
universal  Here,  so  is  it  an  everlasting  Now, 

"And  seest  thou  therein  any  glimpse  of  Im- 
mortality?— O  Heaven!  Is  the  white  Tomb 
of  our  Loved  One,  who  died  from  our  arms, 
and  had  to  be  left  behind  us  there,  which  rises 
in  the  distance,  like  a  pale,  mournfully  reced- 
ing Milestone,  to  tell  how  many  toilsome  un- 
cheered  miles  we  have  journeyed  on  alone, — 
but  a  pale  spectral  Illusion !  Is  the  lost  Friend 
still  mysteriously  Here,  even  as  we  are  Here 
mysteriously  with  God! — Know  of  a  truth  that 
only  the  Time-shadows  have  perished,  or  are 
perishable ;  that  the  real  Being  of  whatever  was, 
and  whatever  is,  and  whatever  will  be,  is  even 
now  and  forever.  This,  should  it  unhappily 
seem  new,  thou  mayst  ponder  at  thy  leisure;  for 
the  next  twenty  years,  or  the  next  twenty  cen- 
turies: believe  it  thou  must;  understand  it 
thou  canst  not. 

"That  the  Thought-forms,  Space  and  Time, 
wherein,  once  for  all,  we  are  sent  into  this 
Earth  to  live,  should  condition  and  determine 
our  wliole  Practical  reasonings,  conceptions, 
and  imagings  or  imaginings, — seems  altogether 
fit,  .just,  and  unavoidable.  But  that  they 
should,  furthermore,  usurp  such  sway  over  purfl 
spiritual  Meditation,  and  blind  us  to  the  wonder 
everywhere  lying  close  on  us,  seems  nowise  so. 
Admit  Space  and  Time  to  their  due  rank  as 
Forms  of  Thought ;  nay,  even,  if  thou  wilt,  to 
their  quite  undue  rank  of  Realities:  and  con- 
sider, then,  with  thyself  how  their  thin  dis- 
guises hide  from  us  the  brightest  flod-efful- 
gences!  Thus,  were  it  not  miraculous,  could 
f  stretch  forth  my  han<l  and  clutch  the  Sun? 
Yet  thou  seest  me  daily  stretch  forth  my  hand, 
and  therewith  clutch  many  a  thing,  and  swing 


it  hither  and  thither.  Art  thou  a  grown  baby, 
then,  to  fancy  that  the  Miracle  lies  in  nules  of 
distance,  or  in  pounds  avoirdupois  of  weight ; 
and  not  to  see  that  the  true  inexplicable  God- 
revealing  Miracle  lies  in  this,  that  I  can  stretch 
forth  my  hand  at  all ;  that  1  have  free  Force  to 
clutch  aught  therewith?  Innumerable  other  of 
this  sort  are  the  deceptions,  and  wonder-hiding 
stupefactions,  which  Space  practices  on  us. 

' '  Still  worse  is  it  with  regard  to  Time.  Your 
grand  anti-magician,  and  universal  wonder- 
hider,  is  this  same  lying  Time.  Had  we  but 
the  Time-annihilating  Hat,  to  put  on  for  once 
only,  we  should  see  ourselves  in  a  World  of 
Miracles,  wherein  all  fabled  or  authentic  Thau- 
maturgy,  and  feats  of  Magic,  were  outdone. 
But  unhappily  we  have  not  such  a  Hat;  and 
man,  poor  fool  that  he  is,  can  seldom  and 
scantily   help    himself   without   one. 

"Were  it  not  wonderful,  for  instance,  had 
Orpheus,  or  Amphion,  built  the  walls  of  Thebes 
by  the  mere  sound  of  his  Lyrefs  Yet  tell  me. 
Who  built  these  walls  of  Weissnichtwo ;  sum- 
moning out  all  the  sandstone  rocks,  to  dance 
along  from  the  Stein-bruch»  (now  a  huge 
Troglodyte  Chasm,  with  frightful  green-mantled 
pools)  ;  and  shape  themselves  into  Doric  and 
Ionic  pillars,  squared  ashlar  houses,  and  noble 
streets?  Was  it  not  the  still  higher  Orpheus, 
or  Orpheuses,  who,  in  past  centuries,  by  the 
divine  Music  of  Wisdom,  succeeded  in  civilising 
man?  Our  highest  Orpheus  walked  in  Judea, 
eighteen  hundred  years  ago:  his  sphere-melody,i"J 
flowing  in  wild  native  tones,  took  captive  the 
ravished  souls  of  men;  and,  being  of  a  truth 
sphere-melody,  still  flows  and  sounds,  though 
now  with  thousandfold  accomplishments,  and 
rich  symphonies,  through  all  our  hearts;  and 
modulates,  and  divinely  leads  them.  Is  that 
a  wonder,  which  happens  in  two  hours;  and 
does  it  cease  to  be  wonderful  if  happening  in 
two  million?  Not  only  was  Thebes  built  by  the 
music  of  an  Orjdieus;  but  without  the  music 
of  some  inspired  Orpheus  was  no  city  ever 
built,  no  work  that  man  glories  in  ever  done, 

"Sweep  away  the  Illusion  of  Time;    glance. 

if  thou  have  eyes,  from  the  near  moving-cause. 

to  its  far-distant  Mover:     The  stroke  that  came 

transmitted   through   a  whole  galaxy  of  elastic 

balls,  was  it  less  a  stroke  than  if  the  last  ball 

only  had   been   struck,   and   sent   flying?     Oh, 

could     T     (with     the     Time-annihilating     Hat) 

transport  thee  direct  from   the  Beginnings  to 

the  landings,  how  were  thy  eyesight  unsealed, 

and  thy  heart  set  flaming  in  the  Light-sea  of 

8  Ar  anolont  tradition.     Cp,  p.  228,  noto  30, 

!'  stonc-'H'.nrry 

10  S»r  p.  :{21,  note  H, 


THOMAS  CAKLYLE 


531 


celestial  wonder!  Then  sawest  thou  that  this 
fair  Universe,  were  it  in  the  meanest  province 
thereof,  is  in  very  deed  the  star-domed  City  of 
God;  that  through  every  star,  through  every 
grass-blade,  and  most  through  every  Living 
Soul,  the  glory  of  a  present  God  still  beams. 
But  Nature,  which  is  the  Time-vesture  of  God, 
and  reveals  Him  to  the  wise,  hides  Him  from 
the  foolish. 

' '  Again,  could  anything  be  more  miraculous 
than  an  actual  authentic  Ghost?  The  English 
Johnson  longed,  all  his  life  to  see  one ;  but 
could  not,  though  he  went  to  Cock  Lane,*  and 
thence  to  the  church-vaults,  and  tapped  on  cof- 
fins. Foolish  Doctor!  Did  he  never,  with  the 
mind's  eye  as  well  as  with  the  body's,  look 
round  him  into  that  full  tide  of  human  Life  he 
so  loved ;  did  he  never  so  mucli  as  look  into 
Himself?  The  good  Doctor  was  a  Ghost,  as 
actual  and  authentic  as  heart  could  wish ;  well- 
nigh  a  million  of  Ghosts  were  travelling  the 
streets  by  his  side.  Once  more  I  say,  sweep 
away  the  illusion  of  Time;  compress  the  three- 
score years  into  three  minutes:  what  else  was 
he,  what  else  are  we  ?  Are  we  not  Spirits,  that 
are  shaped  into  a  body,  into  an  Appearance; 
and  that  fade  away  again  into  air,  and  Invis- 
ibility? This  is  no  metaphor,  it  is  a  simple 
scientific  fact;  we  start  out  of  Nothingness, 
take  figure,  and  are  Apparitions;  round  us,  as 
round  the  veriest  spectre,  is  Eternity;  and  to 
Eternity  minutes  are  as  years  and  a?ons.  Come 
theie  not  tones  of  Love  and  Faith,  as  from 
celestial  harp-strings,  like  the  Song  of  beatified 
Souls  ?  And  again,  do  not  we  squeak  and 
gibber-  (in  our  discordant,  screech-owlish  de- 
batings  and  recriminatings)  ;  and  glide  bodeful 
and  feeble,  and  fearful;  or  uproar  (poltern), 
and  revel  in  our  mad  Dance  of  the  Dead, — till 
the  scent  of  the  morning-airs  summons  us  to 
our  still  Home;  and  dreamy  Night  becomes 
awake  and  Day?  Where  now  is  Alexander  of 
Macedon:  does  the  steel  Host,  that  yelled  in 
fierce  battle-shouts,  at  Issus  and  Arbela,  remain 
behind  him ;  or  have  they  all  vanished  utterly, 
even  as  perturbed  Goblins  must?  Napoleon  loo, 
and  his  Moscow  Retreats  and  Austerlitz  Cam- 
paigns! Was  it  all  other  than  the  veriest 
Spectre-hunt;  which  has  now,  with  its  howling 
tumult  that  made  night  hideous,  flitted  away? — 
Ghosts!  There  are  nigh  a  thousand  million 
walking  the  Earth  openly  at  noontide;  some 
half-hundred  have  vanished  from  it,  some  half- 


1  The  "Cork  Lane  Ohost"  was  a  notorious  Impos- 

turo  perpetrated  In  London   In  1762. 

2  Hamlet.  I.  i,  116. 

3  11  a  III  let,  I,  V,  58. 


hundred  have  arisen  in  it,  ere  thy  Avatch  ticks 
once. 

"O  Heaven,  it  is  mysterious,  it  is  awful  to 
consider  that  we  not  only  carry  each  a  future 
Ghost  within  him;  but  are,  in  very  deed, 
Ghosts!  These  Limbs,  whence  had  we  them; 
this  stormy  Force;  this  life-blood  with  its 
burning  passion?  They  are  dust  and  shadow; 
a  Shadow-system  gathered  round  our  Me; 
wherein  through  some  moments  or  years,  the 
Divine  Essence  is  to  be  revealed  in  the  Flesh. 
That  warrior  on  his  strong  war-horse,  fire  flashes 
through  his  eyes;  force  dwells  in  his  arm  and 
heart ;  but  warrior  and  war-horse  are  a  vision ; 
a  revealed  Force,  nothing  more.  Stately  they 
tread  the  Earth,  as  if  it  were  a  firm  substance: 
fool!  the  Earth  is  but  a  film;  it  cracks  in 
twain,  and  warrior  and  war-horse  sink  beyond 
plummet's  sounding.  Plummet's?  Fantasy 
herself  will  not  follow  them.  A  little  while  ago 
they  were  not ;  a  little  while  and  they  are  not, 
their  very  ashes  are  not. 

"So  has  it  been  from  the  beginning,  so  will 
it  be  to  the  end.  Generation  after  generation 
takes  to  itself  the  Form  of  a  Body;  and  forth- 
issuing  from  Cimmerian  Night,*  on  Heaven 's 
mission  appears.  What  Force  and  Fire  is  in 
each  he  expends:  one  grinding  in  the  mill  of 
Industry ;  one  hunter-like  climbing  the  giddy 
Alpine  heights  of  Science;  one  madly  dashed 
in  pieces  on  the  rocks  of  Strife,  in  war  with 
his  fellow: — and  then  the  Heaven-sent  is  re- 
called; his  earthly  Vesture  falls  away,  and  soon 
even  to  Sense  becomes  a  Vanished  Shallow. 
Thus,  like  some  wild-flaming,  wild-thundering 
train  of  Heaven's  Artillery,  does  this  mysteri- 
ous Mankind  thunder  and  flame,  in  long-drawn, 
quick-succeeding  grandeur,  through  the  unknown 
Deep.  Thus,  like  a  Goil-created,  fire-breathing 
Spirit-host,  we  emerge  from  the  Inane;  haste 
stormfully  across  the  astonished  Earth;  then 
plunge  again  into  the  Inane.  Earth  's  mountains 
are  levelled,  and  her  seas  filled  up,  in  our  pas- 
sage: can  the  Earth,  which  is  but  dead  and  a 
vision,  resist  Spirits  which  have  reality  and  are 
alive?  On  the  hardest  adamant  some  foot- 
print of  us  is  stamped-in ;  the  last  Rear  of 
the  host  will  read  traces  of  the  earliest  Van. 
But  whence? — O  Heaven,  whither?  Sense 
knows  not;  Faith  knows  not;  only  that  it  is 
through  Mystery  to  Mystery,  from  God  and  to 
God. 

"We  are  such  stuff 
As  Dreams  are  made  on,  and  our  little  Life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep !"  5 


♦  Clmmeria    was    a    fp1)Ied    country    of    perpetual 

darkness. 
5  The  Temi>e><t,  IV.   i.    156. 


53i; 


THE  VICTOKIAX  AGE 


FuoM    THE   FRENCH   BEVOLUTIOX 

■Uprising  ok  the  Populace.    Storming  of  the 

Bastille.    From  Volume  I,  Book  V, 

Chapters  IV- VI* 

So  hangs  it,  dubious,  fateful,  in  the  sultry 
days  of  July.  It  is  the  passionate  printed 
advice  of  ^I.  ilarat.t  to  abstain,  of  all  things, 
from  violence.  Nevertheless  the  hungry  poor 
are  already  burning  Town  Barriers,i  where 
Tribute  on  eatables  is  levied;  getting  clamor- 
ous for  food. 

The  twelfth  July  morning  is  Sunday:  the 
streets  are  all  placarded  with  an  enormous- 
sized  De  par  le  Koi,-  ' '  inviting  peaceable  citi- 
zens to  remain  within  doors,  "|  to  feel  no 
alarm,  to  gather  in  no  crowd.  Why  so?  What 
mean  these  "placards  of  enormous  size?" 
Above  all,  what  means  this  clatter  of  military; 
dragoons,  hussars,  rattling  in  from  all  points 
of  the  compass  towards  the  Place  Louis  Quinze:3 
with  a  staid  gravity  of  face,  though  saluted 
with  mere  nicknames,  hootings  and  even  mis- 
siles? Besenval*  is  with  them.  Swiss  Guards 
of  his  are  already  in  the  Champs  Elys^es,^  with 
four  pieces  of  artillery. 

Have  the  destroyers  descended  on  us,§  then? 
From  the  Bridge  of  S&vres  to  utmost  Vincennes, 
from  Saint-Denis  to  the  Champ-de-Mars,  we  are 
begirt!     Alarm,  of  the  vague  unknown,  is  in 

1  City  gates. 

2  An  order  de  part  le  roi,  "by  the  authority  of  the 

king." 

3  "Square  of  Louis  XV."  ;  a  noted  square  west  of 

the    Tuileries,    or    royal    residence ;    now    the 
Place  de  la  Concorde. 

4  Then  Commandant  of  I'aris. 

5  An  avenue  and  public  park  extending  westward 

from  the  Place  de  la  Concorde, 

•  The  immediate  cause  of  the  French  Revolution 
was  a  defltienc-y  of  revenue  and  the  oppres- 
sive taxation  of  the  people— the  Commonalty, 
or  Third  Kstate — to  the  exemption  of  the  two 
other  Estates,  the  Nobility  and  the  Clergy. 
Necker.  a  Genevesc  statesman,  wlio  was  Di- 
rector (Jeneral  of  Finance,  convened  the 
StatC8-(ieneral,  or  legislative  assemblies,  at 
Versailles  in  May,  1789.  As  they  failed  to 
come  to  an  agreement,  the  Third  Estate  re- 
solved Itself  into  a  National  Assembly  with 
the  object  of  forming  a  Constitution.  Such 
in  brief  was  the  Kltuatlon  when  this  narrative 
opens. — the  King  and  his  court  at  Versailles. 
Just  outside  of  Paris.  Iiopelessly  at  odds  with 
the  National  Assembly,  and  the  starving  popu- 
lace in  Paris  and  throughout  France  begin- 
ning to  clamor  for  bread. 

t  .lean  Paul  Marat,  at  one  time  the  Prince  d'Ar- 
tois's  horse-leech  (horse  doctor)  ;  one  of  the 
earliest  IncltTs  to  revolution,  and  a  leader  of 
the  Jacobin   pprty  after  it  was  formed. 

t  Words  thus  quoted  by  Carlyle  are  taken  from 
various  memoirs  and  contemporary  documents. 

I  Carlyle  s|M>aks  from  the  point  of  "view  of  the 
pHrisian  r>opulace.  or  revolutionists,  whom 
he  Inter  ealls  by  the  collective  name  of  "Pa- 
triotism," 


every  heart.  The  Palais  Royal*  has  become  a 
place  of  awestruck  interjections,  silent  shakings 
of  the  head :  one  can  fancy  with  what  dolorous 
sound  the  noontide  cannon  (which  the  Sun  fires 
at  crossing  of  his  meridian)  went  off  there; 
bodeful,  like  an  inarticulate  voice  of  doom.  Are 
these  troops  verily  come  out  "against  Brig- 
ands?" Where  are  the  Brigands?  What  mys- 
tery is  in  tlie  wind? — Hark!  a  human  voice 
reporting  articulately  the  Job  's-news :  'i  Necker, 
People's  Minister,  Savimtr  of  France,  is  dis- 
missed. Impossible,  incredible!  Treasonous  to 
tlie  public  peace!  Such  a  voice  ought  to  be 
choked  in  the  water  works; — had  not  the  news- 
bringer  quickly  fled.  Nevertheless,  friends, 
make  of  it  what  ye  will,  the  news  is  true. 
Necker  is  gone.  Necker  hies  northward  inces 
.santly,  in  obedient  secrecy,  since  yesternight. 
We  have  a  new  Ministry:  Broglie  the  War- 
god  ;7  Aristocrat  Breteuil;  Foulon  who  said 
the  people  might  eat  grass! 

Rumour,  therefore,  shall  arise;  in  the  Palais 
Royal,  and  in  broad  France.  Paleness  sits  on 
every  face:  confused  tremor  and  f remescence ; >* 
waxing  into  thunder-peals,  of  Fury  stirred  on 
by  Fear. 

But  see  Caniille  Desmoulins,  from  the  Cafe 
de  Foy,  rushing  out,  sibylline"  in  face;  his  hair 
streaming,  in  each  hand  a  pistol!  He  springs 
to  a  table :  the  Police  satellites  are  eyeing  him ; 
alive  they  shall  not  take  him,  not  they  alive 
him  alive.  This  time  he  speaks  witliout  stam- 
mering:— Friends!  shall  we  die  like  hunted 
hares?  Like  sheep  hounded  into  their  pinfold; 
bleating  for  mercy,  where  is  no  mercy,  but  only 
a  whetted  knife?  The  hour  is  come;  the  su- 
preme hour  of  Frenchman  and  Man;  when 
Oppressors  are  to  try  conclusions  with  Op- 
pressed; and  tlje  word  is,  swift  Death,  or 
Deliverance  forever.  Let  such  hour  be  iceH- 
come!  Us,  meseems,  one  cry  only  befits:  To 
Anns!  Let  universal  Paris,  universal  France, 
as  with  the  throat  of  the  whirlwind,  sound  only: 
To  arms! — "To  arms!  "  yell  responsive  the  in- 
numerable voices;  like  one  great  voice,  as  of  a 
Demon  yelling  from  the  air:  for  all  faces  wax 
fire-eyed,  all  hearts  burn  up  into  madness.  In 
such,  or  fitter  words,  does  Camille  evoke  the 
Elemental    Powers,    in    this    great    moment. — 

0  disheartening  news 

7  1.  e..  Minister  of  War 

8  From  Latin  frcmo.  to  growl. 

0  like  the  ancient  Sibyl,  or  inspired  prophetess 
•  A  pnlnce,  with  galleries  and  gardens,  built  by 
Cardinal  Hichelieii  in  the  heart  of  Paris.  At 
this  time  it  was  occupied  by  the  Due  d'Or- 
leans  (Philippe  ftgaltt^),  one  of  the  nobles 
who  had  Joined  the  Commons,  and  its  cat^n 
were  the  resort  of  the  mon*  violent  democrats. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


533 


Friends,  contiuues  Camille,  some  rallying  sign! 
Cockades;  green  ones; — the  colour  of  Hope!  — 
As  with  the  flight  of  locusts,  these  green  tree- 
leaves;  green  ribands  from  the  neighbouring 
shops;  all  green  things  are  snatched,  and  made 
cockades  of.  Camille  descends  from  his  table; 
"stifled  with  embraces,  wetted  with  tears;" 
has  a  bit  of  green  ribbon  handed  him;  sticks 
it  in  his  hat.  And  now  to  Curtius'  Image- 
shop  there;  to  the  Boulevards;  to  the  four 
winds,  and  rest  not  till  France  be  on  fire! 

France,  so  long  shaken  and  wind-parched,  is 
probably  at  the  right  inflammable  point. — As 
for  poor  Curtius,  who,  one  grieves  to  tliink, 
might  be  but  imperfectly  paid, — he  cannot 
make  two  words  about  his  Images.  The  Wax- 
bust  of  Xecker,  the  Wax-bust  of  D 'Orleans, 
helpers  of  France:  these,  covered  Avith  crape, 
as  in  funeral  procession,  or  after  the  manner 
of  suppliants  appealing  to  Heaven,  to  Earth, 
and  Tartarus  itself,  a  mixed  multitude  bears 
off.  For  a  sign!  As  indeed  man,  with  his  sin- 
gular imaginative  faculties,  can  do  little  or 
nothing  without  signs;  thus  Turks  look  to 
their  Prophet's  Banner;  also  Osier  Mannikins^o 
have  been  burnt,  and  Keeker's  Portrait  has 
erewhile  figured,  aloft  on  its  perch. 

In  this  manner  march  they,  a  mixed,  contin- 
ually increasing  multitude;  armed  with  axes, 
staves  and  miscellanea;  grim,  many-sounding, 
through  the  streets.  Be  all  Theatres  shut;  let 
all  dancing  on  planked  floor,  or  on  the  natural 
greensward,  cease!  Instead  of  a  Christian  Sab- 
bath, and  feast  of  gidnguette^i  tabernacles,  it 
shall  be  a  Sorcerer's  Sabbath;  12  and  Paris,  gone 
rabid,  dance, — with  the  Fiend  for  piper! 

Eaging  multitudes  surround  the  H6tel-de- 
Ville,i3  crying:  Arms!  Orders!  The  Six-and- 
twenty  Town-Couucillors,  with  their  long  gowns, 
have  ducked  under  (into  the  raging  chaos)  ; — 
shall  never  emerge  more.  Besenval  is  painfully 
wriggling  himself  out,  to  the  Champ-de-Mars  ;i* 
he  must  sit  there  "in  the  cruellest  uncertain- 
ty!" courier  after  courier  may  dash  off  for 
Versailles;  but  will  bring  back  no  answer,  can 
hardly  bring  himself  back.  For  the  roads  are 
all  blocked  with  batteries  and  pickets,  with 
floods  of  carriages  arrested  for  examination: 
such  was  Broglie's  one  sole  order;  the  CEil-de- 
BcBuf,i5  hearing  in  the  distance  such  mad  din, 
which  sounded  almost  like  invasion,  will  before 

10  Images  of  Guy  Fawkes,  for  example. 

11  tea-garden 

12  assembly  of  witches  or  wizards 

13  The  Town  Hall,  which  became  the  rallying  place 

of  the  democratic  party. 

14  A  military  field,  south  of  the  Seine. 

15  The  hall  of  the  king's  counsellors,  at  Versailles. 


all  things  keep  its  own  head  whole.  A  new  Min- 
istry, with,  as  it  were,  but  one  foot  in  the 
stirrup,  cannot  take  leaps.  Mad  Paris  is  aban- 
doned altogether  to  itself. 

What  a  Paris,  when  the  darkness  fell!  A 
European  metropolitan  City  hurled  suddenly 
forth  from  its  old  combinations  and  arrange- 
ments; to  crash  tumultuously  together,  seeking 
new.  Use  and  wont  will  now  no  longer  direct 
any  man;  each  man  with  what  of  originality 
he  has,  must  begin  thinking ;  or  following  those 
that  think.  Seven  hundred  thousand  individ- 
uals, on  the  sudden,  find  all  their  old  paths, 
old  ways  of  acting,  and  deciding,  vanish  from 
under  their  feet.  And  so  there  go  they,  with 
clangour  and  terror,  they  know  not  as  yet 
whether  running,  swimming,  or  flying, — head- 
long into  the  New  Era.  With  clangour  and 
terror:  from  above,  Broglie,  the  war-god,  im- 
pends, preternatural,  with  his  redhot  cannon- 
balls;  and  from  below  a  preternatural  Brigand- 
world  menaces  with  dirk  and  firebrand:  mad- 
ness rules  the  hour. 

Happily,  in  place  of  the  submerged  Twenty- 
six,  the  Electoral  Club  is  gathering;  has  de- 
clared itself  a  ' '  Provisional  Municipality. ' '  On 
the  morrow,  it  will  get  Provost  Flesselles,  with 
an  Echevin  or  two,i6  to  give  help  in  many 
things.  For  the  present  it  decrees  one  most 
essential  thing:  that  forthwith  a  "Parisian 
Militia"  shall  be  enrolled.  Depart,  ye  heads 
of  Districts,  to  labour  in  this  great  work; 
while  we  here,  in  Permanent  Committee,  sit 
alert.  Let  fenciblei^  men,  each  party  in  its 
own  range  of  streets,  keep  watch  and  ward,  all 
night.  Let  Paris  court  a  little  fever-sleep; 
confused  by  such  fever-dreams,  of  ' '  violent  mo- 
tions at  the  Palais  Royal;" — or  from  time  to 
time  start  awake,  and  look  out,  palpitating,  in 
its  nightcap,  at  the  clash  of  discordant  mu- 
tually-unintelligible Patrols;  on  the  gleam  of 
distant  Barriers,  going  up  ail-too  ruddy 
towards  the  vault  of  Night. 

On  Monday,  the  huge  City  has  awoke,  not  to 
its  week-day  industry :  to  what  a  different  one ! 
The  working  man  has  become  a  fighting  man; 
has  one  want  only :  that  of  arms.  The  industry 
of  all  crafts  has  paused; — except  it  be  the 
smith's,  fiercely  hammering  pikes;  and,  in  a 
faint  degree,  the  kitchener's,  cooking  offhand 
victuals,  for  bouche  va  toujoursA»  Women  too 
are  sewing  cockades; — not  now  of  green,  which 

iCThe   Provost  of  Merchants,   with  his  municipal 

magistrates. 
IT  capable  of  defending 
18  "Eating  must  go  on." 


534 


THE  VICTOBIAN  AGE 


being  D'Artoisi»  colour,  the  H6tel-de-Ville  has 
had  to  interfere  in  it;  but  of  red  and  blue, 
our  old  Paris  colours:  these,  once  based  on  a 
ground  of  constitutional  white,  are  the  famed 
Tricolor, — Which  (if  Prophecy  err  not)  "will 
go  round  the  world." 

All  shops,  unless  it  be  the  Bakers'  and  Vint- 
ners', are  shut:  Paris  is  in  the  streets; — 
rushing,  foaming  like  some  Venice  wine-glass 
into  which  you  had  dropped  poison.  The  tocsin, 
by  order,  is  pealing  madly  from  all  steeples. 
Arms,  ye  Elector  Municipals;  thou  Flesselles 
with  thy  Echevins,  give  us  arms!  Flesselles 
gives  what  he  can :  fallacious,  perhaps  insidious 
promises  of  arms  from  Charleville;  order  to 
seek  arms  here,  order  to  seek  them  there.  The 
new  Municipals  give  what  they  can;  some 
three  hundred  and  sixty  indifferent  firelocks, 
the  equipment  of  the  City-watch:  "a  man  in 
wooden  shoes,  and  without  coat,  directly  clutches 
one  of  them,  and  mounts  guard."  Also  as 
hinted,  an  order  to  all  Smiths  to  make  pikes 
with  their  whole  soul. 

Heads  of  Districts  are  in  fervent  consulta- 
tion; subordinate  Patriotism  roams  distracted, 
ravenous  for  arms.  Hitherto  at  the  H6tel-de- 
Ville  was  only  such  modicum  of  indifferent 
firelocks  as  we  have  seen.  At  the  so-called 
Arsenal,  there  lies  nothing  but  rust,  rubbish 
and  saltpetre, — overlooked  too  by  the  guns  of 
the  Bastille.  His  Majesty's  Kepository,  what 
they  call  Garde- Meuhle,  is  forced  and  ran- 
sacked: tapestries  enough,  and  gauderies;  but 
of  serviceable  fighting-gear  small  stock!  Two 
silver-mounted  cannons  there  are;  an  ancient 
gift  from  his  Majesty  of  Siam  to  Louis  Four- 
teenth; gilt  sword  of  the  Good  Henri20;  antique 
Chivalry  arms  and  armour.  These,  and  such 
as  these,  a  necessitous  Patriotism  snatches 
greedily,  for  want  of  better.  The  Siamese 
cannons  go  trundling,  on  an  errand  they  were 
not  meant  for.  Among  the  indifferent  fire- 
locks are  seen  tourney-lances;  the  princely 
helm  and  hauberk  glittering  amid  ill-hatted 
heads, — as  in  a  time  when  all  times  and  their 
possessions  are  suddenly  sent  jumbling! 

In  such  circumstances,  the  Aristocrat,  the  un- 
patriotic rich  man  is  packing  up  for  departure. 
But  he  shall  not  get  departed.  A  wooden-shod 
force  has  seized  all  Barriers,  burnt  or  not:  all 
that  enters,  all  that  seeks  to  issue,  is  stopped 
there,  and  dragged  to  the  H6tel-de-Ville : 
coaches,    tumbrils,-!    plate,    furniture,    "many 

10  Monspignenr  d'Artois  was  an  unpopular  adher- 
ent of  the  king. 
20  Henry  of  Navarre. 
iii  two-wbceled  carta 


meal-sacks,"  in  time  even  "flocks  and  herds" 
encumber  the  Place  de  Greve.2 

And  so  it  roars,  and  rages,  and  brays:  drums 
beating,  steeples  pealing;  criers  rushing  with 
hand-bells:  "Oyez,3  oyez,  All  men  to  their 
Districts  to  be  enrolled ! ' '  The  Districts  have 
met  in  gardens,  open  squares;  are  getting  mar- 
shalled into  volunteer  troops.  No  redhot  ball 
has  yet  fallen  from  Besenval's  Camp;  on  the 
contrary,  Deserters  with  their  arms  are  con- 
tinually dropping  in:  nay  now,  joy  of  joys, 
at  two  in  the  afternoon,  the  Gardes  FranQaiscs,* 
being  ordered  to  Saint-Denis,  and  flatly  declin- 
ing, have  come  over  in  a  body!  It  is  a  fact 
worth  many.  Three  thousand  six  hundred  of 
the  best  fighting  men,  with  complete  accoutre- 
ment; with  cannoneers  even,  and  cannon! 
Their  officers  are  left  standing  alone;  could 
not  so  much  as  succeed  in  "spiking  the  guns." 
The  very  Swiss,  it  may  now  be  hoped,  Chateau- 
Vieux"*  and  the  others,  will  have  doubts  about 
fighting. 

Our  Parisian  Militia, — which  some  think  it 
were  better  to  name  National  Guard, — is  pros- 
pering as  heart  could  Avish.  It  promised  to  be 
forty-eight  thousand ;  but  will  in  few  hours 
double  and  quadruple  that  number:  invincible, 
if  we  had  only  arms! 

But    see,    the    promised    Charleville    Boxes, 
marked  Artillerie!    Here  then  are  arms  enough? 
— Conceive  the  blank  face  of  Patriotism,  when  ; 
it    found    them    filled    with    rags,    foul    linen,  ' 
candle-ends,  and  bits  of  wood!     Provost  of  the 
Merchants,  how  is  this?     Neither  at  the  Char- 
treux    Convent,    whither    we    were    sent    with 
signed   order,  is  there  or  ever  was  there  any 
weapon  of  war.     Nay  here,  in  this  Seine  Boat, 
safe  under  tarpaulings    (had   not  the  nose  of 
Patriotism  been  of  the  finest),  are  "five  thou- 
sand-weight   of    gunpowder;"    not    coming   in, 
but   surreptitiously  going  out!      What  meanest  j 
thou,  Flesselles?     'Tis  a  ticklish  game,  that  of  * 
"amusing"  us.    Cat  plays  with  captive  mouse: 
but    mouse    with    enraged    cat,    with    enraged  . 
National  Tiger?  j 

Meanwhile,  the  faster,  O  ye  black-aproned  f 
Smiths,  smite;  with  strong  arm  and  willing 
heart.  This  man  and  that,  all  stroke  from  head 
to  heel,  shall  thunder  alternating,  and  ply  the 
great  forge-hammer,  till  stithy  reel  and  ring 
again;  while  ever  and  anon,  overhead,  booms] 
the  alarm-cannon, — for  the  City  has  now  got 
gunpowder.     Pikes  are  fabricated;   fifty  thou- 

2  Now  the  Place  de  rHOtel-de-VllIe. 

3  "Hear  ye !" 

4  The   French   Guards,   the  chief  regiment  of  the 

French  army. 
r>  A  regiment  of  Swiss  troops. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


535 


sand  of  them,  in  six-and-thirty  hours;  judge 
whether  the  Blaek-aproned  have  been  idle.  Dig 
trenches,  unpave  the  streets,  ye  others,  assidu- 
ous, man  and  maid ;  cram  the  earth  in  barrel- 
barricades,  at  each  of  them  a  volunteer  sentry; 
pile  the  whin-stones  in  window-sills  and  upper 
rooms.  Have  scalding  pitch,  at  least  boiling 
water  ready,  ye  weak  old  women,  to  pour  it  and 
dash  it  on  Koyal-Allemand,8  with  your  skinny 
arms:  your  shrill  curses  along  with  it  will  not 
be  wanting! — Patrols  of  the  new-born  National 
Guard,  bearing  torches,  scour  the  streets,  all 
that  night;  which  otherwise  are  vacant,  yet 
illuminated  in  every  window  by  order.  Strange- 
looking;  like  some  naphtha-lighted  City  of  the 
Dead,  with  here  and  there  a  flight  of  perturbed 
Ghosts. 

O  poor  mortals,  how  ye  make  this  Earth  bit- 
ter for  each  other;  this  fearful  and  wonderful 
Life  fearful  and  horrible;  and  Satan  has  his 
place  in  all  hearts!  Such  agonies  and  ragings 
and  wailings  ye  have,  and  have  had,  in  all 
times: — to  be  buried  all,  in  so  deep  silence; 
and  the  salt  sea  is  not  swoln  with  your  tears. 

Great  meanwhile  is  the  moment,  when  tidings 
of  Freedom  reach  us;  when  the  long-enthralled 
soul,  from  amid  its  chains  and  squalid  stag- 
nancy, arises,  were  it  still  only  in  blindness  and 
bewilderment,  and  swears  by  Him  that  made 
it,  that  it  will  be  free!  Free?  Understand 
that  well,  it  is  the  deep  commandment,  dimmer 
or  clearer,  of  our  whole  being,  to  be  free. 
Freedom  is  the  one  purport,  wisely  aimed  at, 
or  unwisely,  of  all  man 's  struggles,  toilings  and 
sufferings,  in  this  Earth.  Yes,  supreme  is  such 
a  moment  (if  thou  have  known  it)  :  first  vision 
as  of  a  flame-girt  Sinai,i  in  this  our  waste  Pil- 
grimage,— which  thenceforth  wants  not  its 
pillar  of  cloud  by  day,  and  pillar  of  fire  by 
night! 2  Something  it  is  even, — nay,  something 
considerable,  when  the  chains  have  grown  corro- 
sive, poisonous, — to  be  free  *  from  oppression 
by  our  fellow-man. '  Forward,  ye  maddened 
sons  of  France;  be  it  towards  this  destiny  or 
towards  that!  Around  you  is  but  starvation, 
falsehood,  corruption  and  the  clam  of  death. 
Where  ye  are  is  no  abiding. 

Imagination  may,  imperfectly,  figure  how 
Commandant  Besenval,  in  the  Champ-de-Mars, 
has  worn  out  these  sorrowful  hours.  Insurrec- 
tion raging  all  round;  his  men  melting  away! 
From  Versailles,  to  the  most  pressing  messages, 
comes  no  answer ;  or  once  only  some  vague  word 

e  A  regiment  of  German  troops. 


1  The  mountain   on   which   the   law   was  given   to 

Moses.     Exodus,  xix. 

2  Exodus,  xiil,  21. 


of  answer  which  is  worse  than  none.  A  Council 
of  Officers  can  decide  merely  that  there  is  no 
decision:  Colonels  inform  him,  'weeping,'  that 
they  do  not  think  their  men  will  fight.  Cruel 
uncertainty  is  here:  war-god  Broglie  sits  yon- 
der, inaccessible  in  his  Olympus;  does  not  de- 
scend terror-clad,  does  not  produce  his  whiff  of 
grape-shot;*   sends   no   orders. 

Truly,  in  the  Chateau3  of  Versailles  all  seems 
mystery:  in  the  Town  of  Versailles,  were  we 
there,  all  is  rumour,  alarm  and  indignation. 
An  august  National  Assembly  sits,  to  appear- 
ance, menaced  with  death ;  endeavouring  to  defy 
death.  It  has  resolved  'that  Necker  carries 
with  him  the  regrets  of  the  Nation.'  It  has 
sent  solemn  Deputation  over  to  the  Chateau, 
with  entreaty  to  have  these  troops  withdrawn. 
In  vain:  his  Majesty,  with  a  singular  com- 
posure, invites  us  to  be  busy  rather  with  our 
own  duty,  making  the  Constitution!     .     .     . 

So  at  Versailles.  But  at  Paris,  agitated 
Besenval,  before  retiring  for  the  night,  has 
stept  over  to  old  M.  de  Sombreuil,  of  the  Hotel 
des  InvaUdes*  hard  by.  M.  de  Sombreuil  has, 
what  is  a  great  secret,  some  eight-and-twenty- 
thousand  stand  of  muskets  deposited  in  his 
cellars  there;  but  no  trust  in  the  temper  of  his 
Invalides.  This  day,  for  example,  he  sent 
twenty  of  the  fellows  down  to  unscrew  those 
muskets;  lest  Sedition  might  snatch  at  them: 
but  scarcely,  in  six  hours,  had  the  twenty  un- 
screwed twenty  gun-locks,  or  dogsheads 
(chiens)  of  locks, — each  Invalide  his  dogshead! 
If  ordered  to  fire,  they  would,  he  imagines,  turn 
their  cannon  against  himself. 

Unfortunate  old  military  gentlemen,  it  is 
your  hour,  not  of  glory!  Old  Marquis  de 
Launay  too,  of  the  Bastille,  has  pulled  up  his 
drawbridges  long  since,  'and  retired  into  his 
interior ; '  with  sentries  walking  on  his  battle- 
ments, under  the  midnight  sky,  aloft  over  the 
glare  of  illuminated  Paris; — whom  a  National 
Patrol  passing  that  way,  takes  the  liberty  of 
firing  at :  '  seven  shots  towards  twelve  at  night, ' 
which  do  not  take  effect.  This  was  the  13th 
day  of  July  1789;  a  worse  day,  many  said, 
than  the  last  13th  was,  when  only  hail  fell  out 
of  Heaven,  not  madness  rose  out  of  Tophet,6 
ruining  worse  than  crops! 


3  The  residence  of  the  king. 

4  An   establishment  for  disabled   soldiers,   not  far 

from  the  Champs  de  Mars. 

5  Hell. 

*  Broglie  had  boasted  that  he  would  settle  the 
Third  Estate  with  a  "whlfif  of  grape-shot" 
(salve  (le  canons).  Six  j'ears  later  the  whiff 
was  delivered  by  Napoleon,  and  the  Revolution 
ended.  See  the  next  to  the  last  chaptor  of 
Carlyle's  History, 


536 


THE  VICTOEIAN  AGE 


But  ...  a  new,  Fourteenth  morning  dawns. 
Under  all  roofs  of  this  distracted  City  is  the 
noduss  of  a  drama,  not  untragical,  crowding 
towards  solution.  The  bustlings  and  prepar- 
ings,  the  tremors  and  menaces;  the  tears  that 
fell  from  old  eyes!  This  day,  my  sons,  ye  shall 
quit^  you  like  men.  By  the  memory  of  your 
fathers '  wrongs,  by  the  hope  of  your  children 's 
rights!  Tyranny  impends  in  red  wrath:  help 
for  you  is  none,  if  not  in  your  own  right  hands. 
This  day  ye  must  do  or  die. 

From  earliest  light,  a  sleepless  Permanent 
Committee  has  heard  the  old  cry,  now  waxing 
almost  frantic,  mutinous:  Arms!  Arms! 
Provost  Flesselles,  or  what  traitors  there  are 
among  you,  may  think  of  those  Charleville 
Boxes.  A  hundred-and-fifty-thousand  of  us; 
and  but  the  third  man  furnished  with  so  much 
as  a  pike!  Arms  are  the  one  thing  needful: 
with  arms  we  are  an  unconquerable  man-defy- 
ing National  Guard;  without  arms,  a  rabble  to 
be  whififed  with  grapeshot. 

Happily  the  word  has  arisen,  for  no  secret 
can  be  kept, — that  there  lie  muskets  at  the 
Hotel  des  Invalides.  Thither  will  we:  King's 
Procureurs  M.  Ethys  de  Corny,  and  whatsoever 
of  authority  a  Permanent  Committee  can  lend, 
shall  go  with  us.  Besenval's  Camp  is  there; 
perhaps  he  will  not  fire  on  us;  if  he  kill  us, 
we  shall  but  die. 

Alas,  poor  Besenval,  with  his  troops  melting 
away  in  that  manner,  has  not  the  smallest 
humour  to  fire!  At  five  o'clock  this  morning, 
as  he  lay  dreaming,  oblivious  in  the  f:cole  Mili- 
taire,^  a  'figure'  stood  suddenly  at  his  bedside; 
'with  face  rather  handsome;  eyes  inflamed, 
speech  rapid  and  curt,  air  audacious ; '  such  a 
figure  drew  Priam's  curtains !io  The  message 
and  monition  of  the  figure  was,  that  resistance 
would  be  hopeless;  that  if  blood  flowed,  woe  to 
him  who  shed  it.  Thus  spoke  the  figure:  and 
vanished.  'Withal  there  was  a  kind  of  elo- 
quence that  struck  one.'  Besenval  admits  that 
he  should  have  arrested  him,  but  did  not.  Who 
this  figure  with  inflamed  eyes,  with  speech  rapid 
and  curt,  might  be?  Besenval  knows,  but  men- 
tions not.  Camille  Desmoulinsf  Pythagorean 
Marquis  Valadi,ii  inflamed  with  'violent  mo- 
tions all  night  at  the  Palais  Boyalf  Fame 
names  him,  'Young  M.  Meillar';  then  shuts 
her  lips  about  him  forever. 

In  any  case,  behold,  about  nine  in  the  morn- 

«  "knot,"  tangle,  plot 

7  acquit 

8  Attorney 

»  Military  School ;  bv  the  Champs  de  Mars. 

10  Pp.  (ioldsmith's  The  Haunch  of  Venison,  1.  110 

and  note. 

11  Another  of  the  nnhles  who  had  Joined  the  peo- 

ple. 


ing,  our  National  Volunteers  rolling  in  long 
wide  flood,  south-westward  to  the  Hotel  des 
Invalides;  in  search  of  the  one  thing  needful. 
King's  Procureur  M.  Ethys  de  Corny  and 
officials  are  there;  the  Cure  of  Saint-fetienne  du 
Mont  marches  unpacific,  at  the  head  of  his 
militant  Parish;  the  Clerks  of  the  Basoche^^ 
in  red  coats  we  see  marching,  now  Volunteers 
of  the  Basoche;  the  Volunteers  of  the  Palais 
Royal: — National  Volunteers,  numerable  by 
tens  of  thousands;  of  one  heart  and  mind.  The 
King's  muskets  are  the  Nation's;  think,  old 
M.  de  Sombreuil,  how,  in  this  extremity,  thou 
wilt  refuse  them!  Old  M.  de  Sombreuil  would 
fain  hold  parley,  send  couriers;  but  it  skillsi^ 
not:  the  walls  are  scaled,  no  Invalide  firing  a 
shot ;  the  gates  must  be  flung  open.  Patriotism 
rushes  in,  tumultuous,  from  grunseli*  up  to 
ridge-tile,  through  all  rooms  and  passages; 
rummaging  distractedly  for  arms.  What  cellar, 
or  what  cranny  can  escape  itf  The  arms  are 
found;  all  safe  there;  lying  packed  in  straw, — 
apparently  with  a  view  to  being  burnt!  More 
ravenous  than  famishing  lions  over  dead  prey, 
the  multitude,  with  clangour  and  vociferation, 
pounces  on  them;  struggling,  dashing,  clutch- 
ing:— to  the  jamming-up,  to  the  pressure,  frac- 
ture and  probable  extinction  of  the  weaker 
Patriot.  And  so,  with  such  protracted  crash 
of  deafening,  most  discordant  Orchestra-music, 
the  Scene  is  changed;  and  eight-and-twenty 
thousand  sufficient  firelocks  are  on  the  shoulders 
of  as  many  National  Guards,  lifted  thereby  out 
of  darkness  into  fiery  light. 

Let  Besenval  look  at  the  glitter  of  these 
muskets,  as  they  flash  by:  Gardes  Fran§aises. 
it  is  said,  have  cannon  levelled  on  him;  ready 
to  open,  if  need  were,  from  the  other  side  of 
the  Kiver.  Motionless  sits  he ;  '  astonished, ' 
one  may  flatter  oneself,  'at  the  proud  bearing 
{Here  contenance)  of  the  Parisians.' — And  now 
to  the  Bastille,  ye  intrepid  Parisians!  There 
grapeshot  still  threatens :  thither  all  men 's 
thoughts  and  steps  are  now  tending. 

Old  De  Launay,  as  we  hinted,  withdrew  'into 
his  interior'  soon  after  midnight  of  Sunday. 
He  remains  there  ever  since,  hampered,  as  all 
military  gentlemen  now  are,  in  the  saddest  con- 
flict of  uncertainties.  The  Hotel-de-Ville  'in- 
vites' him  to  admit  National  Soldiers,  which 
is  a  soft  name  for  surrendering.  On  the  other 
hand.  His  Majesty's  orders  were  precise.  His 
garrison  is  but  eighty-two  old  Invalides,  rein- 
forced by  thirty-two  young  Swiss;  his  walls 
indeed  are  nine  feet  thick,  he  has  cannon  and 

12  A  collective  term  for  "the  Law." 
IS  avails 
14  groundsill 


THO^rAS  CABLYLE 


537 


powder;  but,  aks,  only  one  day's  provision  of 
victuals.  The  i-ity,  too,  is  French,  the  poor 
garrison  mostly  French.  Kigorous  old  De 
Launay,  think  what  thou  wilt  do! 

All  morning,  since  nine,  there  has  been  a  cry 
every  where:  To  the  Bastille!  Repeated 
'deputations  of  citizens'  have  been  here,  pas- 
sionate for  arms;  whom  De  Launay  has  got 
dismisseil  by  soft  s^ieeches  through  portholes. 
Towards  noon,  Elector  Thuriot  de  la  Eosifere 
gains  admittance;  finds  De  Launay  indisposed 
for  surrender;  nay,  disposed  for  blowing  up 
the  place  rather.  Thuriot  mounts  with  him  to 
the  battlements:  heaps  of  paving-stones,  old 
iron  and  missiles  lie  piled;  cannon  all  duly 
levelled;  in  every  embrasure  a  cannon, — ^only 
drawn  back  a  little!  But  outwards,  behold,  0 
Thuriot,  how  the  multitude  flows  on,  welling 
through  every  street;  tocsin  furiously  pealing, 
all  drums  beating  the  generale^:  the  Suburb 
Saint-Antoine  rolling  hitherward  wholly,  as  one 
man!*  Such  vision  (spectral  yet  real)  thou,  O 
Thuriot,  as  from  thy  Mount  of  Vision,  beholdest 
in  this  moment:  prophetic  of  what  other  Phan- 
tasmagories,  and  loud-gibbering  Spectral  Real- 
ities, which  thou  yet  beholdest  not,  but  shalt! 
"Que  voulez-voiisF''^  said  De  Launay,  turning 
pale  at  the  sight,  with  an  air  of  reproach, 
almost  of  menace.  "Monsieur,"  said  Thuriot, 
rising  into  the  moral  sublime,  "what  mean  youl 
Consider  if  I  could  not  precipitate  both  of  us 
from  this  height," — say  only  a  hundred  feet, 
exclusive  of  the  walled  ditch!  Whereupon  De 
Launay  fell  silent.  Thuriot  shows  himself  from 
some  pinnacle,  to  comfort  the  multitude  becom- 
ing suspicious,  fremescent:  then  descends;  de- 
parts with  protest;  with  warning  addressed  also 
to  the  Invalides, — on  whom  however,  it  produces 
but  a  mixed  indistinct  impression.  The  old 
heads  are  none  of  the  clearest;  besides,  it  is 
said,  De  Launay  has  been  profuse  of  beverages 
{prodigua  des  huissons).  They  think  they  will 
not  fire, — if  not  fired  on,  if  they  can  help  it; 
but  must,  on  the  whole,  be  ruled  considerably 
by  circumstances. 

Wo  to  thee.  De  Launay,  in  such  an  hour,  if 
thou  canst  not,  taking  some  one  firm  decision, 
rule  circumstances!  Soft  speeches  will  not 
serve;  hard  grapeshot  is  questionable;  but 
hovering  between  the  two  is  wnquestionable. 
Ever  wilder  swells  the  tide  of  men;  their  in- 
finite hum  waxing  ever  louder,  into  impreca- 
tions, perhaps  into  crackle  of  stray  musketry, 

1  The  signal  for  assembling,  or  of  alarm. 

2  "What  do  you  want?     What  do  you  mean?" 

•  The  Faubourg  St.  Antoine,  or  east  side  of  I'ails. 
much  like  the  east  side  of  London,  is  mainly 
a  residence  of  the  lower  classes. 


— which  latter,  on  walls  nine  feet  thick,  cannot 
do  execution.  The  Outer  Drawbridge  has  been 
lowered  for  Thuriot;  new  deputation  of  citi- 
zens (it  is  the  third,  and  noisiest  of  all)  pene- 
trates that  way  into  the  Outer  Court:  soft 
speeches  producing  no  clearance  of  these,  De 
Launay  gives  fire;  pulls  up  his  Drawbridge.  A 
slight  sputter; — which  has  kindled  the  too  com- 
bustible chaos;  made  it  a  roaring  fire-chaos! 
Bursts  forth  Insurrection,  at  sight  of  its  own 
blood  (for  there  were  deaths  by  that  sputter 
of  fire),  into  endless  rolling  explosion  of  mus- 
ketry, distraction,  execration; — and  over  head, 
from  the  Fortress,  let  one  great  gun,  with  its 
grapeshot,  go  booming,  to  show  what  we  could 
do.     The  Bastille  is  besieged! 

On,  then,  all  Frenchmen,  that  have  hearts  in 
your  bodies!  Eoar  with  all  your  throats,  of 
cartilage  and  metal,  ye  Sons  of  Liberty;  stir 
spasmodically  whatsoever  of  utmost  faculty  is 
in  you,  soul,  body,  or  spirit;  for  it  is  the  hour! 
Smite,  thou  Louis  Tournay,  cartwright  of  the 
Marai8,3  old-soldier  of  the  Eegiment  Dauphine; 
smite  at  that  Outer  Drawbridge  chain,  though 
the  fiery  hail  whistles  round  thee!  Never,  over 
nave  or  felloe,  did  thy  axe  strike  such  a  stroke. 
Down  with  it,  man;  down  with  it  to  Orcus:* 
let  the  whole  accursed  Edifice  sink  thither,  and 
Tyranny  be  swallowed  up  forever!  Mounted, 
some  say,  on  the  roof  of  the  guard-room,  some 
'on  bayonets  stuck  into  joints  of  the  wall,' 
Louis  Tournay  smites,  brave  Aubin  Bonne- 
m&re  (also  an  old  soldier)  seconding  him;  the 
chain  yields,  breaks ;  the  huge  drawbridge  slams 
down,  thundering  (avec  fracas).  Glorious:  and 
yet,  alas,  it  is  still  but  the  outworks.  The 
Eight  grim  Towers,  with  their  Invalide  mus- 
ketry, their  paving  stones  and  cannon-mouths, 
still  soar  aloft  intact; — Ditch  yawning  im- 
passable, stone-faced;  the  inner  Drawbridge 
with  its  back  towards  us:  the  Bastille  is  still 
to  take! 

To  describe  this  Siege  of  the  Bastille 
(thought  to  be  one  of  the  most  important  in 
History)  perhaps  transcends  the  talent  of  mor- 
tals. Could  one  but,  after  infinite  reading,  get 
to  understand  so  much  as  the  plan  of  the  build- 
ing! But  there  is  open  Esplanade,  at  the  end 
of  the  Eue  Saint-Antoine;  there  are  such  Fore- 
courts, Cour  Avancee,  Cowr  de  I'Orme,  arched 
Gateway  (where  Louis  Tournay  now  fights) ; 
then  new  drawbridges,  dormant-bridges,  ram- 
part-bastions, and  the  grim  Eight  Towers;  a 
labyrinthic  Mass,  high-frowning  "there,  of  all 
ages  from  twenty  years  to  four  hundred  and 
twenty; — beleaguered,  in  this  its  last  hour,  as 

3  A  manufacturing  quarter  of  Paris. 

4  Hades. 


538 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


we  said,  by  mere  Chaos  come  again!  Ordnance 
of  all  calibres;  throats  of  all  capacities;  men 
of  all  plans,  every  man  his  own  engineer:  sel- 
dom since  the  war  of  Pygmies  and  Cranes^  was 
there  seen  so  anomalous  a  thing.  Half-pay 
Elie  is  home  for  a  suit  of  regimentals;*  no 
one  would  heed  him  in  coloured  clothes:  half- 
pay  Hulin  is  haranguing  Gardes  Frangaises  in 
the  Place  de  Grfeve.  Frantic  Patriots  pick  up 
the  grapeshots;  bear  them,  still  hot  (or  seem- 
ingly so),  to  the  Hotel-de^Ville ; — Paris,  you 
perceive,  is  to  be  burnt!  Flesselles  is  'pale  to 
the  very  lips,'  for  the  roar  of  the  multitude 
grows  deep.  Paris  wholly  has  got  to  the  acme 
of  its  frenzy;  whirled,  all  ways,  by  panic  mad- 
ness. At  every  street-barricade,  there  whirls 
simmering  a  minor  whirlpool, — strengthening 
the  barricade,  since  God  knows  what  is  com- 
ing; and  all  minor  whirlpools  play  distractedly 
into  that  grand  Fire-Mahlstromfi  which  is  lash- 
ing round  the  Bastille. 

And  so  it  lashes  and  it  roars.  Cholat  the 
wine-merchant  has  become  an  impromptu  can- 
noneer. See  Georget,  of  the  Marine  Service, 
fresh  from  Brest,^  ply  the  King  of  Siam's 
cannon.  Singular  (if  we  were  not  used  to  the 
like) :  Georget  lay,  last  night,  taking  his  ease 
at  his  inn; 8  the  King  of  Siam's  cannon  also 
lay,  knowing  nothing  of  him,  for  a  hundred 
years.  Yet  now,  at  the  right  instant,  they  have 
got  together,  and  discourse  eloquent  music. 
For,  hearing  what  was  toward,  Georget  sprang 
from  the  Brest  Diligence,^  and  ran.  Gardes 
Fran^aises  also  will  be  here,  with  real 
artillery:  were  not  the  walls  so  thick! — Up- 
wards from  the  Esplanade,  horizontally  from 
all  neighbouring  roofs  and  windows,  flashes  one 
irregular  deluge  of  musketry,  without  effect. 
The  Invalides  lie  flat,  firing  comparatively  at 
their  ease  from  behind  stone;  hardly  through 
portholes  show  the  tip  of  a  nose.  "We  fall, 
shot;  and  make  no  impression! 

Let  conflagration  rage ;  of  whatsoever  is  com- 
bustible! Guard-rooms  are  burnt,  Invalides 
mess-rooms.  A  distracted  'Peruke-maker  with 
two  fiery  torches'  is  for  burning  'the  saltpetres 
of  the  Arsenal ; ' — had  not  a  woman  run  scream- 
ing; had  not  a  Patriot,  with  some  tincture  of 
Natural  Philo8ophy,io  instantly  struck  the  wind 

a  An  nnciont  fable;  we  lUad,  III,  K. 

•t  mai'lRtrom,  whirlpool 

7  The  principal  naval  port  of  Frnnoe. 

H  "Shall  I  not  take  mine  ease  in  mine  inn?"  1 
Henry  IV.,   III.  lil,  93. 

n  Btage-coach* 

10  Home  l(nowled{;e  of  phynica 

•  Carlylp  la  here  merely  reportlns  a  gllmpi^e  of 
Klie  as  he  gets  it  from  Home  record.  lie  has 
earlier  descrll)ed  thene  two  t-aptalns,  Kile  and 
Hulin,  aa  "both  with  an  air  uf  half-pay." 


out  of  him  (butt  of  musket  on  pit  of  stomach), 
overturned  barrels,  and  stayed  the  devouring 
element.  A  young  beautiful  lady,  seized  escap- 
ing in  these  Outer  Courts,  and  thought  falsely 
to  be  De  Launay's  daughter,  shall  be  burnt  in 
De  Launay's  sight;  she  lies  swooned  on  a 
paillasse ;ii  but  again  a  Patriot,  it  is  brave 
Aubin  Bonnemfere  the  old  soldier,  dashes  in, 
and  rescues  her.  Straw  is  burnt ;  three  cartloads 
of  it,  hauled  thither,  go  up  in  white  smoke: 
almost  to  the  choking  of  Patriotism  itself;  so 
that  Elie  had,  with  singed  brows,  to  drag  back 
one  cart;  and  Reole  the  'gigantic  haberdasher' 
another.  Smoke  as  of  Tophet;  confusion  as  of 
Babel ;  noise  as  of  the  Crack  of  Doom ! 

Blood  flows;  the  aliment  of  new  madness. 
The  wounded  are  carried  into  houses  of  the  Rue 
Cerisaie;  the  dying  leave  their  last  mandate 
not  to  yield  till  the  accursed  Stronghold  fall. 
And  yet,  alas,  how  fall?  The  walls  are  so 
thick!  Deputations,  three  in  number,  arrive 
from  the  Hotel- de-Ville;  Abbe  Fauchat  (who 
was  of  one)  can  say,  with  what  almost  super- 
human courage  of  benevolence.  These  wave 
their  Town-flag  in  the  arched  Gateway;  and 
stand,  rolling  their  drum;  but  to  no  purpose. 
In  such  Crack  of  Doom,  De  Launay  cannot  hear 
them,  dare  not  believe  them:  they  return,  with 
justified  rage,  the  whew  of  lead  still  singing  in 
their  ears.  What  to  do?  The  Firemen  are 
here,  squirting  with  their  fire  pumps  on  the 
Invalides  cannon,  to  wet  the  touchholes;  they 
unfortunately  cannot  squirt  so  high;  but  jjro- 
duce  only  clouds  of  spray.  Individuals  of 
classical  knowledge  propose  catapults.  San- 
terre,  the  sonorous  Brewer  of  the  Suburb  Saint- 
Antoine,  advises  rather  that  the  place  be  fired, 
by  a  'mixture  of  phosphorus  and  oil-of -turpen- 
tine spouted  up  through  forcing  pumps: '  O 
Spinola-Santerre,t  hast  thou  the  mixture  ready? 
Every  man  his  own  engineer!  And  still  the 
fire-deluge  abates  not:  even  women  are  firing, 
and  Turks;  at  least  one  woman  (with  her 
sweetheart),  and  one  Turk.  Gardes  Franc^aises 
have  come:  real  cannon,  real  cannoneers. 
Usheri2  Maillard  is  busy;  half-pay  Elie,  half- 
pay  Hulin  rage  in  the  midst  of  thousands. 

How  the  great  Bastille  Clock  ticks  (inaudi- 
ble) in  its  Inner  Court  there,  at  its  ease,  hour 
after  hour;  as  if  nothing  special,  for  it  or  the 
world,  were  passing!  It  tolled  One  when  the 
firing  began;  and  is  now  pointing  towards  Five, 
and  still  the  firing  slakes  not. — Far  down,  in 
their  vaults,  the  seven  Prisoners  hear  rauflaed 

11  straw  mattress 

12  hutKMicr,  constable 

t  Oeneinl    Spinolii    In    KiU'.".    took    the   fortress    of 
Hreda  in  Holland. 


THOMAS  BABIXGTON,  LORD  MACAUT.AY 


539 


din  as  of  earthquakes;  their  Turnkeys  answer 
vaguely. 

Wo  to  thee,  De  Launay,  with  thy  poor  hun- 
dred Invalides!  Broglie  is  distant,  and  his  ears 
heavy:  Besenval  hears,  but  can  send  no  help. 
One  poor  troop  of  Hussars  has  crept,  recon- 
noitering,  cautiously  along  the  Quais,  as  far  as 
the  Pont  Neuf.i3  <'We  are  come  to  join  you," 
said  the  Captain ;  for  the  crowd  seems  shore- 
less. A  large-headed  dwarfish  individual  of 
smoke-bleared  aspect,  shambles  forward,  open- 
ing his  blue  lips,  for  there  is  sense  in  him;  and 
croaks:  "Alight  then,  and  give  up  your 
arms !  ' '  The  Hussar-Captain  is  too  happy  to 
be  escorted  to  the  Barriers,  and  dismissed  on 
parole.  Who  the  squat  individual  was?  Men 
answer.  It  is  M.  Marat,  author  of  the  excellent 
pacific  Avis  au  Peuple!^*  Great  truly,  O  thou 
remarkable  Dogleeeh,  is  this  thy  day  of  emer- 
gence and   new-birth:    and   yet   this   same   day 

come  four  years ! — But  let  the  curtains  of 

the  Future  hang.ij 

What  shall  De  Launay  do?  One  thing  only 
De  Launay  could  have  done:  what  he  said  he 
would  do.  Fancy  him  sitting,  from  the  first, 
with  lighted  taper,  within  arm  *s  length  of  the 
Powder-Magazine ;  motionless,  like  old  Eoraan 
Senator,  or  Bronze  Lamp-holder;  coldly  appris- 
ing Thuriot,  and  all  men,  by  a  slight  motion  of 
his  eye,  what  his  resolution  was: — Harmless, 
he  sat  there,  while  unharmed;  but  the  King's 
Fortress,  meanwhile,  could,  might,  would,  or 
should,  in  nowise  be  surrendered,  save  to  the 
King's  Messenger:  one  old  man's  life  is  worth- 
less, so  it  be  lost  with  honour ;  but  think,  ye 
brawling  canaiUe,^^  how  will  it  be  when  a 
whole  Bastille  springs  skyward! — In  such 
statuesque,  taper-holding  attitude,  one  fancies 
De  Launay  might  have  left  Thuriot.  the  red 
Clerks  of  the  Basoche,  Cure  of  Saint-Stephen 
and  all  the  tag-rag-and-bobtail  of  the  M-orld,  to 
work  their  will. 

And  yet,  withal,  he  could  not  do  it.  Hast 
thou  considered  how  each  man 's  heart  is  so 
tremulously  responsive  to  the  hearts  of  all  men ; 
hast  thou  noted  how  omnipotent  is  the  very 
sound  of  many  men?  How  their  shriek  of  in- 
dignation palsies  the  strong  soul;  their  howl 
of  contumely  withers  with  unfelt  pangs?  The 
Ritter  GluckiT  confessed  that  the  ground-tone 
of  the  noblest  passage,  in  one  of  his  noblest 
Operas,  was  the  voice  of  the  Populace  he  had 
heard    at    Vienna,    crying    to    their    Kaiser: 

13  "New   Bridge." 

i-i  "Advice  to  the  People." 

15  He  was  assassinated  by  Charlotte  Corday.  Jnly 

l.J.   1793. 
i«  rabhle 
IT  Of  (Jt'rraany.     A  Ritter  Is  a  knight. 


Bread!  Bread!  Great  is  the  combined  voice 
of  men;  the  utterance  of  their  instincts,  which 
are  truer  than  their  thoughts:  it  is  the  greatest 
a  man  encounters,  among  the  sounds  and 
shadows  which  make  up  this  World  of  Time. 
He  who  can  resist  that,  has  his  footing  some- 
where beyond  Time.  De  Launay  could  not  do 
it.  Distracted,  he  hovers  between  two;  hopes 
in  the  middle  of  despair;  surrenders  not  his 
Fortress;  declares  that  he  will  blow  it  up, 
seizes  torches  to  blow  it  up,  and  does  not  blow 
it.  Unhappy  old  De  Launay,  it  is  the  death- 
agony  of  thy  Bastille  and  thee!  Jail,  Jailor- 
ing,  and  Jailor,  all  three,  such  as  they  may  have 
been,  must  finish. 

For  four  hours  now  has  the  World-Bedlam 
roared:  call  it  the  World-Chimaera,  blowing 
fire!  The  poor  Invalides  have  sunk  under  their 
battlements,  or  rise  only  with  reversed  muskets: 
they  have  made  a  white  flag  of  napkins;  go 
beating  the  chamade,^^  or  seeming  to  beat,  for 
one  can  hear  nothing.  The  very  Swiss  at  the 
Portcullis  look  weary  of  firing;  disheartened 
in  the  fire-deluge:  a  porthole  at  the  drawbridge 
is  opened,  as  by  one  that  would  speak.  See 
Huissier  Maillard,  the  shifty  man!  On  his 
plank,  swinging  over  the  abyss  of  that  stone 
Ditch;  plank  resting  on  parapet,  balanced  by 
weight  of  Patriots, — he  hovers  perilous:  such  a 
Dove  towards  such  an  Ark !  Deftly,  thou  shifty 
Usher;  one  man  already  fell;  and  lies  smashed, 
far  down  there,  against  the  masonry;  Usher 
Maillard  falls  not;  deftly,  unerring  he  walks, 
with  outspread  palm.  The  Swiss  holds  a  paper 
through  his  porthole;  the  shifty  Usher  snatches 
it,  and  returns.  Terms  of  surrender:  Pardon, 
immunity  to  all!  Are  they  accepted? — "Foi 
d'  officier,  On  the  word  of  an  oflBcer,"  answers 
half-pay  Hulin, — or  half-pay  Elie,  for  men  do 
not  agree  on  it,  "they  are!"  Sinks  the  draw- 
bridge,— Usher  ^laillard  bolting  it  when  down; 
rushes-in  the  living  deluge:  the  Bastille  is 
fallen!     Victoire!    La  Bastille  est  prise .'^^ 

THOMAS  BABINGTON,  LORD 
MACAULAY  (1800-1859) 

THE    HISTORY    OF    ENGLAND 

London  in  1685.     From  Chapter  III 

Whoever  examines  the  maps  of  London  which 
were  published  towards  the  close  of  the  reign 
of  Charles  the  Second  will  see  that  only  the 
nucleus    of    the    present    capital    then    existed. 

18  parley 

19  "Victory!    The    Bastille   is    taken!" — After   the 

first  anniversary  of  its  capture,  this  ancient 
fortress  and  prison  was  razed  to  the  ground. 


540 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


The  town  did  not,  as  now,  fade  by  imperceptible 
degrees  into  the  country.  No  long  avenues  of 
villas,  embowered  in  lilacs  and  laburnums,  ex- 
tended from  the  great  centre  of  wealth  and 
civilization  almost  to  the  boundaries  of  Mid- 
dlesex and  far  into  the  heart  of  Kent  and  Sur- 
rey. In  the  east,  no  part  of  the  immense  line 
of  warehouses  and  artificial  lakes  which  now 
stretches  from  the  Tower  to  Blackwall  had  even 
been  projected.  On  the  west,  scarcely  one  of 
those  stately  piles  of  building  which  are  in- 
habited by  tlie  noble  and  wealthy  was  in  exist- 
ence; and  Chelsea,  which  is  now  peopled  by 
more  than  forty  thousand  human  beings,  was  a 
quiet  country  village  with  about  a  thousand 
inhabitants.  On  the  north,  cattle  fed,  and 
sportsmen  wandered  with  dogs  and  guns,  over 
the  site  of  the  borough  of  Marylebone,i  and 
over  far  the  greater  part  of  the  space  now 
covered  by  the  boroughs  of  Finsbury  and  of 
the  Tower  Hamlets.  Islington  was  almost  a 
solitude;  and  poets  loved  to  contrast  its  silence 
and  repose  with  the  din  and  turmoil  of  the 
monster  London.2  On  the  south  the  capitcil  is 
now  connected  with  its  suburb  by  several 
bridges,  not  inferior  in  magnificence  and  solid- 
ity to  the  noblest  works  of  the  Caesars.  In 
1685,  a  single  line  of  irregular  arches,  over- 
hung by  piles  of  mean  and  crazy  houses,  and 
garnishetl,  after  a  fashion,  worthy  of  the  naked 
barbarians  of  Dahomy,3  with  scores  of  moulder- 
ing heads,  impeded  the  navigation  of  the  river. 

He  who  then  rambled  to  what  is  now  the 
gayest  and  most  crowded  part  of  Regent  Street* 
found  himself  in  a  solitude,  and  was  sometimes 
so  fortunate  as  to  have  a  shot  at  a  woodcock. 
On  the  north  the  Oxford  road  ran  between 
hedges.  Three  or  four  hundred  yards  to  the 
south  were  the  garden  walls  of  a  few  great 
houses  which  were  considered  as  quite  out  of 
town.  On  the  west  was  a  meadow  renowned  for 
a  spring  from  which,  long  afterwards,  Conduit 
Street  was  named.  On  the  east  was  a  field  not 
to  be  passed  without  a  shudder  by  any  Lon- 
doner of  that  age.  There,  as  in  a  place  far 
from  the  haunts  of  men,  had  been  dug,  twenty 
years  before,  when  the  greiit  plague  was  raging, 
a  pit  into  which  the  dead-carts  had  nightly  shot 
corpses  by  scores.  It  was  popularly  believed 
that  the  earth  was  deeply  tainted  with  infec- 
tion, and  could  not  be  disturbed  without  immi- 
nent risk  to  human  life.    No  foundations  were 


1  Popularly  pronounced  Marlllmn,  or  Maribun. 

2  Cp.  Cowloy  :     IHavourKC  of  HoHiuric. 

3  In   WcHt   Africa.     (ThiK   1b  a  doHcrlpllon   of  th«» 

famouH  old  London  ItrtdKc) 

4  A  faKhlonnblc  Hhoppint;  dlHtrict  in  West  London. 


laid  there  till  two  generations  had  passed  with- 
out any  return  of  the  pestilence,  and  till  the 
ghastly  spot  had  long  been  surrounded  by  build 
ings. 

We  should  greatly  err  if  we  were  to  suppose 
that  any  of  the  streets  and  squares  then  bore 
the  same  aspect  as  at  present.  The  great 
majority  of  the  houses,  indeed,  have,  since  that 
time,  been  wholly,  or  in  great  part,  rebuilt.  If 
the  most  fashionable  parts  of  the  capital  could 
be  placed  before  us,  such  as  they  then  were, 
we  should  be  disgusted  by  their  squalid  appear- 
ance, and  poisoned  by  their  noisome  atmosphere. 
In  Covent  Garden'-  a  filthy  ami  noisy  market 
was  held  close  to  the  dwellings  of  the  great. 
Fruit  women  screamed,  carters  fought,  cabbage 
stalks  and  rotten  apples  accumulated  in  heaps 
at  the  thresholds  of  the  (Jountess  of  Berkshire 
and  of  the  Bishop  of  Durham. 

The  centre  of  Lincoln 's  Inn  Fieldso  was  an 
open  space  where  the  rabble  congregated  every 
evening,  within  a  few  yards  of  Cardigan  House 
and  Winchester  House,  to  hear  mountebanks 
harangue,  to  see  bears  dance,  and  to  set  dogs 
at  oxen.  Rubbish  was  shot  in  every  part  of  tlie 
area.  Horses  were  exercised  there.  Tlie  beg- 
gars were  as  noisy  and  importunate  as  in  the 
worst  governed  cities  of  the  Continent.  A  Lin- 
coln's Inn  mumperT  was  a  proverb.  The  whole 
fraternity  knew  the  arms  and  liveries  of  every 
charitably  disposed  grandee  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, and,  as  soon  as  his  lordship's  coach  and 
six  appeared,  came  hopping  and  crawling  in 
crowds  to  persecute  him.  These  disorders 
lasted,  in  spite  of  many  accidents,  and  of  some 
legal  proceedings,  till,  in  the  reign  of  George 
the  Second,  Sir  Joseph  Jekyll,  Master  of  the 
Rolls,  was  knocked  down  and  nearly  killed  in 
the  middle  of  the  square.  Then  at  length  pali- 
sades were  set  up,  and  a  pleasant  garden  laid 
out. 

Saint  James's  Square"  was  a  receptacle  for 
all  the  oflfal  and  cinders,  for  all  the  dead  cats 
and  dead  dogs  of  Westminster.^  At  one  time 
a  cudgel  player'o  kept  the  ring  there.  At  an- 
other time  an  impudent  squatter  settled  himself 
there,  and  built  a  shed  for  rubbish  under  the 
windows  of  the  gilded  saloons  in  which  the 
first  magnates  of  the  realm,  Norfolk.  Ormond, 

!"•  A  piazza  north  of  the  Strand  ;  a  fruit  and  flower 

market. 
•1  The  largest  of  London's  squares,   surrounded  by 

lawyers'  ofllcps  and  ancient  mansions. 
T  lx>KKar  and  impostor 
8  The   site   of   the   most   aristocratic   mansions   and 

clubs. 
0  The  portion  of  London  which  was  once  the  city 

of   Westminster;   the  site  of  the  (Jovernment 

houses. 
10  One  Kkillod  in  contests  with  cndsels  or  staves. 


THOMAS  BABINGTON,  LOBD  MACAULAY 


541 


Kent,  ajid  Pembroke,  gave  banquets  and  balls. 
It  was  not  till  these  nuisances  had  lasted 
through  a  wliole  generation,  and  till  much  had 
r)(HMi  written  about  theni,  that  the  inhabitants 
applied  to  Parliament  for  permission  to  put 
up  rails,  and  to  plant  trees. 

When  such  was  the  state  of  the  region  in- 
habited by  the  most  luxurious  portion  of  so- 
ciety, we  may  easily  believe  that  the  great  body 
of  the  population  suffered  what  would  now  be 
considered  as  insupportable  grievances.  The 
pavement  was  detestable;  all  foreigners  cried 
Bhame  upon  it.  The  drainage  was  so  bad  that 
in  rainy  weather  the  gutters  soon  became  tor- 
rents. Several  facetious  poets  have  commemo- 
rated the  fury  with  which  these  black  rivulets 
roared  down  Snow  Hill  and  Ludgate  Hill,  bear- 
ing to  Fleet  Ditch  a  vast  tribute  of  animal  and 
vegetable  filth  from  the  stalls  of  butchers  and 
greengrocers.  This  flood  was  profusely  thrown 
to  right  and  left  by  coaches  and  carts.  To  keep 
as  far  from  the  carriage  road  as  possible  was 
therefore  the  wish  of  every  pedestrian.  The 
mild  and  timid  gave  the  wall.  The  bold  and 
athletic  took  it.  If  two  roisterers  met,  they 
cocked  their  hats  in  each  other's  faces,  and 
pushed  each  other  about  till  the  weaker  was 
shoved  towards  the  kennel.n  If  he  was  a  mere 
bully  he  sneaked  off,  muttering  that  he  should 
find  a  time.  If  he  was  pugnacious,  the  en- 
counter probably  ended  in  a  duel  behind  Mon- 
tague House.  12 

The  houses  were  not  numbered.  There  would 
indeed  have  been  little  advantage  in  number- 
ing them;  for  of  the  coachmen,  chairmen,i3  por- 
ters, and  errand  boys  of  London,  a  very  small 
proportion  could  read.  It  was  necessary  to  use 
marks  which  the  most  ignorant  could  under- 
stand. The  shops  were  therefore  distinguished 
by  painted  or  sculptured  signs,  which  gave  a 
gay  and  grotesque  aspect  to  the  streets.  The 
walk  from  Charing  Cross  to  Whitechapel  lay 
through  an  endless  succession  of  Saracens* 
Heads,  Royal  Oaks,  Blue  Bears,  and  Golden 
Lambs,  which  disappeared  when  they  were  no 
longer  required  for  the  direction  of  the  com- 
mon people. 

When  the  evening  closed  in,  the  difficulty  and 
danger  of  walking  about  London  became  serious 
indeed.  The  garret  windows  were  opened,  and 
pails  were  emptied,  with  little  regard  to  those 
who  were  passing  below.  Falls,  bruises,  and 
broken  bones  were  of  constant  occurrence. 
For,  till  the  last  year  of  the  reign  of  Charles 
the  Second,  most  of  the  streets  were  left  in 
11  gutter 
1-'  In    Whitehall,    the    resfion    of    the    Government 

ofBcps. 
13  sedan-cliair  bearers 


profound  darkness.  Thieves  and  robbers  plied 
their  trade  with  impunity:  yet  they  were  hardly 
so  terrible  to  peaceable  citizens  as  another 
class  of  ruffians.  It  was  a  favourite  amusement 
of  dissolute  young  gentlemen  to  swagger  by 
night  about  the  town,  breaking  windows,  upset- 
ting sedans,  beating  quiet  men,  and  offering 
rude  caresses  to  pretty  women.  Several  dynas- 
ties of  these  tyrants  had,  since  the  Restoration, 
domineered  over  the  streets.  The  Muns  and 
Tityre  Tus  had  given  place  to  the  Hectors,  and 
the  Hectors  had  been  recently  succeeded  by  the 
Scourers.  At  a  later  period  rose  the  Nicker, 
the  Hawcubite,  and  the  yet  more  dreaded  name 
of  Mohawk.  The  machinery  for  keeping  the 
peace  was  utterly  contemptible.  There  was  an 
act  of  Common  Council  which  provided  that 
more  than  a  thousand  watchmen  should  be  con- 
stantly on  the  alert  in  the  city,  from  sunset  to 
sunrise,  and  that  every  inhabitant  should  take 
his  turn  of  duty.  But  this  Act  was  negligently 
executed.  Few  of  those  who  were  summoned 
left  their  homes;  and  those  few  generally  found 
it  more  agreeable  to  tipple  in  alehouses  than  to 
pace  the  streets. 

The  London  Coffee   Houses.     From   Chap- 
ter III 

The  coffee  house  must  not  be  dismissed  with 
a  cursory  mention.  It  might  indeed  at  that 
time  have  been  not  improperly  called  a  most 
important  political  institution.  No  Parliament 
had  sat  for  years.  The  municipal  council  of 
the  City  had  ceased  to  speak  the  sense  of  the 
citizens.  Public  meetings,  harangues,  resolu- 
tions, and  the  rest  of  the  modern  machinery  of 
agitation  had  not  yet  come  into  fashion.  Noth- 
ing resembling  the  modern  newspaper  existed. 
In  such  circumstances  the  coffee  houses  were 
the  chief  organs  through  which  the  public 
opinion  of  the  metropolis  vented  itself. 

The  first  of  these  establishments  had  been 
set  up,  in  the  time  of  the  Commonwealth,  by  a 
Turkey  merchant,  who  had  acquired  among  the 
Mahometans  a  taste  for  their  favourite  bever- 
age. The  convenience  of  being  able  to  make 
appointments  in  any  part  of  the  town,  and  of 
being  able  to  pass  evenings  socially  at  a 
very  small  charge,  was  so  great  that  the  fashion 
spread  fast.  Every  man  of  the  upper  or  mid- 
dle class  went  daily  to  his  coffee  house  to  learn 
the  news  and  to  discuss  it.  Every  coffee  house 
had  one  or  more  orators  to  whose  eloquence  the 
crowd  listened  with  admiration,  and  who  soon 
became,  what  the  journalists  of  our  own  time 
have  been  called,  a  fourth  Estate  of  the  realm. 
The   court   had   long   seen   with   uneasiness   the 


54$ 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


growth  of  this  new  power  in  the  state.  An  at- 
tempt had  been  made,  during  Danby'si  admin- 
istration, to  close  the  coifee  houses.  But  men 
of  all  parties  missed  their  usual  places  of  resort 
so  much  that  there  was  an  universal  outcry. 
The  government  did  not  venture,  in  opposition 
to  a  feeling  so  strong  and  general,  to  enforce 
a  regulation  of  which  the  legality  might  well  be 
questioned.  Since  that  time  ten  years  had 
elapsed,  and  during  those  years  the  number  and 
influence  of  the  coffee  houses  had  been  con- 
stantly increasing.  Foreigners  remarked  that 
the  coffee  house  was  that  which  especially  dis- 
tinguished London  from  all  other  cities;  that 
the  coffee  house  was  the  Londoner's  home,  and 
that  those  who  wished  to  find  a  gentleman 
commonly  asked,  not  whether  he  lived  in  Fleet 
Street  or  Chancery  Lane,  but  whether  he  fre- 
quented the  Grecian  or  the  Rainbow.  Nobody 
was  excluded  from  these  places  who  laid  down 
his  penny  at  the  bar.  Yet  every  rank  and  pro- 
fession, and  every  shade  of  religious  and  polit- 
ical opinion,  had  its  own  headquarters.  There 
were  houses  near  Saint  James's  Park  where 
fops  congregated,  their  heads  and  shoulders 
covered  with  black  or  flaxen  wigs,  not  less 
ample  than  those  which  are  now  worn  by  the 
Chancellor  and  by  the  Speaker  of  the  House  of 
Commons.  The  wig  came  from  Paris ;  and  so 
did  the  rest  of  the  fine  gentleman's  ornaments, 
his  embroidered  coat,  his  fringed  gloves,  and 
the  tassel  which  upheld  his  pantaloons.  The 
conversation  was  in  that  dialect  which,  long 
after  it  had  ceased  to  be  spoken  in  fashionable 
circles,  continued,  in  the  mouth  of  Lord  Fop- 
pington,2  to  excite  the  mirth  of  theatres.  The 
atmosphere  was  like  that  of  a  perfumer's  shop. 
Tobacco  in  any  other  form  than  that  of  richly 
scented  snuff  was  held  in  abomination.  If  any 
clown,  ignorant  of  the  usages  of  the  house, 
called  for  a  pipe,  the  sneers  of  the  wiiole  as- 
sembly and  the  short  answers  of  the  waiters 
soon  convinced  him  that  he  had  better  go  some- 
where else.  Nor,  indeed,  would  he  have  had  far 
to  go.  For,  in  general,  the  coffee  rooms  reeked 
with  tobacco  like  a  guard-room ;  and  strangers 
sometimes  expressed  their  surprise  that  so  many 
people  should  leave  their  own  firesides  to  sit  in 
the  midst  of  eternal  fog  and  stench.  Nowhere 
was  the  smoking  more  constant  than  at  Will 's. 
That  celebrated  house,  situated  between  Covent 
Garden  and  Row  Street,  was  sacred  to  polite 
letters.  There  the  talk  was  about  poetical  jus- 
tice and  the  unities  of  place  and  time.     There 

1  Thomns  Oshorn,  T.orrt  Trpnsnror  under  Charlos  IT. 
«A  cliaractfT   in   Vniil»niKl>'H   'I'hr  KtlaitHf.     Ah  an 

cxaiuph-    of    tl»«'    dialect    Macaulay    gives    the 

word  Ixtrd,  pronounced  Lard. 


was  a  faction  for  Perrault  and  the  moderns, 
a  faction  for  Boileau  and  the  ancients.3  One 
group  debated  whether  Paradise  Lost  ought  not 
to  have  been  in  rhyme.  To  another  an  envious 
poetaster  demonstrated  that  Venice  Preserved* 
ought  to  have  been  hooted  from  the  stage.  Un- 
der no  roof  was  a  greater  variety  of  figures  to 
be  seen.  There  were  Earls  in  stars  and  garters, 
clergymen  in  cassocks  and  bands,  pert  Tem- 
plars,^* sheepish  lads  from  the  Universities, 
translators  and  index  makers  in  ragged  coats 
of  frieze.  The  great  press  was  to  get  near  the 
chair  where  .John  Dryden  sat.  In  winter  that 
chair  was  always  in  the  warmest  nook  by  the 
fire;  in  summer  it  stood  in  the  balcony.  To 
bow  to  the  Laureate,  and  to  hear  his  opinion 
of  Racine's  last  tragedy  or  of  Bossu's  treatise 
on  epic  poetry,  was  thought  a  privilege.  A 
pinch  from  his  snuff-box  was  an  honour  suffi- 
cient to  turn  the  head  of  a  young  enthusiast. 
There  were  coffee  houses  where  the  first  medical 
men  might  be  consulted.  Doctor  John  Radcliffe, 
who,  in  the  year  1685,  rose  to  the  largest  prac- 
tice in  London,  came  daily,  at  the  hour  wnen 
the  Exchange  was  full,  from  his  house  in  Bow 
Street,  then  a  fashionable  part  of  the  capital, 
to  Garraway's,  and  was  to  be  found,  sur 
rounded  by  surgeons  and  apothecaries,  at  a 
particular  table.  There  were  Puritan  coffee 
houses  where  no  oath  was  heard,  and  wliere 
lank-haired  men  discussed  election  and  repro- 
bation through  their  noses;  Jew  coffee  houses 
where  dark  eyed  money  changers  from  Venice 
and  from  Amsterdam  greeted  each  other;  and 
Popish  coffee  houses  where,  as  good  Protestants 
believed,  Jesuits  planned,  over  their  cups,  an- 
other great  fire,  and  cast  silver  bullets  to  shoot 
the  King. 

These  gregarious  habits  had  no  small  share 
in  forming  the  character  of  the  Londoner  of 
that  age.  He  was,  indeed,  a  different  being 
from  the  rustic  Englishman.  There  was  not 
then  the  intercourse  which  now  exists  between 
the  two  classes.  Only  very  great  men  were  in 
the  habit  of  dividing  the  year  between  town 
and  country.  Few  esquires  came  to  the  capital 
thrice  in  their  lives.  Nor  was  it  yet  the  prac- 
tice of  all  citizens  in  easy  circumstances  to 
breathe  the  fresh  air  of  the  fields  and  woods 
during  some  weeks  of  every  summer.  A  cock- 
ney, in  a  rural  village,  was  staretl  at  as  much 
as  if  he  had  intruded  into  a  Kraal  of  Hotten- 


s  Between  Perrnnlt  and  Bollenu.  two  members  of 
the  French  Academy,  arose  about  1087  a 
famoiiH  quarrel  over  the  respective  merits  of 
modern  and  ancient  literature. 

*  Hy  Thomas  Otway,  a  contemporary  dramatist. 

s  Htudents  or  lawyers  residing  in  the  Temple. 


THOMAS  BABINGTON,  LORD  MACAULAY 


543 


tots.  On  the  other  hand,  when  the  Lord  of  a 
Lincolnshire  or  Shropshire  manor  appeared  in 
Fleet  Street,  he  was  as  easily  distinguished 
from  the  resident  population  as  a  Turk  or  a 
Lascar.  His  dress,  his  gait,  his  accent,  the 
manner  in  which  he  stareii  at  the  shops,  stum- 
bled into  the  gutters,  ran  against  the  porters, 
and  stood  under  the  water  spouts,  marked  him 
out  as  an  excellent  subject  for  the  operations 
of  swindlers  and  banterers.  Bullies  jostled  him 
into  the  kennel.  Hackney  coachmen  splashed 
him  from  head  to  foot.  Thieves  explored 
with  perfect  security  the  huge  pockets  of 
his  horseman's  coat,  while  he  stood  en- 
tranced by  the  splendour  of  the  Lord  Mayor's 
show.  Moneydroj)pers,6  sore  from  the  cart 's 
tail,^  introduced  themselves  to  him,  and  appeared 
to  him  the  most  honest,  friendly  gentlemen  that 
he  had  ever  seen.  Painted  women,  the  refuse 
of  Lewkner  Lane  and  Whetstone  Park,  passed 
themselves  on  him  for  countesses  and  maids  of 
honour.  If  he  asked  his  way  to  Saint  James 's,8 
his  informants  sent  him  to  Mile  End.9  If  he 
went  into  a  shop,  he  was  instantly  discerned  to 
be  a  fit  purchaser  of  everything  that  nobody 
else  would  buy,  of  secondhand  embroidery,  cop- 
per rings,  and  watches  that  would  not  go.  If 
he  rambled  into  any  fashionable  coffee  house, 
he  became  a  mark  for  the  insolent  derision  of 
fops  and  the  grave  waggery  of  Templars.  En- 
raged and  mortified,  he  soon  returned  to  his 
mansion,  and  there,  in  the  homage  of  his  ten- 
ants, and  the  conversation  of  his  boon  com- 
panions, found  consolation  for  the  vexations 
and  humiliations  which  he  had  undergone. 
There  he  was  once  more  a  great  man,  and  saw 
nothing  above  himself  except  when  at  the 
assizes  he  took  his  seat  on  the  bench  near  the 
Judge,  or  when  at  the  muster  of  the  militia  he 
saluted  the  Lord  Lieutenant. 


The  Battle  of  Killiecrankie.    From  Chap- 
ter XIII* 

While  these  things  were  passing  in  the  Par- 
liament House,  the  civil  war  in  the  Highlands, 
having   been    during   a    few    weeks   suspended, 

6  Confidence  men  who  7  Offenders  were  tied  to 
drop      money     and  the   end   of   a   cart 

pretend    to    find    It  and      whipped 

for     purposes    o  f  through  the  streets, 

fraud.  8  In   West  London. 

9  In  East  London. 

*  The  events  here  described  took  place  in  .Tnly, 
1689.  during  the  English  Revolution.  .Tames 
the  Second  had  lately  been  deposed,  but  the 
success  of  the  party  of  William  was  still  in 
doubt.  In  Scotland.  William  was  supported 
by  the  parliament  at  Edinburgh  and  had  a 
l)ody  of  troops  commanded  by  General  Mackay. 
On  the   other   hand,   .John   Graham  of  Claver- 


broke  forth  again  more  violently  than  before. 
Since  the  splendour  of  the  House  of  Argylei 
had  been  eclipsed,  no  Gaelic  chief  could  vie  in 
power  with  the  Marquess  of  Athol.  The  dis- 
trict from  which  he  took  his  title,  and  of  which 
he  might  almost  be  called  the  sovereign,  was  in 
extent  larger  than  an  ordinary  county,  and  was 
more  fertile,  more  diligently  cultivated,  and 
more  thickly  peopled  than  the  greater  part  of 
the  Highlands.  The  men  who  followed  his 
banner  were  supposed  to  be  not  less  numerous 
than  all  the  Macdonalds  and  Macleans  united, 
and  were,  in  strength  and  courage,  inferior  to 
no  tribe  in  the  mountains.  But  the  clan  had 
been  made  insignificant  by  the  insignificance  of 
the  chief.  The  Marquess  was  the  falsest,  the 
most  fickle,  the  most  pusillanimous,  of  mankind. 
Already,  in  the  short  space  of  six  months,  he 
had  been  several  times  a  Jacobite,  and  several 
times  a  Williamite.  Both  Jacobites  and  Will- 
iamites  regarded  him  with  contempt  and  dis- 
trust, which  respect  for  his  immense  power 
prevented  them  from  fully  expressing.  After 
repeatedly  vowing  fidelity  to  both  parties,  and 
repeatedly  betraying  both,  he  began  to  think 
that  he  should  best  provide  for  his  safety  by 
abdicating  the  functions  both  of  a  peer  and  of 
a  chieftain,  by  absenting  himself  both  from 
the  Parliament  House  at  Edinburgh  and  from 
his  castle  in  the  mountains,  and  by  quitting 
the  country  to  which  he  was  bound  by  every 
tie  of  duty  and  honour  at  the  very  crisis  of 
her  fate.  While  all  Scotland  was  waiting  with 
impatience  and  anxiety  to  see  in  which  army 
his  numerous  retainers  would  be  arrayed,  he 
stole  away  to  England,  settled  himself  at  Bath, 
and  pretended  to  drink  the  waters.  His  prin- 
cipality, left  without  a  head,  was  divided 
against  itself.  The  general  leaning  of  the 
Athol  men  was  towards  King  James.  For  they 
had  been  employed  by  him,  only  four  years  be- 
fore, as  the  ministers  of  his  vengeance  against 
the  House  of  Argyle.  They  had  garrisoned 
Inverary:  they  had  ravaged  Lorn:  they  had 
demolished  houses,  cut  down  fruit  trees,  burned 
fishing  boats,  broken  millstones,  hanged  Camp- 
bells, and  were  therefore  not  likely  to  be 
pleased  by  the  prospect  of  MacCallum  More's2 
restoration.      One    word    from    the    Marquess 

1  The    Campbells.     The   last    Earl    of   Argyle    had 

been  executed  for  participating  in  Monmouth's 
rising  against  .Tames. 

2  A  name  given  to  the  Dtikes  and  Earls  of  Argyle. 
."!  broadswords 


house.  Viscount  Dundee,  had  gathered  about 
him  his  own  Lowland  adherents  and  a  con- 
siderable force  of  Highland  clansmen  who  sup- 
ported James.  Compare  Scott's  poem.  Bonny 
Dundee,  p.  448. 


644 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


would  have  sent  two  thousand  claymoress  to  the 
Jacobite  side.  But  that  word  he  would  not 
speak;  and  tlie  consequence  was,  that  the  con- 
duct of  his  followers  was  as  irresolute  and  in- 
consistent as  his  own. 

While  they  were  waiting  for  some  indica- 
tion of  his  wishes,  they  were  called  to  arms  at 
once  by  two  leaders,  either  of  whom  might, 
with  some  show  of  reason,  claim  to  be  con- 
sidered as  the  representative  of  the  absent 
chief.  Lord  Murray,  the  Marquess's  eldest  son, 
who  was  married  to  a  daughter  of  the  Duke 
of  Hamilton,  declared  for  King  William. 
Stewart  of  Ballenach,  the  Marquess's  confiden- 
tial agent,  declared  for  King  James.  The 
people  knew  not  which  summons  to  obey.  He 
whose  authority  would  have  been  held  in  pro- 
found reverence,  had  plighted  faith  to  both 
sides,  and  had  then  run  away  for  fear  of 
being  under  the  necessity  of  joining  either; 
nor  was  it  very  easy  to  say  whether  the  place 
which  he  had  left  vacant  belonged  to  his  steward 
or  to  his  heir  apparent. 

The  most  important  military  post  in  Athol 
was  Blair  Castle.  The  house  which  now  bears 
that  name  is  not  distinguished  by  any  striking 
peculiarity  from  other  country  seats  of  the 
aristocracy.  The  old  building  was  a  lofty  tower 
of  rude  architecture  which  commanded  a  vale 
watered  by  the  Garry.  The  walls  would  have 
offered  very  little  resistance  to  a  battering 
train,  but  were  quite  strong  enough  to  keep  the 
herdsmen  of  the  Grampians*  in  awe.  About 
five  miles  south  of  this  stronghold,  the  valley 
of  the  Garry  contracts  itself  into  the  celebrated 
glen  of  Killiecrankie.  At  present  a  highway 
as  smooth  as  any  road  in  Middlesex''  ascends 
gently  from  the  low  country  to  the  summit  of 
the  defile.  White  villas  peep  from  the  birch 
forest;  and,  on  a  fine  summer  day,  there  is 
scarcely  a  turn  of  the  pass  at  which  may  not 
be  seen  some  angler  casting  his  fly  on  the  foam 
of  the  river,  some  artist  sketching  a  pinnacle 
of  rock,  or  some  party  of  pleasure  banqueting 
on  the  turf  in  the  fretwork  of  shade  and  sun- 
shine. But,  in  the  days  of  William  the  Third, 
Killiecrankie  was  mentioned  with  horror  by 
the  peaceful  and  industrious  inhabitants  of 
the  Perthshire  lowlands.  It  was  deemed  the 
most  perilous  of  all  those  dark  ravines  through 
which  the  marauders  of  the  hills  were  wont  to 
sally  forth.  The  sound,  so  musical  to  modern 
ears,  of  the  river  brawling  round  the  mossy 
rocks  and  among  the  smooth  pebbles,  the  masses 
of  grey  crag  and  verdure  worthy  of  the  pencil 

4  A  monntnln  system  In  Scotland, 
s  An  KnKlish  county  which  then  included  a  great 
part  of  the  metropolis  of  London. 


of  Wilson,6  the  fantastic  peaks  bathed,  at  sun- 
rise and  sunset,  with  light  rich  as  that  which 
glows  on  the  canvass  of  Claude,"  suggested  to 
our  ancestors  thoughts  of  murderous  ambus- 
cades and  of  bodies  stripped,  gashed,  and  aban- 
doned to  the  birds  of  prey.  The  only  path  was 
narrow  and  rugged:  a  horse  could  with  diffi- 
culty be  led  up:  two  men  could  hardly  walk 
abreast;  and,  in  some  places,  the  way  ran  so 
close  by  the  precipice  that  the  traveller  had 
great  need  of  a  steady  eye  and  foot.  Many 
years  later,  the  first  Duke  of  Athol  constructed 
a  road  up  which  it  was  just  possible  to  drag  his 
coach.  But  even  that  road  was  so  steep  an  1  so 
strait  that  a  handful  of  resolute  men  might 
have  defended  it  against  an  army;  nor  did 
any  Saxons  consider  a  visit  to  Killiecrankie 
as  a  pleasure,  till  experience  had  taught  the 
English  Government  that  the  weapons  by  which 
the  Celtic  clans  could  be  most  effectually  sub- 
dued were  the  pickaxe  and  the  spade. 

The  country  which  lay  just  above  this  pass 
was  now  the  theatre  of  a  war  such  as  the  High- 
lands had  not  often  witnessed.  Men  wearing 
the  same  tartan,  and  attached  to  the  same  lord, 
were  arrayed  against  each  other.  The  name  of 
the  absent  chief  was  used,  with  some  show  of 
reason,  on  both  sides.  Ballenach,  at  the  head 
of  a  body  of  vassals  who  considered  him  as  the 
representative  of  the  Marquess,  occupied  Blair 
Castle.  Murray,  with  twelve  hundred  followers, 
appeared  before  the  walls  and  demanded  to  be 
admitted  into  the  mansion  of  his  family,  the 
mansion  which  would  one  day  be  his  own.  The 
garrison  refused  to  open  the  gates.  Messages 
were  sent  off  by  tlie  besiegers  to  Edinburgh, 
and  by  the  besieged  to  Lochaber.o  In  both 
places  the  tidings  produced  great  agitation. 
Mackay  and  Dundee  agreed  in  thinking  that  the 
crisis  required  prompt  and  strenuous  exertion.* 
On  the  fate  of  Blair  Castle  probably  depended 
the  fate  of  all  Athol.  On  the  fate  of  Athol 
might  depend  the  fate  of  Scotland.  Mackay 
hastened  northward,  and  ordered  his  troops  to 
assemble  in  the  low  country  of  Perthshire.  Some 
of  them  were  quartered  at  such  a  distance  that 
they  did  not  arrive  in  time.  He  soon,  however, 
had  with  him  the  three  Scotch  regiments  which 
lad  served  in  Holland,  and  which  bore  the  names 
of  their  Colonels,  Mackay  himself,  Balfour,  and 
Ramsay.  There  was  also  a  gallant  regiment  of 
infantry  from  England,  then  called  Hastings's, 


e  Richard  Wilson,  EnKllwh  Inndacape  painter. 

7  Claude  Lorrain,  French  landscape  painter. 

8  An  EnKlishman  or  Lowlander,  as  opposed  to  the 

IliKhlanders,  who  are  Celts. 
0  Mackay  was  at  Edinburgh,  Dundee  in  the  district 
of  Loch.iber. 


THOMAS  BABIXGTOX,  LOKD  MACAULAY 


545 


but  now  known  as  the  thirteenth  of  the  line. 
With  these  old  troops  were  joined  two  regi- 
ments newly  levied  in  the  Lowlands.  One  of 
them  was  commanded  by  Lord  Kenmore;  the 
other,  which  had  been  raised  on  the  Border,  and 
which  is  still  styled  the  King's  Own  Borderers, 
by  Lord  Leven.  Two  troops  of  horse,  Lord 
Annandale's  and  Lord  Belhaven's,  probably 
made  up  the  army  to  the  number  of  above  three 
thousand  men.  Belhaven  rode  at  the  head  of 
his  troop:  but  Annandale,  the  most  factious 
of  all  Montgomery's  followers,  preferred  the 
Club  and  the  Parliament  House  to  the  field.* 

Dundee,  meanwhile,  had  summoned  all  the 
clans  which  acknowledged  his  commission  to 
assemble  for  an  expedition  into  Athol.  His 
exertions  were  strenuously  seconded  by  Loch- 
iel.io  The  fiery  crosses^  were  sent  again  in 
all  haste  through  Appin  and  Ardnamurchan,  up 
Glenmore,  and  along  Loch  Leven.  But  the  call 
•was  so  unexpected,  and  the  time  allowed  was  so 
short,  that  the  muster  was  not  a  very  full  one. 
The  whole  number  of  broadswords  seems  to  have 
been  under  three  thousand.  With  this  force, 
such  as  it  was,  Dundee  set  forth.  On  his 
march  he  was  joined  by  succours  which  had  just 
arrived  from  Ulster.  They  consisted  of  little 
more  than  three  hundred  Irish  foot,  ill  armed, 
ill  clothed,  and  ill  disciplined.  Their  commander 
was  an  officer  named  Cannon,  who  had  seen 
service  in  the  ^Netherlands,  and  who  might  per- 
haps have  acquitted  himself  well  in  a  subor- 
dinate post  and  in  a  regular  army,  but  who 
was  altogether  unequal  to  the  part  now  assigned 
him.  He  had  already  loitered  among  the 
Hebrides  so  long  that  some  ships  which  had 
been  sent  with  him,  and  which  were  laden  with 
stores,  had  been  taken  by  English  cruisers.  He 
and  his  soldiers  had  with  difficulty  escaped  the 
same  fate.  Incompetent  as  he  was,  he  bore  a 
commission  which  gave  him  military  rank  in 
Scotland  next  to  Dundee. 

The  disappointment  was  severe.  In  truth 
James  would  have  done  better  to  withhold  all 
assistance  from  the  Highlanders  than  to  mock 
them  by  sending  them,  instead  of  the  well  ap- 
pointed army  which  they  had  asked  and  ex- 
pected, a  rabble  contemptible  in  numbers  and 
appearance.  It  was  now  evident  that  whatever 
was  done  for  his  cause  in  Scotland  must  be 
done  by  Scottish  hands. 

While  Mackay  from  one  side,  and  Dundee 
from  the  other,  were  advancing  towards  Blair 


10  Sir  Ewan  Cameron  ii  The  signal  for  a  gath- 
of   Lochiel.  erlng. 

*  Sir  .Tamos  Montgomery,  a  malcontent  scheming 
for  office,  had  formed  a  clul)  at  Edinburgh  to 
concert  plans  of  secret  opposition  to  the- king. 


1  Castle,  important  events  had  taken  place  there. 
j  Murray's  adherents  soon  began  to  waver  in 
their  fidelity  to  him.  They  had  an  old  antipathy 
to  Whigs;  for  they  considered  the  name  of 
Whig  as  synonymous  with  the  name  of  Camp- 
bell. They  saw  arrayed  against  them  a  large 
number  of  their  kinsmen,  commanded  by  a  gen- 
tleman who  was  supposed  to  possess  the  confi- 
dence of  the  Marquess.  The  besieging  army 
therefore  melted  rapidly  away.  Many  returned 
home  on  the  plea  that,  as  their  neighbourhood 
was  about  to  be  the  seat  of  war,  they  must 
place  their  families  and  cattle  in  security. 
Others  more  ingenuously  declared  that  they 
would  not  fight  in  such  a  quarrel.  One  large 
body  went  to  a  brook,  filled  their  bonnets  with 
water,  drank  a  health  to  King  James,  and  then 
dispersed.  Their  zeal  for  King  James,  how- 
ever did  not  induce  them  to  join  the  standard 
of  his  general.  They  lurked  among  the  rocks 
and  thickets  which  overhang  the  Garry,  in  the 
hope  that  there  would  soon  be  a  battle,  and 
that,  whatever  might  be  the  event,  there  would 
be  fugitives  and  corpses  to  plunder. 

Murray  was  in  a  strait.  His  force  had 
dwindled  to  three  or  four  hundred  men:  even 
in  those  men  he  could  put  little  trust;  and  the 
Macdonalds  and  Camerons  were  advancing  fast. 
He  therefore  raised  the  siege  of  Blair  Castle, 
and  retired  with  a  few  followers  into  the  defile 
of  Killiecrankie.  There  he  was  soon  joined  by 
a  detachment  of  two  hundred  fusileers  whom 
Mackay  had  sent  forward  to  secure  the  pass. 
The  main  body  of  the  Lowland  army  speedily 
followed. 

Early  in  the  morning  of  Saturday  the  twenty- 
seventh  of  July,  Dundee  arrived  at  Blair  Cas- 
tle. There  he  learned  that  Mackay 's  troops 
were  already  in  the  ravine  of  Killiecrankie.  It 
was  necessary  to  come  to  a  prompt  decision.  A 
council  of  war  was  held.  The  Saxon  officers 
were  generally  against  hazarding  a  battle.  The 
Celtic  chiefs  were  of  a  different  opinion.  Glen- 
garryi2  and  Lochiel  were  now  both  of  a  mind. 
"Fight,  my  Lord,"  said  Lochiel  with  his  usual 
energy;  "fight  immediately:  fight,  if  you  have 
only  one  to  three.  Our  men  are  in  heart.  Their 
only  fear  is  that  the  enemy  should  escape.  Give 
them  their  way;  and  be  assured  that  they  will 
either  perish  or  gain  a  complete  victory.  But 
if  you  restrain  them,  if  you  force  them  to  re- 
main on  the  defensive,  I  answer  for  nothing. 
If  we  do  not  fight,  we  had  better  break  up  and 
retire  to  our  mountains." 

Dundee's  countenance  brightened.  "You 
hear,    gentlemen,"    he    said    to    his    Lowland 

;2  Macdonald  of  Glengarry,  another  Highland  chief- 
tain. 


546 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


oflScers,  "you  hear  the  opinion  of  one  who 
understands  Highland  war  better  than  any  of 
us."  No  voice  was  raised  on  the  other  side. 
It  was  determined  to  fight;  and  the  confed- 
erated clans  in  high  spirits  set  forward  to  en- 
counter the  enemy. 

The  enemy  meanwhile  had  made  his  way  up 
the  pass.  The  ascent  had  been  long  and  toil- 
some: for  even  the  foot  had  to  climb  by  twos 
and  threes;  and  the  baggage  horses,  twelve  hun- 
dred in  number,  could  mount  only  one  at  a 
time.  No  wheeled  carriage  had  ever  been 
tugged  up  that  arduous  path.  The  head  of  the 
column  had  emerged  and  was  on  the  table  land 
while  the  rearguard  was  still  in  the  plain  below. 
At  length  the  passage  was  effected;  and  the 
troops  found  themselves  in  a  valley  of  no  great 
extent.  Their  right  was  flanked  by  a  rising 
ground,  their  left  by  the  Garry.  Wearied  with 
the  morning 's  work,  they  threw  themselves  on 
the  grass  to  take  some  rest  and  refreshment. 

Early  in  the  afternoon,  they  were  roused  by 
an  alarm  that  the  Highlanders  were  approach- 
ing. Regiment  after  regiment  started  up  and 
got  into  order.  In  a  little  while  the  summit  of 
an  ascent  which  was  about  a  musket  shot  before 
them  was  covered  with  bonnets  and  plaids. 
Dundeeis  rode  forward  for  the  purpose  of  sur- 
veying the  force  with  which  he  was  to  con- 
tend, and  then  drew  up  his  own  men  with  as 
much  skill  as  their  peculiar  character  permitted 
him  to  exert.  It  was  desirable  to  keep  the 
clans  distinct.  Each  tribe,  large  or  small, 
formed  a  column  separated  from  the  next  col- 
umn by  a  wide  interval.  One  of  these  bat- 
talions might  contain  seven  hundred  men,  while 
another  consisted  of  only  a  hundred  and  twenty. 
Lochiel  had  represented  that  it  was  impossible 
to  mix  men  of  different  tribes  without  destroy- 
ing all  that  constituted  the  peculiar  strength 
of  a  Highland  army. 

On  the  right,  close  to  the  Garry,  were  the 
Macleans.  Nearest  to  them  were  Cannon  and 
his  Irish  foot.  Next  stood  the  Macdonalds  of 
Clanronald,  commanded  by  the  guardian  of 
their  young  prince.  On  their  left  were  other 
bands  of  Macdonalds.  At  the  head  of  one 
large  battalion  towered  the  stately  form  of 
Glengarry,  who  bore  in  his  hand  the  royal 
standard  of  King  James  the  Seventh. i*  Still 
further  to  the  left  were  the  cavalry,  a  small 
squadron  consisting  of  some  Jacobite  gentle- 
men who  had  fled  from  the  Lowlands  to  the 
mountains  and  of  about  forty  of  Dundee's  olil 


18  Hero  tlip  narrative 
roturuH  abruptly  to 
the  .Tacoblte  army. 


u  .Tames  Socond  of  Kns- 
land  was  .Tames 
Sevonth  o  f  Scot- 
land. 


troopers.  The  horses  had  been  ill  fed  and  ill 
tended  among  the  Grampians,  and  looked  miser- 
ably lean  and  feeble.  Beyond  them  was  Lochiel 
with  his  Camcrons.  On  the  extreme  left,  the 
men  of  Sky  were  marshalled  by  Macdonald  of 
Sleat. 

In  the  Highlands,  as  in  all  countries  where 
war  has  not  become  a  science,  men  thought  it 
the  most  important  duty  of  a  commander  to 
set  an  example  of  personal  courage  and  of 
bodily  exertion.  Lochiel  was  especially  re- 
nowned for  his  physical  prowess.  His  clans- 
men looked  big  with  pride  when  they  related 
how  he  had  himself  broken  hostile  ranks  and 
hewn  down  tall  warriors.  He  probably  owed 
quite  as  much  of  his  influence  to  these  achieve- 
ments as  to  the  high  qualities  which,  if  fortune 
had  placed  him  in  the  English  Parliament  or 
at  the  French  court,  would  have  made  him  one 
of  the  foremost  men  of  his  age.  He  had  the 
sense  however  to  perceive  how  erroneous  was 
the  notion  which  his  country  men  had  formed. 
He  knew  that  to  give  and  to  take  blows  was 
not  the  business  of  a  general.  He  knew  with 
how  much  difficulty  Dundee  had  been  able  to 
keep  together,  during  a  few  days,  an  army  com- 
posed of  several  clans;  and  he  knew  that  what 
Dundee  had  effected  with  difficulty  Cannon 
would  not  be  able  to  effect  at  all.  The  life 
on  which  so  much  depended  must  not  be  sacri- 
ficed to  a  barbarous  prejudice,  Lochiel  there- 
fore adjured  Dundee  not  to  run  into  any  un- 
necessary danger,  *  *  Your  Lordship 's  busi- 
ness, ' '  he  said,  "is  to  overlook  everything,  and 
to  issue  your  commands.  Our  business  is  to 
execute  those  commands  bravely  and  prompt- 
ly," Dundee  answered  with  calm  magnanimity 
that  there  was  much  weight  in  what  his  friend 
Sir  Ewan  had  urged,  but  that  no  general  could 
effect  anything  great  without  possessing  the 
confidence  of  his  men,  "I  must  establish  my 
character  for  courage.  Your  people  expect  to 
see  their  leaders  in  the  thickest  of  the  battle; 
and  to-day  they  shall  see  me  there.  I  promise 
you,  on  my  honour,  that  in  future  fights  I  will 
take  more  care  of  myself." 

Meanwhile  a  fire  of  musketry  was  kept  up  on 
both  sides,  but  more  skillfully  and  more 
steadily  by  the  regular  soldiers  than  by  the 
mountaineers.  The  space  between  the  armies 
was  one  cloud  of  smoke.  Not  a  few  Highland- 
ers dropped;  and  the  clans  grew  impatient. 
The  sun  however  was  low  in  the  west  before 
Dundee  gave  the  order  to  prepare  for  action. 
His  men  raised  a  great  shout.  The  enemy, 
probably  exhausted  by  the  toil  of  the  day, 
returned  a  feeble  and  wavering  cheer.  "We 
shall  do  it  uow, ' '  said  Lochiel :    ' '  that  is  not 


THOMAS  BABINGTON,  LOED  MACAULAY 


547 


the  cry  of  men  who  are  going  to  win."  He 
had  walked  through  all  his  ranks,  had  addressed 
a  few  words  to  every  Cameron,  and  had  taken 
from  every  Cameron  a  promise  to  conquer  or 
die. 

It  was  past  seven  o'clock.  Dundee  gave  the 
word.  The  Highlanders  dropped  their  plaids. 
The  few  who  were  so  luxurious  as  to  wear 
rude  socks  of  untanncd  hide  spurned  them 
away.  It  was  long  remembered  in  Lochaber 
that  Lochiel  took  off  what  probably  was  the 
only  pair  of  shoes  in  his  clan,  and  charged 
barefoot  at  the  head  of  his  men.  The  whole 
line  advanced  firing.  The  enemy  returned  the 
fire  and  did  much  execution.  When  only  a 
small  space  was  left  between  the  armies,  the 
Highlanders  suddenly  flung  away  their  fire- 
locks, drew  their  broadswords,  and  rushed  for- 
ward with  a  fearful  yell.  The  Lowlanders  pre- 
pared to  receive  tlie  shock:  but  this  was  then 
a  long  and  awkward  process;  and  the  soldiers 
were  still  fumbling  with  the  muzzles  of  their 
guns  and  the  handles  of  their  bayonets  when 
the  whole  flood  of  Macleans,  Macdonalds,  and 
Camerons  came  down.  In  two  minutes  the 
battle  was  lost  and  won.  The  ranks  of  Bal- 
four 's  regiment  broke.  He  was  cloven  down 
while  struggling  in  the  press.  Kamsey  's  men 
turned  their  backs  and  dropped  their  arms. 
Mackay's  own  foot  were  swept  away  by  the 
furious  onset  of  the  Camerons.  His  brother 
and  nephew  exerted  themselves  in  vain  to  rally 
the  men.  The  former  was  laid  dead  on  the 
ground  by  a  stroke  from  a  claymore.  The  lat- 
ter, with  eight  wounds  on  his  body,  made  his 
way  through  the  tumult  and  carnage  to  his 
uncle 's  side.  Even  in  that  extremity  Mackay 
retained  all  his  self-possession.  He  had  still 
one  hope.  A  charge  of  horse  might  recover  the 
day!  for  of  horse  the  bravest  Highlanders  were 
supposed  to  stand  in  awe.  But  he  called  on 
the  horse  in  vain.  Belhaven  indeed  behaved 
like  a  gallant  gentleman :  but  his  troopers,  ap- 
palled by  the  rout  of  the  infantry,  galloped 
off  in  disorder ;  Annandale  's  men  followed :  all 
was  over;  and  the  mingled  torrent  of  redcoats 
and  tartans  went  raving  down  the  valley  to 
the  gorge  of  Killiecrankie. 

Mackay,  accompanied  by  one  trusty  servant, 
spurred  bravely  through  the  thickest  of  the 
claymores  and  targets,  and  reached  a  point 
from  which  he  had  a  view  of  the  field.  His 
whole  army  had  disappeared,  with  the  exception 
of  some  Borderers  whom  Levea  had  kept  to- 


gether, and  of  the  English  regiment,  which  had 
poured  a  murderous  fire  into  the  Celtic  ranks, 
and  which  still  kept  unbroken  order.  All  the 
men  that  could  be  collected  were  only  a  few 
hundreds.  The  general  made  haste  to  lead 
them  across  the  Garry,  and,  having  put  that 
river  between  them  and  the  enemy,  paused  for 
a  moment  to  meditate  on  his  situation. 

He  could  hardly  understand  how  the  con- 
querors could  be  so  unwise  as  to  allow  him 
even  that  moment  for  deliberation.  They 
might  with  ease  have  killed  or  taken  all  who 
were  with  him  before  the  night  closed  in.  But 
the  energy  of  the  Celtic  warriors  had  spent 
itself  in  one  furious  rush  and  one  short  strug- 
gle. The  pass  was  choked  by  the  twelve  hun- 
dred beasts  of  burden  which  carried  the  provi- 
sions and  baggage  of  the  vanquished  army. 
Such  a  booty  was  irresistibly  tempting  to  men 
W'ho  were  impelled  to  war  quite  as  much  by  the 
desire  of  rapine  as  by  the  desire  of  glory.  It 
is  probable  that  few  even  of  the  chiefs  were 
disposed  to  leave  so  rich  a  prize  for  the  sake 
of  King  James.  Dundee  himself  might  at  that 
moment  have  been  unable  to  persuade  his  fol- 
lowers to  quit  the  heaps  of  spoil,  and  to  com- 
plete the  great  work  of  the  day;  and  Dundee 
was  no  more. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  action  he  had  taken 
his  place  in  front  of  his  little  band  of  cavalry. 
He  bade  them  follow  him.  and  rode  forward. 
But  it  seemed  to  be  decreed  that,  on  that  day, 
the  Lowland  Scotch  should  in  both  armies 
appear  to  disadvantage.  The  horse  hesitated. 
Dundee  turned  round,  stood  up  in  his  stirrups, 
and,  waving  his  hat,  invited  them  to  come  on. 
As  he  lifted  his  arm,  his  cuirass  rose,  and  ex- 
posed the  lower  part  of  his  left  side.  A  mus- 
ket ball  struck  him:  his  horse  sprang  forward 
and  plunged  into  a  cloud  of  smoke  and  dust, 
which  hid  from  both  armies  the  fall  of  the  vic- 
torious general.  A  person  named  Johnstone 
was  near  him  and  caught  him  as  he  sank  down 
from  the  saddle.  "How  goes  the  day?"  said 
Dundee.  ' '  Well  for  King  James ; ' '  answered 
Johnstone:  "but  I  am  sorry  for  Your  Lord- 
ship." "If  it  is  well  for  him,"  answered  the 
dying  man,  ' '  it  matters  the  less  for  me. ' '  He 
never  spoke  again :  but  when,  half  an  hour 
later,  Lord  Dunfermline  and  some  other  friends 
came  to  the  spot,  they  thought  that  they  could 
still  discern  some  faint  remains  of  life.  The 
body  wrapped  in  two  plaids,  was  carried  to  the 
Castle  of  Blair. 


648 


THE  VICTOKIAN  AGE 


JOHN  HENRY.  CARDINAL 
NEWMAN  (1801-1890) 

SITE  OF  A  UNIVEESITYt 
If  we  would  know  what  a  University  is,  con- 
sidered in  its  elementary  idea,  we  must  betake 
ourselves  to  the  first  and  most  celebrated  home 
of  European  literature  and  source  of  European 
civilization,  to  the  bright  and  beautiful  Athens, 
— Athens,  whose  schools  drew  to  her  bosom,  and 
then  sent  back  again  to  the  business  of  life  the 
youth  of  the  Western  World  for  a  long  thou- 
sand years.  Seated  on  the  verge  of  the  conti- 
nent, the  city  seemed  hardly  suited  for  the 
duties  of  a  central  metropolis  of  knowledge; 
yet,  what  it  lost  in  convenience  of  approach,  it 
gained  in  its  ncighbourhoojl  to  the  traditions 
of  the  mysterious  East,  and  in  the  loveliness 
of  the  region  in  which  it  lay.  Hither,  then, 
as  to  a  sort  of  ideal  land,  where  all  archetypes 
of  the  great  and  the  fair  were  found  in  sub- 
stantial being,  and  all  departments  of  truth  ex- 
plored, and  all  diversities  of  intellectual  power 
exhibited,  where  taste  and  philosophy  were 
majestically  enthroned  as  in  a  royal  court, 
where  there  was  no  sovereignty  but  that  of 
mind,  and  no  nobility  but  that  of  genius,  where 
professors  were  rulers,  and  princes  did  hom- 
age, hither  flocked  continually  from  the  very 
corners  of  the  orbis  terrarum,^  the  many- 
tongued  generation,  just  rising,  or  just  risen 
into  manhood,  in  order  to  gain  wisdom. 

Pisistratust  had  in  an  early  age  discovered 
and  nursed  the  infant  genius  of  his  people, 
and  Cimon,  after  the  Persian  war,2  had  given 
it  a  home.  That  war  had  established  the  naval 
supremacy  of  Athens;  she  had  become  an  im- 
perial state;  and  the  Ionians,3  bound  to  her  by 
the  double  chain  of  kindred  and  of  subjection, 
were  importing  into  her  both  their  merchan- 
dise and  their  civilization.  The  arts  and  phil- 
osophy of  the  Asiatic  coast  were  easily  carried 
across  the  sea,  and  there  was  Cimon,  as  I  have 
said,  with  his  ample  fortune,  ready  to  receive 

1  the  world 

2  B.  C.  500-449.     Cimon,  having  signally  defeated 

the  Persians  in  466  B.  C,  made  liberal  use  of 
his  spoils  In  ariornlng  Athens. 

3  Greeks  of  Asia  Minor. 

t  From  The  Rine  and  Progress  of  Vniveraitics, 
originally  piibliBhed  In  1854.  Newman's  large 
purpose,  In  this  and  his  related  works,  of  set- 
ting forth  an  ideal  of  University  life  and 
trnlning,  cannot  be  conveyed  in  an  extract; 
but  the  present  selection  may  afford  some  hint 
of  It,  besides  exemplifying  the  author's  im- 
agination and  rhetoric  in  their  more  gracious 
aspeets. 

X  A  niler  of  Athens  in  the  sixth  century  B.  C, 
who  established  the  groves  and  gymnasium 
known  as  the  Lyceum,  and  who  is  said  to 
have  commissioned  a  body  of  scholars  to  col- 
lect and  write  down  the  poems  of  Homer. 


them  with  due  honours.  Not  content  with 
patronizing  their  professors,  he  built  the  first 
of  tliose  noble  porticos,§  of  which  we  hear  so 
much  in  Athens,  and  he  formed  the  groves, 
which  in  process  of  time  became  the  celebrated 
Academy.  Planting  is  one  of  the  most  grace- 
ful, as  in  Athens  it  was  one  of  the  most  benefi- 
cent, of  employments.  Cimon  took  in  hand  the 
wild  wood,  pruned  and  dressed  it,  and  laid  it 
out  with  handsome  walks  and  welcome  foun- 
tains. Nor,  while  hospitable  to  the  authors  of 
the  city's  civilization,  was  he  ungrateful  to  the 
instruments  of  her  prosperity.  His  trees  ex- 
tended their  cool,  umbrageous  branches  over  the 
merchants,  who  assembled  in  the  Agora,^  for 
many  generations. 

Those  merchants  certainly  had  deserved  that 
act  of  bounty;  for  all  the  while  their  ships  had 
been  carrying  forth  the  intellectual  fame  of 
Atliens  to  the  western  world.  Then  commenced 
what  may  be  called  her  University  existence. 
Pericles,  who  succeeded  Cimon  both  in  the  gov- 
ernment and  in  the  patronage  of  art,  is  said  by 
Plutarch  to  have  entertained  the  idea  of  mak- 
ing Athens  the  capital  of  federated  Greece:  in 
this  he  failed,  but  his  encouragement  of  such 
men  as  Phidias^  and  Anaxagorass  led  the  way 
to  her  acquiring  a  far  more  lasting  sovereignty 
over  a  far  wider  empire.  Little  understand- 
ing the  sources  of  her  own  greatness,  Athens 
would  go  to  war ;  peace  is  the  interest  of  a  scat 
of  commerce  and  the  arts;  but  to  war  she 
went;  yet  to  her,  whether  peace  or  war,  it  mat- 
tered not.  The  political  power  of  Athens  waned 
and  disappeared;  kingdoms  rose  and  fell;  cen- 
turies rolled  away, — they  did  but  bring  fresh 
triumphs  to  the  city  of  the  poet  and  the  sage. 
There  at  length  the  swarthy  Moor  and  Span- 
iard were  seen  to  meet  the  blue-eyed  Gaul;  and 
the  Cappadocian,  late  subject  of  Mithridates, 
gazed  without  alarm  at  the  haughty  conquer- 
ing Roman.*  Revolution  after  revolution 
passed  over  the  face  of  Europe,  as  well  as  of 
Greece,  but  still  she  was  there, — Athens,  the 
city  of  mind, — as  radiant,  as  splendid,  as  deli- 
cate, as  young,  as  ever  she  had  been. 

Many  a  more  fruitful  coast  or  isle  is  washed 

4  The  Market,  or  Exchange. 

•1  Sculptor  of  the  frieze  of  the  Parthenon,  etc. 

6  A  philosopher. 

!  Porches,  or  Independent  covered  walks,  often 
built  In  magnificent  style,  and  used  as  out- 
door resorts  for  conversation,  study,  or  pleas- 
ure. In  the  .Vcadciny.  mentioned  Just  below, 
Plato  taught  for  nearly  lifty  years. 

*  After  the  death  of  MItbrldntes,  a  iwwerful  enemy 
of  the  Romans,  Cappadocla  passed  into  Roman 
control.  The  signiflcance  of  tlie  passage  is 
that  Athens  was  at  the  center  of  the  great 
conflicts  of  races — of  the  South  against  the 
North,  and  the  East  against  the  West. 


JOHN  HENRY,  CARDINAL  NEWMAN 


549 


by  the  blue  .Egeau,  many  a  spot  is  there  more 
beautiful  or  sublime  to  see,  many  a  territory 
more  ample;  but  there  was  one  charm  in  Attica, 
which,  in  the  same  perfection,  was  nowhere  else. 
The  deep  pastures  of  Arcadia,  the  plain  of 
Argos,  the  Thessalian  vale,  these  had  not  the 
gift ;  Ba?otia,  which  lay  to  its  immediate  north, 
was  notorious  for  its  very  want  of  it.  The 
heavy  atmosphere  of  that  Boeotia  might  be  good 
for  vegetation,  but  it  was  associated  in  popular 
belief  with  the  duluess  of  the  Boeotian  intel- 
lect :t  on  the  contrary,  the  special  purity,  elas- 
ticity, clearness,  and  salubrity  of  the  air  of 
Attica,  fit  concomitant  and  emblem  of  its 
genius,  did  that  for  it  which  earth  did  not; — 
it  brought  out  every  bright  hue  and  tender 
shade  of  the  landscape  over  which  it  was 
spread,  and  would  have  illuminated  the  face  of 
even  a  more  bare  and  rugged  country. 

A  confined  triangle,  perhaps  fifty  miles  its 
greatest  length,  and  thirty  its  greatest  breadth; 
two  elevated  rocky  barriers,  meeting  at  an 
angle;  three  prominent  mountains,  command- 
ing the  plain, — Parnes,  Pentelicus,  and  Hymet- 
tus;  an  unsatisfactory  soil;  some  streams,  not 
always  full; — such  is  about  the  report  which 
the  agent  of  a  London  company  would  have 
made  of  Attica.  He  would  report  that  the 
climate  wa.s  mild;  the  hills  were  limestone; 
there  was  plenty  of  good  marble;  more  pasture 
land  than  at  first  survey  might  have  been  ex- 
pected, sufficient  certainly  for  sheep  and 
goats;  fisheries  productive;  silver  mines  once, 
but  long  since  worked  out;  figs  fair;  oil  first- 
rate;  olives  in  profusion.  But  what  he  would 
not  think  of  noting  down,  was,  that  the  olive 
tree  was  so  choice  in  nature  and  so  noble  in 
shape  that  it  excited  a  religious  veneration;  and 
that  it  took  so  kindly  to  the  light  soil,  as  to 
expand  into  woods  upon  the  open  plain,  and  to 
climb  up  and  fringe  the  hills.  He  would  not 
think  of  writing  word  to  his  employers,  how 
that  clear  air,  of  which  I  have  spoken,  brought 
out,  yet  blended  and  subdued,  the  colours  on 
the  marble,  till  they  had  a  softness  and  har- 
mony, for  all  their  richness,  which  in  a  picture 
looks  exaggerated,  yet  is  after  all  within  the 
truth.  He  would  not  tell,  how  that  same  deli- 
cate and  brilliant  atmosphere  freshened  up  the 
pale  olive,  till  the  olive  forgot  its  monotony, 
and  its  cheek  glowed  like  the  arbutusi  or  beech 
of  tiie  Umbrian  hills.2  He  would  say  nothing 
of  the  thyme  and  the  thousand  fragrant  herbs 
which  carpeted  Hymettus;  he  would  hear  uoth- 

1  strawberry-tree,    ma-       ^  In  Italy, 
drona 

t  "As  the  nimble  Attics  would  say,  a  glorious  cli- 
mate for  eels,  but  a  bad  air  for  brains."-  -15. 
I..  Gildorsloeve.     Yrt  I'indar  was  a  Boeotiau, 


ing  of  the  hum  of  its  bees;  nor  take  much 
account  of  the  rare  flavour  of  its  honey,  since 
Gozo  and  Minorcas  were  sufficient  for  the 
English  demand.  He  would  look  over  the 
-Egean  from  the  height  he  had  ascended;  he 
would  follow  with  his  eye  the  chain  of  islands, 
which,  starting  from  the  Sunian  headland, 
seemed  to  offer  the  fabled  divinities  of  Attica, 
when  they  would  visit  their  Ionian  cousins,  a 
sort  of  viaduct  thereto  across  the  sea;  but  that 
fancy  would  not  occur  to  him,  nor  any  admira- 
tion of  the  dark  violet  billows  with  their  white 
edges  down  below;  nor  of  tliose  graceful,  fan- 
like  jets  of  silver  upon  the  rocks,  which  slowly 
rise  aloft  like  water  spirits  from  the  deep,  then 
shiver,  and  break,  and  spread,  and  shroud  them- 
selves, and  disappear  in  a  soft  mist  of  foam; 
nor  of  the  gentle,  incessant  heaving  and  pant- 
ing of  the  whole  liquid  plain ;  nor  of  the  long 
waves,  keeping  steady  time,  like  a  line  of  sol- 
•liery  as  they  resound  upon  the  hollow  shore, — 
he  would  not  deign  to  notice  that  restless  living 
element  at  all  except  to  bless  his  stars  that  he 
was  not  upon  it.*  Nor  the  distinct  details,  nor 
the  refined  colouring,  nor  the  graceful  outline 
and  roseate  golden  hue  of  the  jutting  crags, 
nor  the  bold  shadows  cast  from  Otus  or 
Laurium  by  the  declining  sun ; — our  agent  of  a 
mercantile  firm  would  not  value  these  matters 
even  at  a  low  figure.  Rather  we  must  turn  for 
the  sympathy  we  seek  to  yon  pilgrim  student, 
come  from  a  semi-barbarous  land  to  that  small 
corner  of  the  earth,  as  to  a  shrine,  where  he 
might  take  his  fill  of  gazing  on  those  emblems 
and  coruscations  of  invisible  unoriginate''  per- 
fection. It  was  the  stranger  from  a  remote 
province,  from  Britain  or  from  JIauritania, 
who  in  a  scene  so  different  from  that  of  his 
chilly,  woody  swamps,  or  of  his  fiery,  choking 
sands,  learned  at  once  what  a  real  University 
must  be,  by  coming  to  understaml  the  sort  of 
country  Avhich  was  its  suitable  home. 

Nor  was  this  all  that  a  University  required, 
and  found  in  Athens.  No  one,  even  there, 
could  live  on  poetry.  If  the  students  at  that 
famous  place  had  nothing  better  than  bright 
hues  and  soothing  sounds,  they  would  not  have 
been  able  or  disposed  to  turn  their  residence 
there  to  much  account.  Of  course  they  must 
have  the  means  of  living,  nay,  in  a  certain 
sense,  of  enjoyment,  if  Athens  was  to  be  an 
Alma  plater"  at  the  time,  or  to  remain  after- 
wards a  pleasant  thought  in  their  memory. 
And  so  they  had:  be  it  recollected  Athens  waa 
a  port,  and  a  mart  of  trade,  perhaps  the  first 

3  Islands    In    the    Med-  5  not     originated,     self 
iterranean.  existing,  divine 

*  The  .li^gean  is  famous  6  fostering   mother 
for  squalls. 


550 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


in  Greece;  and  this  was  very  much  to  the 
point,  when  a  number  of  strangers  were  ever 
flocking  to  it,  whose  combat  was  to  be  with 
intellectual,  not  physical  difficulties,  and  who 
claimed  to  have  their  bodily  wants  supplied, 
that  they  might  be  at  leisure  to  set  about  fur- 
nishing their  minds.  Now,  barren  as  was  the 
soil  of  Attica,  and  bare  the  face  of  the  country, 
yet  it  had  only  too  many  resources  for  an  ele- 
gant, nay,  luxurious  abode  there.  So  abundant 
were  the  imports  of  the  place,  that  it  was  a 
common  saying,  that  the  productions,  which 
were  found  singly  elsewhere,  were  brought  all 
together  in  Athens.  Corn  and  wine,  the  staple 
of  subsistence  in  such  a  climate,  came  from  the 
isles  of  the  ^gean;  fine  wool  and  carpeting 
from  Asia  Minor;  slaves,  as  now,  from  the 
Euxine,  and  timber  too;  and  iron  and  brass 
from  the  coasts  of  the  Mediterranean.  The 
Athenian  did  not  condescend  to  manufactures 
himself,  but  encouraged  them  in  others;  and  a 
population  of  foreigners  caught  at  the  lucrative 
occupation  both  for  home  consumption  and  for 
exportation.  Their  cloth,  and  other  textures 
for  dress  and  furniture,  and  their  hardware — 
for  instance,  armour — were  in  great  request. 
Labour  was  cheap;  stone  and  marble  in  plenty; 
and  the  taste  and  skill,  which  at  first  were 
devoted  to  public  buildings,  as  temples  and 
porticos,  were  in  course  of  time  applied  to  the 
mansions  of  public  men.  If  nature  did  much 
for  Athens,  it  is  undeniable  that  art  did  much 
more. 

Here  some  one  will  interrupt  me  with  the 
remark:  "By  the  by,  where  are  we,  and 
whither  are  we  going! — what  has  all  this  to 
do  with  a  University?  at  least  what  has  it  to 
do  with  education?  It  is  instructive  doubtless; 
but  still  how  much  has  it  to  do  with  your  sub- 
ject?" Now  I  beg  to  assure  the  reader  that  1 
am  most  conscientiously  employed  upon  my 
subject;  and  I  should  have  thought  every  one 
would  have  seen  this:  however,  since  the  ob- 
jection is  made,  I  may  be  allowed  to  pause 
awhile,  and  show  distinctly  the  drift  of  what 
I  have  been  saying,  before  I  go  farther.  What 
has  this  to  do  with  my  subject!  why,  the 
question  of  the  site  is  the  very  first  that  comes 
into  consideration,  when  a  Studhim  GencralC 
is  contemplated;  for  that  site  should  be  a  lib- 
eral and  a  noble  one;  who  will  deny  it?  All 
authorities  agree  in  this,  and  very  little  reflec- 
tion will  be  flufllcient  to  make  it  clear.  1 
recollect  a  conversation  I  once  had  on  this 
very  subject  with  a  very  eminent  man.*  T  was 
a  youth  of  eighteen,  and  was  leaving  my  Uni- 

7  School  of  UnlvcrHal  Learning. 


versity  for  the  Long  Vacation,  when  I  found  r-l 
myself  in  company  in  a  public  conveyance  with 
a  middle-aged  person,  whose  face  was  strange 
to  me.  However,  it  was  the  great  academical  ^ 
luminary  of  the  day,  whom  afterwards  I  knew 
very  well.  Luckily  for  me,  I  did  not  suspect 
it;  and  luckily  too,  it  was  a  fancy  of  his,  as 
his  friends  knew,  to  make  himself  on  easy 
terms  especially  with  stage-coach  companions. 
So,  what  with  my  flippancy  and  his  condescen- 
sion, I  managed  to  hear  many  things  which 
were  novel  to  me  at  the  time ;  and  one  point 
which  he  was  strong  upon,  and  was  evidently 
fond  of  urging,  was  the  material  pomp  and  cir- 
cumstance which  should  environ  a  great  seat  of 
learning.  He  considered  it  was  worth  the  con- 
sideration of  the  government,  whether  Oxford 
should  not  stand  in  a  domain  of  its  own.  An 
ample  range,  say  four  miles  in  diameter,  should  , 
be  turned  into  wood  and  meadow,  and  the  i 
University  should  be  approached  on  all  sides  ' 
by  a  magnificent  park,  with  fine  trees  in  groups 
and  groves  and  avenues,  and  with  glimpses  and 
views  of  the  fair  city,  as  the  traveller  drew 
near  it.  There  is  nothing  surely  absurd  in 
the  idea,  though  it  would  cost  a  round  sum  to 
realize  it.  What  has  a  better  claim  to  the 
purest  and  fairest  possessions  of  nature,  than 
the  seat  of  wisdom?  So  thought  my  coach 
companion;  and  he  did  but  express  the  tradi- 
tion of  ages  and  the  instinct  of  mankind. 

For  instance,  take  the  great  University  of 
Paris.  That  famous  school  engrossed  as  its 
territory  the  whole  south  bank  of  the  Seine, 
and  occupied  one  half,  and  that  the  pleasanter 
half,  of  the  city.  King  Louis  had  the  island 
pretty  well  as  his  own, — it  was  scarcely  more 
than  a  fortification;  and  the  north  of  the 
river  was  given  over  to  the  nobles  and  citizens 
to  do  what  they  could  with  its  marshes;  but 
the  eligible  south,  rising  from  the  stream, 
which  swept  around  its  base,  to  the  fair  summit 
of  St.  Genevieve,  with  its  broad  meadows,  its 
vineyards  and  its  gardens,  and  with  the  sacred 
elevation  of  Montmartre*  confronting  it,  all 
this  was  the  inheritance  of  the  University. 
There  was  that  pleasant  Pratum,"  stretching 
along  the  river's  bank,  in  which  the  students 
for  centuries  took  their  recreation,  which  i 
Alcuinio  seems  to  mention  in  his  farewell  verses    | 

8  "Mount    of   Martyrs,"    north    of    the    Seine :    so    | 
named    from    the    tradition    that    St.    Denis, 
Bishop  of  Paris.  sufFered  martyrdom   tliere. 

n  Latin  for  "meadow";  French,  pr{-. 

10  An     Knglish    scholar    who    was    riiarleniasnc's 
superintendent  of  education.  i 

*  Prol)al)Iv  Dr.  Edward  Ooploston  ( 1 770-1 84{».  | 
I'rovost  of  Oriel  CoIIokc.  whore  Newman  later  t 
JK'camo  n  Kcllow.  It  was  lie  who  raised  Oriel  \ 
lo  a  poHitlou  of  Icadcrublp  ut  Oxford.  i 


CHARLES  DICKENS 


651 


to  Paris,  and  which  has  given  a  name  to  the 
great  Abbey  of  St.  Germain-des-Pr^s."  For 
long  years  it  was  devoted  to  the  purposes  of 
innocent  and  healthy  enjoyment;  but  evil  times 
came  on  the  University;  disorder  arose  with- 
in its  precincts,  and  the  fair  meadow  be- 
came the  scene  of  party  brawls;  heresy  stalked 
through  Europe,  and  Germany  and  England  no 
longer  sending  their  contingent  of  students,  a 
heavy  debt  was  the  consequence  to  the  academ- 
ical body.  To  let  their  land  was  the  only 
resource  left  to  them:  buildings  rose  upon  it, 
and  spread  along  the  green  sod,  and  the  country 
at  length  became  town.  Great  was  the  grief 
and  indignation  of  the  doctors  and  masters, 
when  this  catastrophe  occurred.  "A  wretched 
sight,"  said  the  Proctor  of  the  German 
nation,i2  "a  wretched  sight,  to  witness  the  sale 
of  that  ancient  manor,  whither  the  Muses  were 
wont  to  wander  for  retirement  and  pleasure. 
Whither  shall  the  youthful  student  now  betake 
himself,  what  relief  will  he  find  for  his  eyes, 
wearied  with  intense  reading,  now  that  the 
pleasant  stream  is  taken  from  him  I"  Two 
centuries  and  more  have  passed  since  this  com- 
plaint was  uttered;  and  time  has  shown  that 
the  outward  calamity,  which  it  recorded,  was 
but  the  emblem  of  the  great  moral  revolution, 
which  was  to  follow;  till  the  institution  itself 
has  followed  its  green  meadows,  into  the  region 
of  things  which  once  were  and  now  are  not.is 


CHARLES  DICKENS  (1812-1870) 

A  CHRISTMAS  TREE* 

I  have  been  looking  on,  this  evening,  at  a 
merry  company  of  children  assembled  round 
that  pretty  German  toy,  a  Christmas  Tree. 
The  tree  was  planted  in  the  middle  of  a 
great  round  table,  and  towered  high  above  their 
heads.  It  was  brilliantly  lighted  by  a  multitude 
of  little  tapers;  and  everywhere  sparkled  and 
glittered  with  bright  objects.  There  were  rosy- 
cheeked  dolls,  hiding  behind  the  green  leaves; 
and    there    were    real    watches    (with    movable 

11  Founded  about  .^542   and  dedicated   to   St.   Ger- 

main,  Bistiop  of   Paris. 

12  The  Dean  of  the  resident  German  students. 

13  During   the  French   revolution,   the   Faculties  of 

the  University  were  alx»lished  and  its  organ- 
ization destroyed.  In  Newman's  time  it  was 
only  a  member  of  the  National  University  of 
France,  but  in  1890  it  became  once  more  the 
University  of  Paris. 


♦  Contributed  by  Dickens  to  Household  Words,  Dec. 
Zl,  185U. 


hands,  at  least,  and  an  endless  capacity  of 
being  wound  up)  dangling  from  innumerable 
twigs;  there  were  French-polished  tables, 
chairs,  bedsteads,  wardrobes,  eight-day  clocks, 
and  various  other  articles  of  domestic  furniture 
(wonderfully  made,  in  tin,  at  Wolverhampton^), 
perched  among  the  boughs,  as  if  in  prepara- 
tion for  some  fairy  housekeeping;  there  were 
jolly,  broad-faced  little  men,  much  more  agree- 
able in  appearance  than  many  real  men — and 
no  wonder,  for  their  heads  took  off,  and  showed 
them  to  be  full  of  sugarplums;  there  were 
fiddles  and  drums;  there  were  tambourines, 
books,  work-boxes,  paint-boxes,  sweetmeat- 
boxes,  peep-show  boxes,  and  all  kinds  of  boxes; 
there  were  trinkets  for  the  elder  girls,  far 
brighter  than  any  grown-up  gold  and  jewels; 
there  were  baskets  and  pincushions  in  all  de- 
vices; there  were  guns,  swords,  and  banners; 
there  were  witches  standing  in  enchanted  rings 
of  pasteboard,  to  tell  fortunes;  there  were 
teetotums,  humming-tops,  needle-eases,  pen- 
wipers, smelling-bottles,  conversation-cards, 
bouquet-holders ;  real  fruit,  made  artificially 
dazzling  with  goldleaf ;  imitation  apples,  pears, 
and  walnuts,  crammed  with  surprises;  in  short, 
as  a  pretty  child  before  me  delightedly  whis- 
pered to  another  pretty  child,  her  bosom  friend, 
' '  There  was  everything,  and  more. ' '  This  mot- 
ley collection  of  odd  objects,  clustering  on  the 
tree  like  magic  fruit,  and  flashing  back  the 
bright  looks  directed  towards  it  from  every 
side — some  of  the  diamond-eyes  admiring  it 
were  hardly  on  a  level  with  the  table,  and  a 
few  were  languishing  in  timid  wonder  on  the 
bosoms  of  pretty  mothers,  aunts,  and  nurses — 
made  a  lively  realization  of  the  fancies  of 
childhood;  and  set  me  thinking  how  all  the 
trees  that  grow  and  all  the  things  that  come 
into  existence  on  the  earth,  have  their  wild 
adornments  at  that  well-remembered  time. 

Being  now  at  home  again,  and  alone,  the 
only  person  in  the  house  awake,  my  thoughts 
are  drawn  back,  by  a  fascination  which  I  do 
not  care  to  resist,  to  my  own  childhood.  I 
begin  to  consider,  what  do  we  all  remember 
best  upon  the  branches  of  the  Christmas  Tree 
of  our  own  young  Christmas  days,  by  which  we 
climbed  to  real  life. 

Straight,  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  cramped 
in  the  freedom  of  its  growth  by  no  encircling 
walls  or  soon-reached  ceiling,  a  shadowy  tree 
arises;  and,  looking  up  into  the  dreamy  bright- 
ness of  its  top — for  I  observe  in  this  tree  the 
singular    property    that    it .  appears    to    grow 

1  In  Staffordshire ;  a  center  for  the  mwiufacture  of 
hardware. 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


downward  towards  the  earth — I  look  into  my 
youngest  Christmas  recollections! 

All  toys  at  first  I  find.  Up  yonder,  among  the 
green  holly  and  red  berries,  is  the  Tumbler 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  who  wouldn't  lie 
down,  but  whenever  he  was  put  upon  the  floor, 
persisted  in  rolling  his  fat  body  about,  until 
he  rolled  himself  still,  and  brought  those  lobster 
eyes  of  his  to  bear  upon  me — when  I  affected 
to  laugh  very  much,  but  in  my  heart  of  hearts 
was  extremely  doubtful  of  him.  Close  beside 
him  is  that  infernal  snuff-box,  out  of  which 
there  sprang  a  demoniacal  Counsellor  in  a  black 
gown,  with  an  obnoxious  head  of  hair,  and  a 
red  cloth  mouth,  wide  open,  who  was  not  to  be 
endured  on  any  terms,  but  could  not  be  put 
away  either;  for  he  used  suddenly,  in  a  highly 
magnified  state,  to  fly  out  of  Mammoth  Snuff- 
boxes in  dreams,  when  least  expected.  Nor  is 
the  frog  with  cobbler's  wax  on  his  tail, 
far  off;  for  there  was  no  knowing  where  he 
wouldn't  jump;  and  when  he  flew  over  the 
candle,  and  came  upon  one's  hand  with  that 
spotted  back — red  on  a  green  ground — he  was 
horrible.  The  cardboard  lady  in  a  blue-silk 
skirt,  who  was  stood  up  against  the  candlestick 
to  dance,  and  whom  I  see  on  the  same  branch, 
was  milder,  and  was  beautiful;  but  I  can't 
say  as  much  for  the  larger  cardboard  man,  who 
used  to  be  hung  against  the  wall  and  pulled 
by  a  string;  there  was  a  sinister  expression 
in  that  nose  of  his;  and  when  he  got  his  legs 
round  his  neck  (which  he  very  often  did),  he 
was  ghastly,  and  not  a  creature  to  be  alone 
with. 

When  did  that  dreadful  Mask  first  look  at 
me?  Who  put  it  on,  and  why  was  I  so  fright- 
ened that  the  sight  of  it  is  an  era  in  my  life? 
It  is  not  a  hideous  visage  in  itself;  it  is  even 
meant  to  be  droll;  why  then  were  its  stolid 
features  so  intolerable?  Surely  not  because  it 
hid  the  wearer's  face.  An  apron  would  have 
done  as  much;  and  though  I  should  have  pre- 
ferred even  the  apron  away,  it  would  not  have 
been  absolutely  insupportable,  like  the  mask. 
Was  it  tlie  immovability  of  the  mask?  The 
doll's  face  was  immovable,  but  I  was  not  afraid 
of  her.  Porliaps  that  fixed  and  set  change 
coming  over  a  real  face,  infused  into  my  quick- 
ened heart  some  remote  suggestion  and  dread  of 
the  universal  change  that  is  to  come  on  every 
face,  and  make  it  still  ?  Nothing  reconciled  me  to 
it.  No  drummers,  from  whom  proceeded  a  melan- 
choly chirping  on  the  turning  of  a  handle;  no 
regiment  of  soldiers,  with  a  mute  band,  taken 
out  of  a  box,  and  fitted,  one  by  one,  upon  a 


stiff  and  lazy  little  set  of  lazy-tongs;'  no  ol'l 
woman,  made  of  wires  and  a  brown-paper  com- 
position, cutting  up  a  pie  for  two  small  chil- 
dren; could  give  me  a  permanent  comfort,  for 
a  long  time.  Nor  was  it  any  satisfaction  to 
be  shown  the  Mask,  and  see  that  it  was  made 
of  paper,  or  to  have  it  locked  up  and  be  as- 
sured that  no  one  wore  it.  The  mere  recollec- 
tion of  that  fixed  face,  the  mere  knowledge  of 
its  existence  anywhere,  was  sufficient  to  awake 
me  in  the  night  all  perspiration  and  horror, 
with,  "01  know  it 's  coming !     0  the  mask !  ' ' 

I  never  wondered  what  the  dear  old  donkey 
with  the  panniers — there  he  is! — was  made  of, 
then!  His  hide  was  real  to  the  touch,  I  recol- 
lect. And  the  great  black  horse  with  the  round 
red  spots  all  over  him — the  horse  that  I  could 
even  get  upon — I  never  wondered  what  had 
brought  him  to  that  strange  condition,  or 
thought  that  such  a  horse  was  not  commonly 
seen  at  Newmarket.2  The  four  horses  of  no 
colour,  next  to  him,  that  went  into  the  waggon 
of  cheeses,  and  could  be  taken  out  and  stabled 
under  the  piano,  appear  to  have  bits  of  fur- 
tippet  for  their  tails,  and  other  bits  for  their 
manes,  and  to  stand  on  pegs  instead  of  legs; 
but  it  was  not  so  when  they  were  brought  home 
for  a  Christmas  present.  They  w-ere  all  right, 
then;  neither  was  their  harness  unceremoni- 
ously nailed  into  their  chests,  as  appears  to  be 
the  case  now.  The  tinkling  works  of  the  music- 
cart,  I  did  find  out  to  be  made  of  quill  tooth- 
picks and  wire;  and  I  always  tlvouglit  that 
little  tumbler  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  perpetually 
swarming  up  one  side  of  a  wooden  frame,  and 
coming  down,  head  foremost,  on  the  other, 
ratlier  a  weak-minded  person — though  good- 
natured;  but  the  Jacob's  Ladder ,3  next  him, 
made  of  little  squares  of  red  wood,  that  went 
flapping  and  clattering  over  one  another,  each 
developing  a  different  picture,  and  the  whole 
enlivened  by  small  bells,  was  a  mighty  marvel 
and  a  great  delight. 

Ah!  The  Doll's  house! — of  which  I  was  not 
proj)rietor,  but  where  I  visited.  I  don't  admire 
the  Houses  of  Parliament  half  so  much  as  that 
stone-fronted  mansion  with  real  glass  windows, 
and  door-steps,  and  a  real  balcony — greener 
than  I  ever  see  now,  except  at  watering-places; 
and  even  they  afford  but  a  poor  imitation.  And 
though  it  did  open  all  at  once,  the  entire  house- 
front  (which  was  a  blow,  I  admit,  as  cancelling 


I  SclsKors-lik«\  oxlonsl- 
Me  tong8,  common 
ly  used  for  picking 
up  ohjccts  at  adlB- 
lance. 


:;  Newmarket    Heath. 

where  annual  lior^t! 

races  arc  held. 
3  Name  taken  from  (Jen- 

eais,  xxvlii,  12. 


CHARLES  DICKENS 


553 


the  fiction  of  a  staircase),  it  was  but  to  shut 
it  u|)  ajjain,  and  I  could  believe.  Even  open, 
there  were  three  distinct  rooms  in  it:  a  sitting- 
room  and  bedroom,  elegantly  furnished,  and 
best  of  all,  a  kitchen,  with  uncommonly  soft 
fire-irons,  a  plentiful  assortment  of  diminutive 
utensils — oh,  the  warming-pan! — and  a  tin  man- 
cook  in  profile,  who  was  always  going  to  fry 
two  fish.  What  Barmecide  justice*  have  I  done 
to  the  noble  feasts  wherein  the  set  of  wooden 
platters  figured,  each  with  its  own  peculiar 
delicacy,  as  a  ham  or  turkey,  glued  tight  on  to 
it,  and  garnished  with  something  green,  which 
I  recollect  as  moss!  Could  all  the  Temperance 
Societies  of  these  later  days,  united,  give  me 
such  a  tea-drinking  as  I  have  had  through  the 
means  of  yonder  little  set  of  blue  crockery, 
which  really  would  hold  liquid  (it  ran  out  of 
the  small  wooden  cask,  I  recollect,  and  tasted 
of  matches),  and  which  made  tea,  nectar.  And 
if  the  two  legs  of  the  ineffectual  little  sugar- 
tongs  did  tumble  over  one  another,  and  want 
purpose,  like  Punch's"'  hands,  what  does  it  mat- 
ter? And  if  I  did  once  shriek  out,  as  a  poi- 
soned child,  and  strike  the  fashionable  company 
with  consternation,  by  reason  of  having  drunk 
a  little  teaspoon,  inadvertently  dissolved  in  too 
hot  tea,  I  was  never  the  worse  for  it,  except 
by  a  powder! 

Upon  the  next  branches  of  the  tree,  lower 
down,  hard  by  the  green  roller  and  miniature 
gardening-tools,  how  thick  the  books  begin  to 
hang.  Thin  books,  in  themselves,  at  first,  but 
many  of  them,  and  with  delieiously  smooth  cov- 
ers of  bright  red  or  green.  What  fat  black 
letters  to  begin  with!  "A  was  an  archer,  and 
shot  at  a  frog."  Of  course  he  was.  He  was 
an  apple-pie  also,  and  there  he  is!  He  was  a 
good  many  things  in  his  time,  was  A,  and  so 
were  most  of  his  friends,  except  X,  who  had  so 
little  versatility,  that  I  never  knew  him  to  get 
beyond  Xerxes  or  Xantippe — like  Y,  who  was 
always  confined  to  a  Yacht  or  a  Yew  Tree; 
and  Z  condemned  for  ever  to  be  a  Zebra  or  a 
Zany.  But  now,  the  very  tree  itself  changes, 
and  becomes  a  bean-stalk — the  marvellous  bean- 
stalk np  which  Jack  climbed  to  the  Giant 's 
house!  And  now,  those  dreadfully  interesting, 
double-headed  giants,  with  their  clubs  over  their 
shoulders,  begin  to  stride  along  the  boughs  in 
a  perfect  throngs  dragging  knights  and  ladies 
home  for  dinner  by  the  hair  of  their  heads. 
And  Jack — how  noble,  with  his  sword  of  sharp- 

4  In  the  story  of  the  "Barber's  Sixth  Brother"  in 
the  Arabian  yif/hts.  a  rich  Barmecide  (the 
name  of  a  princely  famiiy)  sets  before  a 
starving  man  a  service  of  empty  dishes. 

5 The  masculine  puppet  of  a  I'nnch  and  Judy  show. 


ness,  and  his  shoes  of  swiftness!  Again  those 
old  meditations  come  upon  me  as  I  gaze  up  at 
him;  and  I  debate  within  myself  whether 
there  was  more  than  one  Jack  (which  I  am  loth 
to  believe  possible),  or  only  one  genuine  original 
admirable  Jack,  who  achieved  all  the  recorded 
exploits. 

Good  for  Christmas  time  is  the  ruddy  colour 
of  the  cloak,  in  which — the  tree  making  a  forest 
of  itself  for  her  to  trip  through,  with  her  bas- 
ket— Little  Bed  Eiding-Hood  comes  to  me  one 
Christmas  Eve  to  give  me  information  of  the 
cruelty  and  treachery  of  that  dissembling  Wolf 
who  ate  her  grandmother,  without  making  any 
impression  on  his  appetite,  and  then  ate  her, 
after  making  that  ferocious  joke  about  his 
teeth.  She  was  my  first  love,  I  felt  that  if  I 
could  have  married  Little  Bed  Biding-Hood,  I 
should  have  known  perfect  bliss.  But,  it  was 
not  to  be;  and  there  was  nothing  for  it  but 
to  look  out  the  W^olf  in  the  Noah's  Ark  there, 
and  put  him  late  in  the  procession  on  the  table, 
as  a  monster  who  was  to  be  degraded.  O  the 
wonderful  Noah's  Ark!  It  was  not  found 
seaworthy  when  put  in  a  washing-tub,  and  the 
animals  were  crammed  in  at  the  roof,  and 
needed  to  have  their  legs  well  shaken  down 
before  they  could  be  got  in,  even  there — and 
then,  ten  to  one  but  they  began  to  tumble 
out  at  the  door,  which  was  but  imperfectly 
fastened  with  a  wire  latch — but  what  was  that 
against  it!  Consider  the  noble  fly,  a  size  or 
two  smaller  than  the  elephant:  the  lady-bird, 
the  butterfly — all  triumphs  of  art!  Consider 
the  goose,  whose  feet  were  so  small,  and  whose 
balance  was  so  indifferent,  that  he  usually 
tumbled  forward,  and  knocked  down  all  the 
animal  creation.  Consider  Noah  and  his  fam- 
ily, like  idiotic  tobacco-stoppers  ;i  and  how  the 
leopard  stuck  to  warm  little  fingers;  and  how 
the  tails  of  the  larger  animals  used  gradually 
to  resolve  themselves  into  frayed  bits  of  string! 

Hush!  Again  a  forest,  and  somebody  up  in 
a  tree — not  Bobin  Hood,  not  Valentine,  not 
the  Yellow  Dwarf  (I  have  passed  him  and  all 
Mother  Bunch's  wonders,2  without  mention), 
but  an  Eastern  King  with  a  glittering  scimitar 
and  turban.  By  Allah!  two  Eastern  Kings, 
for  I  see  another,  looking  over  his  shoulder! 
Down  upon  the  grass,  at  the  tree's  foot,  lies 
the  full  length  of  a  coal-black  Giant,  stretched 
asleep,  with  his  head  in  a  lady 's  lap ;  and  near 
them  is  a  glass  box,  fastened  with  four  locks 
of  shining  steel,  in  which   he  keeps  the  lady 


1  Plugs  used  to  com- 
press tobacco  in  a 
pipe. 


2  In  Mother   Bunch'8 
Fairy  Talen. 


554 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


prisoner  when  he  is  awake.  I  see  the  four 
keys  at  his  girdle  now.  The  lady  makes  signs 
to  the  two  kings  in  the  tree,  who  softly  de- 
scend. It  is  the  setting-in  of  the  bright 
Arabian  Nights. 

Oh,  now  all  common  things  become  uncom- 
mon and  enchanted  to  me.  All  lamps  are  won- 
derful; all  rings  are  talismans.  Common 
flower-pots  are  full  of  treasure,  with  a  little 
earth  scattered  on  the  top;  trees  are  for  Ali 
Baba  to  hide  in;  beef -steaks  are  to  throw- 
down  into  the  Valley  of  Diamonds,  that  the 
precious  stones  may  stick  to  them,  and  be 
carried  by  the  eagles  to  their  nests,  whence 
the  traders,  with  loud  cries,  will  scare  them. 
Tarts  are  made,  according  to  the  recipe  of  the 
Vizier's  son  of  Bussorah,  who  turned  pastry- 
cook after  he  was  set  down  in  his  drawers  at 
the  gate  of  Damascus;  cobblers  are  all  Mus- 
taphas,  and  in  the  habit  of  sewing  up  people 
cut  into  four  pieces,  to  whom  they  are  taken 
blindfold. 

Any  iron  ring  let  into  stone  is  the  entrance 
to  a  cave  which  only  waits  for  the  magician, 
and  the  little  fire,  and  the  necromancy,  that 
will  make  the  earth  shake.  All  the  dates  im- 
ported come  from  the  same  tree  as  that  unlucky 
date,  with  whose  shell  the  merchant  knocked 
out  the  eye  of  the  genie's  invisible  son.  All 
olives  are  of  the  stock  of  that  fresh  fruit,  con- 
cerning which  the  Commander  of  the  Faithful 
overheard  the  boy  conduct  the  fictitious  trial 
of  the  fraudulent  olive  merchant;  all  apples 
are  akin  to  the  apple  purchased  (with  two 
others)  from  the  Sultan's  gardener  for  three 
sequins,  and  which  the  tall  black  slave  stole 
from  the  child.  All  dogs  are  associated  with 
the  dog,  really  a  transformed  man,  who  jumped 
upon  the  baker's  counter,  and  put  his  paw  on 
the  piece  of  bad  money.  All  rice  recalls  the 
rice  which  the  awful  lady,  who  was  a  ghoul, 
could  only  peck  by  grains,  because  of  her 
nightly  feasts  in  the  burial-place.  My  very 
rocking-horse, — there  he  is,  with  his  nostrils 
turned  completely  inside-out,  indicative  of 
Blood! — should  have  a  peg  in  his  neck,  by 
virtue  thereof  to  fly  away  with  me,  as  the 
wooden  horse  did  with  the  Prince  of  Persia, 
in  the  sight  of  all  his  father's  Court. 

Yes,  on  every  object  that  I  recognize  among 
those  upper  branches  of  my  Christmas  Tree,  I 
see  this  fairy  light!  When  I  wake  in  bed,  at 
daybreak,  on  the  cold  dark  winter  mornings, 
the  white  snow  dimly  beheld,  outside,  through 
the  frost  on  the  window-pane,  I  hear  Dinarzade. 
"Sister,  sister,  if  you  are  yet  awake,  I  pray 


you  finish  the  history  of  the  Young  King  of 
the  Black  Islands. ' '  Scheherazade  replies,  ' '  If 
my  lord  the  Sultan  will  suffer  me  to  live  an- 
other day,  sister,  I  will  not  only  finish  that, 
but  tell  you  a  more  wonderful  story  yet. ' ' 
Then,  the  gracious  Sultan  goes  out,  giving  no 
orders  for  the  execution,  and  we  all  three 
breathe  again.i 

At  this  height  of  my  tree  I  begin  to  see, 
cowering  among  the  leaves — it  may  be  born  of 
turkey,  or  of  pudding,  or  mince-pie,  or  of 
these  many  fancies,  jumbled  with  Robinson 
Crusoe  on  his  desert  island,  Philip  Quarll  among 
the  monkeys,2  Sandford  and  ilertons  with  Mr. 
Barlow,  Mother  Bunch,  and  the  Mask — or  it 
may  be  the  result  of  indigestion,  assisted  by 
imagination  and  over-doctoring — a  prodigious 
nightmare.  It  is  so  exceedingly  indistinct,  that 
I  don't  know  why  it's  frightful — but  1  know 
it  is.  I  can  only  make  out  that  it  is  an  im- 
mense array  of  shapeless  things,  which  appear 
to  be  planted  on  a  vast  exaggeration  of  the 
lazy-tongs  that  used  to  bear  the  toy  soldiers, 
and  to  be  slowly  coming  close  to  my  eyes,  and 
receding  to  an  immeasurable  distance.  When 
it  comes  closest,  it  is  worst.  In  connection 
with  it  I  descry  remembrances  of  winter  nights 
incredibly  long;  of  being  sent  early  to  bed, 
as  a  punishment  for  some  small  offence,  an*! 
waking  in  two  hours,  with  a  sensation  of  hav- 
ing been  asleep  two  nights;  of  the  leaden  hope- 
lessness of  morning  ever  dawning;  and  the 
oppression  of  a  weight  of  remorse. 

And  now,  I  see  a  wonderful  row  of  little 
lights  rise  smoothly  out  of  the  ground,  before 
a  vast  green  curtain.  Now,  a  bell  rings — a 
magic  bell,  which  still  sounds  in  my  ears  unlike 
all  other  bells — and  music  plays,  amidst  a  buzz 
of  voices,  and  a  fragrant  smell  of  orange-peel 
and  oil.  Anon,  the  magic  bell  commands  the 
music  to  cease,  and  the  great  green  curtain  rolls 
itself  up  majestically,  and  The  Play  begins! 
The  devoted  dog  of  Montargis  avenges  the 
death  of  his  master,  foully  murdered  in  the 
Forest   of   Bondy;*    and    a   humorous   Peasant 

1  The  stories  of  the  Arabian  Xiphtit  were  profess- 

edly related  on  succosslve  nights  by  Schehera- 
zade to  her  sister,  in  order  to  interest  the 
Sultan,  whom  she  had  wedded,  and  so  prevent 
him  from  carrying  out  his  practice  of  behead- 
ing his  bride  the  day  after  the  wedding. 

2  A    castaway,    like    Robinson     Crusoe,    who    was 

solaced  on  bis  desert  Island  by  a  monkey. 

3  The  heroes  of  a  popular  juvenile  book  by  Thomas 

Day.      Mr.  Barlow  was  the  boys'  Instructor. 

4  Aubrey  de   Montdidler  was   murdered   In    VMl   In 

the  forest  of  Bondy  (or  of  Montargis)  and 
avenged  by  his  dog.  which  attracted  such  sus- 
picion to  the  slayer  that  the  king  finally  re- 
tpilred  the  slayer  to  flght  with  the  dog.  The 
story  has  been  dramatized. 


CHARLES  DICKENS 


555 


with  a  red  nose  and  a  very  little  hat,  whom  I 
take  from  this  hour  forth  to  my  bosom  as  a 
friend  (I  think  he  was  a  Waiter  or  an  Hostler 
at  a  village  Inn,  but  many  years  have  passed 
since  he  and  I  have  met),  remarks  that  the 
sassigassity  of  that  dog  is  indeed  surprising; 
and  evermore  this  jocular  conceit  will  live  in 
my  remembrance  fresh  and  unfading,  overtop- 
ping all  possible  jokes,  until  the  end  of  time. 
Or  now,  I  learn  with  bitter  tears  how  poor 
Jane  Shore,  dressed  all  in  white,  and  with  her 
brown  hair  hanging  down,  went  starving 
through  the  streets ;■»  or  how  George  Barnwell 
killed  the  worthiest  uncle  that  ever  man  had, 
and  was  afterwards  so  sorry  for  it  that  he 
ought  to  have  been  let  off.s  Comes  swift  to 
comfort  me,  the  Pantomime — stupendous  Phe- 
nomenon!— when  clowns  are  shot  from  loaded 
mortars  into  the  great  chandelier,  bright  con- 
stellation that  it  is;  when  Harlequins,^  cov- 
ered all  over  with  scales  of  pure  gold,  twist 
and  sparkle,  like  amazing  fish;  when  Pantaloon 
(whom  I  deem  it  no  irreverence  to  compare  in 
my  own  mind  to  my  grandfather)  puts  red-hot 
pokers  in  his  pocket,  and  cries  "Here's  some- 
body coming !  "  or  taxes  the  Clown  with  petty 
larceny,  by  saying,  "Now,  I  sawed  you  do  it!  " 
when  Everything  is  capable,  with  the  greatest 
ease,  of  being  changed  into  Anything;  and 
"Nothing  is,  but  thinking  makes  it  so."  Now, 
too,  I  perceive  my  first  experience  of  the  dreary 
sensation — often  to  return  in  after-life — of 
being  unable,  next  day,  to  get  back  to  the 
dull,  settled  world;  of  wanting  to  live  for 
ever  in  the  bright  atmosphere  I  have  quitted ; 
of  doting  on  the  little  Fairy,  with  the  wand 
like  a  celestial  Barber's  Pole,  and  pining  for  a 
Fairy  immortality  along  with  her.  Ah,  she 
comes  back  in  many  shapes,  as  my  eye  wanders 
down  the  branches  of  my  Christmas  Tree,  and 
goes  as  often,  and  has  never  yet  stayed  by 
me! 

Out  of  this  delight  springs  the  toy-theatre, — 
there  it  is,  with  its  familiar  proscenium, «  and 
ladies  in  feathers,  in  the  boxes! — and  all  its 
attendant  occupation  with  paste  and  glue,  and 
gum,  and  water  colours,  in  the  get  ting-up  of 
The  Miller  and  His  Men,"  and  Elizabeth,  or  the 

n  In  a  tragedy  (founded  on  fact)  by  Nicholas 
Rowe.  See  also  the  ballad  of  "Jane  Shore" 
in   Percy's  Reliques. 

nOeorne  Barnirell,  or  The  London  Merchant,  by 
George  Llllo :  founded  on  another  ballad. 

7  The  clowns,  in  pantomimes,  who  play  tricks  upon 

an   absurd   old    man,   called   "Pantaloon." 

8  stage 

fiOriglnallv  a  popular  melodrama  by  Isaac  Pocock, 
first  played  at  Covent  Garden  in  181.S.  A 
gang  of  bandits,  disguised  as  millers,  try  to 
earry  off  the  daughter  of  Kelmar,  an  old  cot- 
tager. 


Exile  of  Siberia.io  In  spite  of  a  few  besetting 
accidents  and  failures  (particularly  an  unrea- 
sonable disposition  in  the  respectable  Kelmar, 
and  some  others,  to  become  faint  in  the  legs, 
and  double  up,  at  exciting  points  of  the 
drama),  a  teeming  world  of  fancies  so  suggest- 
ive and  all-embracing,  that,  far  below  it  on 
my  Christmas  Tree,  I  see  dark,  dirty,  real 
Theatres  in  the  day-time,  adorned  with  these 
associations  as  with  the  freshest  garlands  of 
the  rarest  flowers,  and  charming  me  yet. 

But    hark!      The   Waitsu   are  playing,    and 
they  break  my  childish  sleep!     What  images  do 

I  associate  with  the  Christmas  music  as  I  see 
them  set  forth  on  the  Christmas  Tree?  Known 
before  all  the  others,  keeping  far  apart  from 
all  the  others,  they  gather  round  my  little  bed. 
An  angel,  speaking  to  a  group  of  shepherds  in 
a  field;  some  travellers,  with  eyes  uplifted, 
following  a  star ;  a  baby  in  a  manger ;  a  child 
in  a  spacious  temple,  talking  with  grave  men; 
a  solemn  figure,  with  a  mild  and  beautiful  face, 
raising  a  dead  girl  by  the  hand;  again,  near 
a  city  gate,  calling  back  the  son  of  a  widow, 
on  his  bier,  to  life;  a  crowd  of  people  looking 
through  tlie  opened  roof  of  a  chamber  where 
he  sits,  and  letting  down  a  sick  person  on  a 
bed,  with  ropes;  the  same,  in  a  tempest,  walk- 
ing on  the  water  to  a  ship;  again,  on  a  sea- 
shore, teaching  a  great  multitude;  again,  with 
a  chiid  upon  his  knee,  and  other  children  round ; 
again,  restoring  sight  to  the  blind,  speech  to 
the  dumb,  hearing  to  the  deaf,  health  to  the 
sick,  strength  to  the  lame,  knowledge  to  the 
ignorant ;  again,  dying  upon  a  Cross,  watched 
by  armed  soldiers,  a  thick  darkness  coming  on, 
the  earth  beginning  to  shake,  and  only  one 
voice  heard,  "Forgive  them,  for  they  know 
not  what  they  do." 

Still,  on  the  lower  and  maturer  branches  of 

the  Tree,  Christmas  associations  cluster  thick. 

School-books  shut  up ;  Ovid  and  Virgil  silenced ; 

the  Eule  of  Three,i2  with  its  cool  impertinent 

inquiries,     long     disposed     of;      Terence     and 

Plautus  acted  no  more,  in  an  arena  of  huddled 

desks  and  forms,  all  chipped,  and  uotched,  and 

inked;    cricket-bats,    stumps,i3    and    balls,    left 

higher  up,  with  the  smell  of  trodden  grass  and 

the  softened  noise  of  shouts  in  the  evening  air; 

the  tree  is  still  fresh,  still  gay.     If  I  no  more 

come   home   at   Christmas   time,  there  will   be 

10  Taken  from  a  French  novel  published  by  Madame 
Cottin  in  1800.  Elizabeth  walks  from  Sil)eria 
to  Russia  to  get  the  Czar's  pardon  for  her 
exiled  family. 

II  Street  musicians  who  sing  from  house  to  house 

on  Christmas  Eve. 

12  The  rule  of  "proportion." 

13  The   three   posts   constituting   a    wicket   in   the 

game  of  cricket. 


556 


THK  VICTORIAN  AGE 


boys  and  girls  (thank  Heaven!)  while  the 
"World  lasts;  and  they  do!  Yonder  they  dance 
and  play  upon  the  branches  of  my  Tree,  God 
bless  them,  merrily,  and  my  heart  dances  and 
plays  too! 

And  I  do  come  home  at  Christmas.  We  all 
do,  or  we  all  should.  We  all  come  home,  or 
ought  to  come  home,  for  a  short  holiday — the 
longer,  the  better — from  the  great  boarding- 
school,  where  we  are  for  ever  working  at  our 
arithmetical  slates,  to  take,  and  give  a  rest. 
As  to  going  a  visiting,  where  can  we  not  go, 
if  we  will ;  where  have  we  not  been,  when  we 
would;  starting  our  fancy  from  our  Christmas 
Tree! 

Away  into  the  winter  prospect.  There  are 
many  such  upon  the  tree!  On,  by  low-lying, 
misty  grounds,  through  fens  and  fogs,  up  long 
hills,  winding  dark  as  caverns  between  thick 
plantations,  almost  shutting  out  the  sparkling 
stars;  so,  out  on  broad  heights,  until  we  stop 
at  last,  with  sudden  silence,  at  an  avenue.  The 
gate-bell  has  a  deep,  half-awful  sound  in  the 
frosty  air;  the  gate  swings  open  on  its  hinges; 
and,  as  we  drive  up  to  a  great  house,  the 
glancing  lights  grow  larger  in  the  windows, 
and  the  opposing  rows  of  trees  seem  to  fall 
solemnly  back  on  either  side,  to  give  us  place. 
At  intervals,  all  day,  a  frightened  hare  has 
shot  across  this  whitened  turf;  or  the  distant 
clatter  of  a  herd  of  deer  trampling  the  hard 
frost,  has,  for  the  minute,  crushed  the  silence 
too.  Their  watchful  eyes  beneath  the  fern  may 
be  shining  now,  if  we  could  see  them,  like  the 
icy  dew<lrop8  on  the  leaves;  but  they  are  still, 
an<l  all  is  still.  And  so,  the  lights  growing 
larger,  and  the  trees  falling  back  before  us, 
and  closing  up  again  behind  us,  as  if  to  forbid 
retreat,  we  come  to  the  house. 

There  is  probably  a  smell  of  roasted  chest- 
nuts and  other  good  comfortable  things  all  the 
time,  for  we  are  telling  Winter  Stories — Ghost 
Stories,  or  more  shame  for  us — round  the 
Christmas  fire;  and  we  have  never  stirred, 
except  to  draw  a  little  nearer  to  it.  But,  no 
matter  for  that.  We  came  to  the  house,  and  it 
is  an  old  house,  full  of  great  chimneys  where 
wood  is  burnt  on  ancient  dogs  upon  the  hearth, 
and  grim  portraits  (some  of  them  with  grim 
legends,  too)  lower  distrustfully  from  the 
oaken  panels  of  the  walls.  We  are  a  middle- 
aged  nobleman,  and  we  make  a  generous  sup- 
per with  our  host  and  hostess  and  their  guests 
— it  being  Christmas  time,  and  the  old  house 
full  of  company — and  then  we  go  to  bed.  Our 
room  is  a  very  old  room.  It  is  hung  with 
tapestry.      We    don't    like    the    portrait    of    a 


cavalier  in  green,  over  the  fireplace.  There 
are  great  black  beams  in  the  ceiling,  and  there 
is  a  great  black  bedstead,  supported  at  the 
foot  by  two  great  black  figures,  who  seem  to 
have  come  oif  a  couple  of  tombs  in  the  old 
baronial  church  in  the  park,  for  our  particular 
accommodation.  But,  we  are  not  a  supersti- 
tious nobleman,  and  we  don't  mind.  Well!  we 
dismiss  our  servant,  lock  the  door,  and  sit 
before  the  fire  in  our  dressing-gown,  musing 
about  a  great  many  things.  At  length  we  go 
to  bed.  Well!  we  can't  sleep.  We  toss  and 
tumble,  and  can't  sleep.  The  embers  on  the 
hearth  burn  fitfully  and  make  the  room  look 
ghostly.  We  can't  help  peeping  out  over  the 
counterpane,  at  the  two  black  figures  and  the 
cavalier  —  that  wicked-looking  cavalier  —  in 
green.  In  the  flickering  light  they  seem  to 
advance  and  retire:  which,  though  we  are  not 
by  any  means  a  superstitious  nobleman  is  not 
agreeable.  Well!  we  get  nervous — more  and 
more  nervous.  We  say  "This  is  very  foolish, 
but  we  can't  stand  this;  we'll  pretend  to 
ill,  and  knock  up  somebody."  Well!  we  are 
just  going  to  do  it,  when  the  locked  door  opens,, 
and  there  comes  in  a  young  woman,  deadly 
pale,  and  with  long  fair  hair,  who  glides  tO' 
the  fire,  and  sits  down  in  the  chair  we  have  loft 
there,  wringing  her  hands.  Then,  we  notice 
that  her  clothes  are  wet.  Our  tongue  cleaves; 
to  the  roof  of  our  mouth,  and  we  can't  speak;: 
but,  we  observe  her  accurately.  Hei  clothes  are- 
wet  ;  her  long  hair  is  dabbled  with  moist  mud ; 
she  is  dressed  in  the  fashion  of  two  hundred 
years  ago;  and  she  has  at  her  girdle  a  bunch 
of  rusty  keys.  Well!  there  she  sits,  and  we 
can't  even  faint,  we  are  in  such  a  state  about 
it.  Presently  she  gets  up,  and  tries  all  the 
locks  in  the  room  with  the  rusty  keys,  which 
won't  fit  one  of  them;  then,  she  fixes  her  eyes 
on  the  portrait  of  the  cavalier  in  green,  and 
says,  in  a  low,  terrible  voice,  "The  stags  know 
it!"  After  that,  she  wrings  her  hands  again, 
passes  the  bedside,  and  goes  out  at  the  door. 
We  hurry  on  our  dressing-gown,  seize  our  pis- 
tols (we  always  travel  with  pistols),  and  are 
following,  when  we  find  the  door  locked.  We 
turn  the  key,  look  out  into  the  dark  gallery; 
no  one  there.  We  wander  away,  and  try  to  find 
our  servant.  Can 't  be  done.  We  pace  the 
gallery  till  daybreak;  then  return  to  our  de- 
serted room,  fall  asleep,  and  are  awakened  by 
our  servant  (nothing  ever  haunts  hiv\)  and  the 
shining  sun.  Well!  we  make  a  wretched  break 
fast,  and  all  the  company  say  we  look  queer. 
After  breakfast,  we  go  over  the  house  with  our 
host,  and  then  we  t.nke  him  to  the  portrait  of 


CHARLES  DICKENS 


557 


the  cavalier  in  green,  and  then  it  all  conies  out. 
He  was  false  to  a  young  housekeeper  once  at- 
tached to  that  family,  and  famous  for  her 
b<'auty,  who  drowned  herself  in  a  pond,  and 
whose  body  was  discovered,  after  a  long  time, 
because  the  stags  refused  to  drink  of  the  water. 
Since  which,  it  has  been  whispered  that  she 
traverses  the  house  at  midnight  (but  goes  es- 
pecially to  that  room  where  the  cavalier  in 
green  was  wont  to  sleep),  trying  the  old  locks 
^^ith  the  rusty  keys.  Well!  we  tell  our  host  of 
what  we  have  seen,  and  a  shade  comes  over  his 
features,  and  he  begs  it  may  be  hushed  up ;  and 
so  it  is.  But,  it's  all  true;  and  we  said  so, 
before  we  died  (we  are  dead  now)  to  many 
responsible  people. 

There  is  no  end  to  the  old  houses,  with  re- 
sounding galleries,  and  dismal  state-bedcham- 
bers, and  haunted  wings  shut  up  for  many 
years,  through  which  we  may  ramble,  with  an 
agreeable  creeping  up  our  back,  and  encounter 
any  number  of  ghosts,  but  (it  is  worthy  of 
remark  perhaps)  reducible  to  a  very  few  gen- 
eral types  and  classes;  for,  ghosts  have  little 
originality,  and  * '  walk "  in  a  beaten  track. 
Thus,  it  comes  to  pass,  that  a  certain  room  in 
a  certain  old  hall,  where  a  certain  bad  lord, 
baronet,  knight,  or  gentleman,  shot  himself, 
has  certain  planks  in  the  floor  from  which  the 
blood  will  not  be  taken  out.  You  may  scrape 
and  scrape,  as  the  present  owner  has  done,  or 
plane  and  plane,  as  his  father  did,  or  scrub  and 
scrub,  as  his  grandfather  did,  or  burn  and  burn 
with  strong  acids,  as  his  great-grandfather  did, 
but,  there  the  blood  will  still  be — no  redder 
and  no  paler — no  more  and  no  less — always 
just  the  same.  Thus,  in  such  another  house 
there  is  a  haunted  door,  that  never  will  keep 
open;  or  another  door  that  never  will  keep 
shut ;  or  a  haunted  sound  of  a  spinning-wheel, 
or  a  hammer,  or  a  footstep,  or  a  cry,  or  a  sigh, 
or  a  horse's  tramp,  or  the  rattling  of  a  chain. 
Or  else,  there  is  a  turret-clock,  which,  at  the 
midnight  hour,  strikes  thirteen  when  the  head 
of  the  family  is  going  to  die;  or  a  shadowy, 
immovable  black  carriage  which  at  such  a  time 
is  always  seen  by  somebody,  waiting  near  the 
great  gates  in  the  stable-yard.  Or  thus,  it 
came  to  pass  how  Lady  Mary  went  to  pay  a 
visit  at  a  large  wild  house  in  the  Scottish  High- 
lands, and,  being  fatigued  with  her  long  jour- 
ney, retired  to  bed  early,  and  innocently  said, 
next  morning,  at  the  breakfast-table,  "How 
odd,  to  have  so  late  a  party  last  night,  in  this 
remote  place,  and  not  to  tell  me  of  it,  before 
I  went  to  bed ! ' '  Then,  every  one  asked  Lady 
Mary  what  she  meant?     Then,  Lady  Mary  re- 


plied, ' '  Why,  all  night  long,  the  carriages  were 
driving  round  and  round  the  terrace,  under- 
neath my  window!"  Then,  the  owner  of  the 
house  turned  pale,  and  so  did  his  Lady,  and 
Charles  Macdoodle  of  Macdoodle  signed  to 
Lady  Mary  to  say  no  more,  and  every  one  was 
silent.  After  breakfast,  Charles  ^lacdoodle  told 
Lady  Mary  that  it  was  a  tradition  in  the 
family  that  those  rumbling  carriages  on  the 
terrace  betokened  death.  And  so  it  proved,  for. 
two  months  afterwards,  the  Lady  of  the  man- 
sion died.  And  Lady  Mary,  who  was  a  Maid 
of  Honour  at  Court,  often  told  this  story  to  the 
old  Queen  Charlotte;  by  this  token  that  the  old 
King  always  said,  "Eh,  eh?  What,  what? 
Ghosts,  ghosts?  No  such  thing,  no  such 
thing!  "  And  never  left  off  saying  so,  until  he 
went  to  bed. 

Or,  a  friend  of  somebody's  whom  most  of  us 
know,  when  he  was  a  young  man  at  college,  had 
a  particular  friend,  with  whom  he  made  the 
compact  that,  if  it  were  possible  for  the  Spirit 
to  return  to  this  earth  after  its  separation  from 
the  body,  he  of  the  twain  who  first  died,  should 
reappear  to  the  other.  In  course  of  time,  this 
compact  was  forgotten  by  our  friend;  the  two 
young  men  having  progressed  in  life,  and  taken 
diverging  paths  that  were  wide  asunder.  But, 
one  night,  many  years  afterwards,  our  friend 
being  in  the  North  of  England,  and  staying  for 
the  night  in  an  inn,  on  the  Yorkshire  Moors, 
i  happened  to  look  out  of  bed ;  and  there,  in  the 
moonlight,  leaning  on  a  bureau  near  the  win- 
dow, stedfastly  regarding  him,  saw  his  old 
college  friend!  The  appearance  being  solemnly 
addressed,  replied,  in  a  kind  of  whisper,  but 
very  audibly,  "Do  not  come  near  me.  I  am 
dead.  I  am  here  to  redeem  my  promise.  I 
come  from  another  world,  but  may  not  disclose 
its  secrets!  "  Then,  the  whole  form  becoming 
paler,  melted,  as  it  were,  into  the  moonlight, 
and  faded  away. 

Or,  there  was  the  daughter  of  the  first  oc- 
cupier of  the  picturesque  Elizabethan  house,  so 
famous  in  our  neighbourhood.  You  have  heard 
about  her?  No!  Why,  She  went  out  one  sum- 
mer evening  at  twilight,  when  she  was  a  beau- 
tiful girl,  just  seventeen  years  of  age,  to  gather 
flowers  in  the  garden;  and  presently  came  run- 
ning, terrified,  into  the  hall  to  her  father,  say- 
ing, "Oh,  dear  father,  I  have  met  myself!" 
He  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  told  her  it  was 
fancy,  but  she  said,  "Oh  no!  I  met  myself  in 
the  broad  walk,  and  I  was  pale  and  gathering 
withered  flowers,  and  I  turned  my  head,  and 
held  them  up!"  And,  that  night,  she  died; 
and  a  picture  of  her  story  was  begun,  though 


558 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


never  finished,  and  they  say  it  is  somewhere  in 
the  house  to  this  day,  with  its  face  to  the  wall. 

Or,  the  uncle  of  my  brother's  wife  was  rid- 
ing home  on  horseback,  one  mellow  evening  at 
sunset,  when,  in  a  green  lane  close  to  his  own 
house,  he  saw  a  man  standing  before  him,  in 
the  very  centre  of  the  narrow  way.  "Why 
does  that  man  in  the  cloak  stand  there !  "  he 
thought.  "Does  he  want  me  to  ride  over 
him?"  But  the  figure  never  moved.  He  felt 
a  strange  sensation  at  seeing  it  so  still,  but 
slackened  his  trot  and  rode  forward.  When 
he  was  so  close  to  it,  as  almost  to  touch  it  with 
his  stirrup,  his  horse  shied,  and  the  figure 
glided  up  the  bank,  in  a  curious,  unearthly 
manner — backward,  and  without  seeming  to  use 
its  feet — and  was  gone.  The  uncle  of  my 
brother's  wife,  exclaiming,  "Good  Heaven! 
It's  my  cousin  Harry,  from  Bombay!"  put 
spurs  to  his  horse,  which  was  suddenly  in  a  pro- 
fuse sweat,  and,  wondering  at  such  strange 
behaviour,  dashed  round  to  the  front  of  his 
house.  There,  he  saw  the  same  figure,  just 
passing  in  at  the  long  French  window  of  the 
drawing-room,  opening  on  the  ground.  He 
threw  his  bridle  to  a  servant,  and  hastened  in 
after  it.  His  sister  was  sitting  there,  alone. 
"Alice,  Where's  my  cousin  Harry?"  "Your 
cousin  Harry,  John?"  "Yes.  From  Bombay. 
I  met  him  in  the  lane  just  now,  and  saw  him 
enter  here,  this  instant."  Not  a  creature  had 
been  seen  by  any  one;  and  in  that  hour  and 
minute,  as  it  afterwards  appeared,  this  cousin 
died  in  India. 

Or,  it  was  a  certain  sensible  old  maiden  lady, 
who  died  at  ninety-nine,  and  retained  her  facul- 
ties to  the  last,  who  really  did  see  the  Orphan 
Boy;  a  story  which  has  often  been  incorrectly 
told,  but,  of  which  the  real  truth  is  this — be- 
cause it  is,  in  fact,  a  story  belonging  to  our 
family — and  she  was  a  connection  of  our  fam- 
ily. When  she  was  about  forty  years  of  age, 
and  still  an  uncommonly  fine  woman  (her  lover 
died  young,  which  was  the  reason  why  she  never 
married,  though  she  had  many  offers),  she  went 
to  stay  at  a  place  in  Kent,  which  her  brother, 
an  Indian-Merchant,  had  newly  bought.  There 
was  a  story  that  this  place  had  once  been  held 
in  trust,  by  the  guardian  of  a  young  boy;  who 
was  himself  the  next  heir,  and  who  kille«l  the 
young  boy  by  harsh  and  cruel  treatment.  She 
knew  nothing  of  that.  It  has  been  said  that 
there  was  a  Cage  in  her  bedroom  in  which  the 
guardian  used  to  put  the  boy.  There  was  no 
such  thing.  There  was  only  a  closet.  She  went 
to  bod,  made  no  alarm  whatever  in  the  night, 
and    in   the   morning  said   composedly   to   her 


maid  when  she  came  in,  "Who  is  the  pretty 
forlorn-looking  child  who  has  been  peeping  out 
of  that  closet  all  night?"  The  maid  replied 
by  giving  a  loud  scream,  and  instantly  de- 
camping. She  was  surprised;  but  she  was  a 
woman  of  remarkable  strength  of  mind,  and 
she  dressed  herself  and  went  downstairs,  and 
closeted  herself  with  her  brother.  ' '  Now,  Wal- 
ter,"  she  said,  "I  have  been  disturbed  all 
night  by  a  pretty,  forlorn-looking  boy,  who  has 
been  constantly  peeping  out  of  that  closet  in 
my  room,  which  I  can't  open.  This  is  some 
trick."  "I  am  afraid  not,  Charlotte,"  said 
he,  "for  it  is  the  legend  of  the  house.  It  is 
the  Orphan  Boy.  What  did  he  do?"  "He 
opened  the  door  softly,"  said  she,  "and 
peeped  out.  Sometimes,  he  came  a  step  or  two 
into  the  room.  Then,  I  called  to  him,  to  en- 
courage him,  and  he  shrunk,  and  shuddered, 
and  crept  in  again,  and  shut  the  door."  "The 
closet  has  no  communication,  Charlotte,"  said 
her  brother,  ' '  with  any  other  part  of  the  house, 
and  it's  nailed  up."  This  was  undeniably 
true,  and  it  took  two  carpenters  a  whole  fore- 
noon to  get  it  open,  for  examination.  Then, 
she  was  satisfied  that  she  had  seen  the  Orphan 
Boy.  But,  the  wild  and  terrible  part  of  the 
story  is,  that  he  was  also  seen  by  three  of  her 
brother's  sons,  in  succession,  who  all  died 
young.  On  the  occasion  of  each  child  being 
taken  ill,  he  came  home  in  a  heat,  twelve  hours 
before,  and  said,  Oh,  Mamma,  he  had  been 
playing  under  a  particular  oak-tree,  in  a  certain 
meadow,  with  a  strange  boy — a  pretty,  forlorn- 
looking  boy,  who  was  very  timid,  and  made 
signs!  From  fatal  experience,  the  parents 
came  to  know  that  this  was  the  Orphan  Boy, 
and  that  the  course  of  that  child  whom  he 
chose  for  his  little  playmate  was  surely  run. 

Legion  is  the  name  of  the  German  castles, 
where  we  sit  up  alone  to  wait  for  the  Spectre — 
where  we  are  shown  into  a  room,  made  com- 
paratively cheerful  for  our  reception — where  we 
glance  round  at  the  shadows,  thrown  on  the 
blank  walls  by  the  crackling  fire — where  we 
feel  very  lonely  when  the  village  innkeeper  and 
his  pretty  daughter  have  retiretl,  after  laying 
down  a  fresh  store  of  wood  upon  the  hearth, 
and  setting  forth  on  the  small  table  such  sup- 
per-cheer as  a  cold  roast  capon,  bread,  grapes, 
and  a  flask  of  old  Rhine  wine — whore  the  rever- 
berating doors  close  on  their  retreat,  one  after 
another,  like  so  many  peals  of  sullen  thunder — 
and  where,  about  the  small  hours  of  the  night, 
we  come  into  the  knowledge  of  divers  super- 
natural mysteries.  Legion  is  the  name  of  the 
haunted  German  students,  in  whose  society  we 


Wn^LIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 


559 


^raw  yet  nearer  to  the  fire,  while  the  schoolboy 
in  the  corner  opens  his  eyes  wiile  and  round, 
autl  flies  ofl:  the  footstool  he  has  chosen  for  his 
seat,  when  the  door  accidentally  blows  open. 
Vast  is  the  crop  of  such  fruit,  shining  on  our 
Christmas  Tree ;  in  blossom,  almost  at  the  very 
■top;  ripening  all  down  the  boughs! 

Among  the  later  toys  and  fancies  hanging 
tl,ere— as  idle  often  and  less  pure — be  the 
image  once  associated  with  the  sweet  old  Waits, 
the  "softened  music  in  the  night,  ever  unalter- 
able! Encircled  by  the  social  thoughts  of 
Christmas  time,  still  let  the  benignant  figure  of 
my  childhood  stand  unchanged !  In  every  cheer- 
ful image  and  suggestion  that  the  season 
brings,  may  the  bright  star  that  rested  above 
the  poor  roof  be  the  star  of  all  the  Christian 
World!  A  moment's  pause,  O  vanishing  tree, 
of  which  the  lower  boughs  are  dark  to  me  as 
yet,  and  let  me  look  once  more!  I  know  there 
are'  blank  spaces  on  thy  branches,  where  eyes 
that  I  have  loved  have  shone  and  smiled;  from 
which  they  are  departed.  But,  far  above,  I  see 
the  raiser  of  the  dead  girl,  and  the  Widow's 
Son;  and  God  is  good!  If  Age  be  hiding  for 
me  in  the  unseen  portion  of  thy  downward 
growth,  O  may  I,  with  a  grey  head,  turn  a 
i-hild's  heart  to  that  figure  yet,  and  a  child's 
trustfulness  and  confidence! 

Now,  the  tree  is  decorated  with  bright  merri- 
ment, and  song,  and  dance,  and  cheerfulness. 
And  they  are  welcome.  Innocent  and  welcome 
be  they  ever  held,  beneath  the  branches  of  the 
Christmas  Tree,  which  cast  no  gloomy  shadow! 
But,  as  it  sinks  into  the  ground,  I  hear  a  whis- 
per going  through  the  leaves,  "This,  in  com- 
memoration of  the  law  of  love  and  kindness, 
mercy,  and  compassion.  This,  in  remembrance 
of  Me!" 

WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACK- 
ERAY (1811-1863) 

From    THE    ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS    OF 
THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY* 

Goldsmith 

"3et4  sur  cette  boule. 

Laid,  chetif  et  souffrant ; 
Etouflfe  dans  la  foule, 

Faute  d'etre  assez  grand : 

I'ne  plainte  toiuhanto 

l>e  ma  honche  sortit. 
Lo  hon  Dieu  me  dit :    Chante, 

Chanto,   pauvre  petit ! 

•  These  papers,  six  In  number,  were  prepared  by 
Thackeray  as  lectures  and  were  delivered  in 
Knirland  in  18.51,  and  In  America  in  the  winter 
of  lH.".2-.5:i.  The  first  lecture  dealt  with  Swift, 
thf  last  with  Sterne  and  Goldsmith. 


Chanter,  ou  je  m'abuse, 

Est  ma  tacho  Ici-bas. 
Tous  ceux  qu'ainsi  j'amuse, 

Ne  m'almeront-ils  pas?"t 

In  those  charming  lines  of  B^ranger,  one  may 
fancy  described  the  career,  the  suiferings,  the 
genius,  the  gentle  nature  of  Goldsmith,  and 
the  esteem  in  which  we  hold  him.  Who,  of  the 
millions  whom  he  has  amused,  doesn't  love  himi 
To  be  the  most  beloved  of  English  writers,  what 
a  title  that  is  for  a  man!  A  wild  youth,  way- 
ward, but  full  of  tenderness  and  affection, 
quits  the  country  village,  where  his  boyhood 
has  been  passed  in  happy  musing,  in  idle  shel- 
ter, in  fond  longing  to  see  the  great  world  out 
of  doors,  and  achieve  name  and  fortune:  and 
after  years  of  dire  struggle,  and  neglect  and 
poverty,  his  heart  turning  back  as  fondly  to 
his  native  place  as  it  had  longed  eagerly  for 
change  when  sheltered  there,  he  writes  a  book 
and  a  poem,  full  of  the  recollections  and  feel- 
ings of  home:  he  paints  the  friends  and  scenes 
of  his  youth,  and  peoples  Auburn  and  Wake- 
fieldt  with  remembrances  of  Lissoy.  Wander 
he  must,  but  he  carries  away  a  home-relic  with 
him,  and  dies  with  it  on  his  breast.  His  nature 
is  truant;  in  repose  it  longs  for  change:  as  on 
the  journey  it  looks  back  for  friends  and  quiet. 
He  passes  to-day  in  building  an  air-castle  for 
to-morrow,  or  in  writing  yesterday's  elegy;  and 
he  would  fly  away  this  hour,  but  that  a  cage  and 
necessity  keep  him.  What  is  the  charm  of  his 
verse,  of  his  style,  and  humour?  His  sweet 
regrets,  his  delicate  compassion,  his  soft  smile, 
his  tremulous  sympathy,  the  weakness  which 
he  owns?  Your  love  for  him  is  half  pity.  You 
come  hot  and  tired  from  the  day's  battle,  and 
this  sweet  minstrel  sings  to  you.  Who  could 
harm  the  kind  vagrant  harper?  Whom  did  he 
ever  hurt?  He  carries  no  weapon,  save  the 
harp  on  which  he  plays  to  you ;  and  with  which 
he  delights  great  and  humble,  young  and  old, 

t  Beranger  (1780-1851)  was  a  kind  of  French 
Burns,  a  writer  of  songs  beloved  by  the  people. 
The  lines  may  be  translated  somewhat  freely 
thus : 

Flung  Into  life. 

Dwarfed,  ugly,  in  pain ; 
Nigh  crushed  in  the  strife 
Where  I  struggle  in  vain ; 

What  wonder,  should  spring  ^ 

To  my  lips  my  dole? 
God  said  to  me,  "Sing ! 

Sing,  poor  little  soul !" 

So  my  task  here  below 

Is  a-slnging  to  rove ; 
If  pleasure  I  sow. 

Shall  I  not  reap  love? 

t  The  scenes  respectively  of  the  poem  and  the  ro- 
mance on  which  Goldsmith's  literary  reputa- 
tion chiefly  rests.  Compare  The  Deneried 
Village  and  the  notes  thereon,  p.  .173. 


560 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


the  captains  in  the  tents,  or  the  soldiers  round 
tlie  firo,  or  the  women  and  children  in  the  vil- 
lages, at  whose  porches  he  stops  and  sings  his 
simple  songs  of  love  and  beauty.  With  that 
sweet  story  of  the  "Vicar  of  Wakefield"  he 
has  found  entry  into  every  castle  and  every 
hamlet  in  Europe.  Not  one  of  us,  however 
busy  or  hard,  but  once  or  twice  in  our  lives 
has  passed  an  evening  with  him,  and  undergone 
the  charm  of  his  delightful  music. 

Goldsmith's  father  was  no  doubt  the  good 
Doctor  Primrose,!  whom  we  all  of  us  know. 
Swift  was  yet  alive,  when  the  little  Oliver  was 
born  at  Pallas,  or  Pallasmore,  in  the  county 
of  Longford,  in  Ireland.  In  1730,  two  years 
after  the  child's  birth,  Charles  Goldsmith  re- 
moved his  family  to  Lissoy,  in  the  county  West- 
meath,  that  sweet  ' '  Auburn ' '  which  every  per- 
son who  hears  me  has  seen  in  fancy.  Here  the 
kind  parson  brought  up  his  eight  children;  and 
loving  all  the  world,  as  his  son  says,  fancied 
all  the  world  loved  him.  He  had  a  crowd  of 
poor  dependants  besides  those  hungry  children. 
He  kept  an  open  table;  round  which  sat  flat- 
terers and  poor  friends,  who  laughed  at  the 
honest  rector's  many  jokes,  and  ate  the  produce 
of  his  seventy  acres  of  farm.  Those  who  have 
seen  an  Irish  house  in  the  present  day  can  fancy 
that  one  of  Lissoy.  The  old  beggar  still  has  his 
allotted  corner  by  the  kitchen  turf;  2  the 
maimed  old  soldier  still  gets  his  potatoes  and 
buttermilk;  the  poor  cottiers  still  asks  his 
honour's  charity,  and  prays  God  bless  his  rever- 
ence for  the  sixpence;  the  ragged  pensioner 
still  takes  his  place  by  right  and  sufferance. 
There's  still  a  crowd  in  the  kitchen,  and  a 
crowd  round  the  parlour  table,  profusion,  con- 
fusion, kindness,  poverty.  If  an  Irishman 
comes  to  London  to  make  his  fortune,  he  has  a 
half-dozen  of  Irish  dependants  who  take  a 
percentage  of  his  earnings.  The  good  Charles 
Goldsmith  left  but  little  provision  for  his  hun- 
gry race  when  death  summoned  him ;  and  one  of 
his  daughters  being  engaged  to  a  Squire  of 
rather  superior  dignity,  Charles  Goldsmith  im- 
poverished the  rest  of  his  family  to  provide  the 
girl  with  a  dowry. 

The  smallpox  which  scourged  all  Europe  at 
that  time,  and  ravaged  the  roses  oflf  the  cheeks 
of  half  the  world,  fell  foul  of  poor  little 
Oliver's  face,  when  the  child  was  eight  years 
old,  and  left  him  scarred  and  disfigured  for  his 
life.  An  old  woman  in  his  father's  village 
taught  him  his  letters,  and  pronounced  him  a 


1  The   "Vicar' 

WBkoflPirt). 

2  peat 


(of  8  A  peasant  rentlnfc  and 
cultivatinK  a  Hmnll 
holding. 


dunce:  Paddy  Byrne,  the  hedge-schoolmaster,^ 
took  him  in  hand:  and  from  Paddy  Byrne  he 
was  transmitted  to  a  clergyman  at  Elphin. 
When  a  child  was  sent  to  school  in  those  days, 
the  classic  phrase  was  that  he  was  placed 
under  ]Mr.  So-and-so's  ferule.  Poor  little  an- 
cestors! It  is  hard  to  think  how  ruthlessly 
you  were  birched;  and  how  much  of  needless 
whipping  and  tears  our  small  forefathers  had 
to  undergo!  A  relative — kind  uncle  Contarine 
— took  the  main  charge  of  little  Noll ;  who  went 
through  his  schooldays  righteously  doing  as  lit- 
tle work  as  he  could:  robbing  orchards,  playing 
at  ball,  and  making  his  pocket-money  fly  about 
whenever  fortune  sent  it  to  him.  Everybody 
knows  the  story  of  that  famous  • '  Mistake  of  a 
Night,"  when  the  young  schoolboy,  provided 
with  a  guinea  and  a  nag,  rode  up  to  the  "best 
house ' '  in  Ardagh,  called  for  the  landlord 's 
company  over  a  bottle  of  wine  at  supper,  and 
for  a  hot  cake  for  breakfast  in  the  morning; 
and  found,  when  he  asked  for  the  bill,  that  the 
best  house  was  Squire  Featherstone 's,  and  not 
the  inn  for  which  he  mistook  it.^  Who  does  not 
know  every  story  about  Goldsmith?  That  is  a 
delightful  and  fantastic  picture  of  the  child 
dancing  and  capering  about  in  the  kitchen  at 
home,  when  the  old  fiddler  gibed  at  him  for  his 
ugliness,  and  called  him  JEsop;o  and  little  Noll 
made  his  repartee  of  "Heralds  proclaim  aloud 
this  saying — See  ^sop  dancing  and  his  monkey 
playing."  One  can  fancy  a  queer  pitiful  look 
of  humour  and  appeal  upon  that  little  scarred 
face — the  funny  little  dancing  figure,  the  funny 
little  brogue.  In  his  life,  and  his  writings, 
which  are  the  honest  expression  of  it,  he  is 
constantly  bewailing  that  homely  face  and  per- 
son; anon  he  surveys  them  in  the  glass  rue- 
fully; and  presently  assumes  the  most  comical 
dignity.  He  likes  to  deck  out  his  little  person 
in  splendour  and  fine  colours.  He  presented 
himself  to  be  examined  for  ordination  in  a  pair 
of  scarlet  breeches,  and  said  honestly  that  he 
did  not  like  to  go  into  the  Church,  because  he 
was  fond  of  coloured  clothes.  When  he  tried 
to  practise  as  a  doctor,  he  got  by  hook  or  by 
crook  a  black  velvet  suit,  and  looked  as  big  and 
grand  as  he  could,  and  kept  his  hat  over  a 
patch  on  the  old  coat:  in  better  days  he 
bloomed  out  in  plum-colour,  in  blue  silk,  and  in 
new  velvet.     For  some  of  those  splendours  the 

4  Open  air  schools,  held  by  hedge-sides,  wore  once 
common  in  Ireland. 

•I  The  Joke  was  actually  played  on  Goldsmith,  and 
he  worked  it  into  the  plot  of  his  play.  Hlw 
Stoops   to   Conquer. 

«  This  traditionary  (Jreek  writer  of  fables  is  repre- 
sented to  have  been  deformed. 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 


561 


heirs  and  assignees  of   Mr.   Filby,  the  tailor, 
have  never  been  paid  to  this  day:  perhaps  the 

!    kind  tailor  and  his  creditor  have  met  and  set- 
tled their  little  account  in  Hades. 

They  showed  until  lately  a  window  at  Trinity 
College,  Dublin,  on  which  the  name  of  O.  Gold- 
smith was  engraved  with  a  diamond.  Whose 
diamond  was  it  ?  Not  the  young  sizar  's,7  who 
made  but  a  poor  figure  in  that  place  of  learn- 
ing. He  was  idle,  penniless,  and  fond  of  pleas- 
ure: he  learned  his  way  early  to  the  pawn- 
broker's shop.  He  wrote  ballads,  they  say. 
for  the  street  singers,  who  paid  him  a  crown 
for  a  poem:  and  his  pleasure  was  to  steal  out 
at  night  and  hear  his  verses  sung.  He  was 
chastised  by  his  tutor  for  giving  a  dance  in  his 
rooms,  and  took  the  box  on  the  ear  so  much  to 
heart,  that  he  packed  up  his  all,  pawned  his 
books  and  little  property,  and  disappeared  from 
college  and  family.  He  said  he  intended  to  go 
to  America,  but  when  his  money  was  spent,  the 
young  prodigal  came  home  ruefully,  and  the 
good  folks  there  killed  their  calf — it  was  but 
a  lean  one — and  welcomed  him  back. 

After  college  he  hung  about  his  mother's 
house,  and  lived  for  some  years  the  life  of  a 
buckeens — passed  a  month  with  this  relation 
and  that,  a  year  with  one  patron,  a  great  deal 
of  time  at  the  public-house.  Tired  of  this  life, 
it  was  resolved  that  he  should  go  to  London, 
and  study  at  the  Temple ;»  but  he  got  no 
farther  on  the  road  to  London  and  the  wool- 
sackio  than  Dublin,  where  he  gambled  away  the 
fifty  pounds  given  to  him  for  his  outfit,  and 
whence  he  returned  to  the  indefatigable  for- 
giveness of  home.  Then  he  determined  to  be 
a  doctor,  and  uncle  Contarine  helped  him  to  a 
couple  of  years  at  Edinburgh.  Then  from  Edin- 
burgh he  felt  that  he  ought  to  hear  the  famous 
professors  of  Leyden  and  Paris,  and  wrote 
most  amusing  pompous  letters  to  his  uncle  about 

Jth^great  Farheim,  Du  Petit,  and  Duhamel  du 
Monceau,  whose  lectures  he  proposed  to  follow. 
If  uncle  Contarine  believed  those  letters — if 
Oliver's  mother  believed  that  story  which  the 
youth  related  of  his  going  to  Cork,  with  the 
purpose  of  embarking  for  America,  of  his  hav- 
ing paid  his  passage-money,  and  having  sent  his 
kit  on  board ;  of  the  anonymous  captain  sailing 
away  with  Oliver 's  valuable  luggage  in  a  name- 
less ship,  never  to  return;  if  uncle  Contarine 
and   the   mother    at    Ballymahon,    believed    his 


7  A    student   given    free 

rations,  usually  iu 
return  for  menial 
services. 

8  An    idle    jounger    son 

of  the  poorer  aris- 
tocracy. 


9  Quarters   occupied    by 

students  of  law. 

10  T  lie    cushion,    and 

hence  the  oflSce.  of 
the  Lord  High 
Chancellor, 


stories,  they  must  have  been  a  very  simple  pair; 
as  it  was  a  very  simple  rogue  indeed  who 
cheated  them.  When  the  lad,  after  failing  in 
his  clerical  examination,  after  faUing  in  his 
plan  for  studying  the  law,  took  leave  of  these 
projects  and  of  his  parents,  and  set  out  for 
Edinburgh,  he  saw  mother,  and  uncle,  and  lazy 
Ballymahon,  and  green  native  turf,  and  spark- 
ling river  for  the  last  time.  He  was  never  to 
look  on  old  Ireland  more,  and  only  in  fancy 
revisit  her. 

"But  me  not  destined  such  delights  to  share 
My  prime  of  life  in  wandering  spent  and  care. 
Impelled,  with  steps  unceasing  to  pursue 
Some  fleeting  good  that  mocks  me  with  the  view  ; 
That  like  the  circle  bounding  earth  and  skies 
Allures  from  far,  yet,  as  I   follow,   flies  : 
My  fortune  leads  to  traverse  realms  alone. 
And  find  no  spot  of  all  the  world  my  own."  ii 

I  spoke  in  a  former  lecture  of  that  high  cour- 
age which  enabled  Fielding,i2  in  spite  of  dis- 
ease, remorse,  and  poverty,  always  to  retain  a 
cheerful  spirit  and  to  keep  his  manly  benevo 
lence  and  love  of  truth  intact,  as  if  these  treas- 
ures had  been  confided  to  him  for  the  public 
benefit,  and  he  was  accountable  to  posterity  for 
their  honourable  employ;  and  a  constancy 
equally  happy  and  admirable  I  think  was  shown 
by  Goldsmith,  whose  sweet  and  friendly  nature 
bloomed  kindly  always  in  the  midst  of  a  life 's 
storm,  and  rain,  and  bitter  weather.  The  poor 
fellow  was  never  so  friendless  but  he  could  be- 
friend some  one ;  never  so  pinched  and  wretched 
but  he  could  give  of  his  crust,  and  speak  his 
word  of  compassion.  If  he  had  but  his  flute 
left,  he  could  give  that,  and  make  the  children 
happy  in  the  dreary  London  court.  He  could 
give  the  coals  in  that  queer  coal-scuttle  we  read 
of  to  his  poor  neighbour:  he  could  give  away 
his  blankets  in  college  to  the  poor  widow,  and 
warm  himself  as  he  best  might  in  the  feathers: 
he  could  pawn  his  coat  to  save  his  landlord  from 
gaol:  when  he  was  a  school-usher  he  spent  his 
earnings  in  treats  for  the  boys,  and  the  good- 
natured  schoolmaster's  wife  said  justly  that  she 
ought  to  keep  Mr.  Goldsmith's  money  as  well 
as  the  young  gentlemen 's.  When  he  met  his 
pupils  in  later  life,  nothing  would  satisfy  the 
Doctor  but  he  must  treat  them  still.  "Have 
you  seen  the  print  of  me  after  Sir  Joshua  Bey- 
noldsl"i3  he  asked  of  one  of  his  old  pupils. 
"Not  seen  it!  not  bought  it?  Sure,  Jack,  if 
your  picture  had  been  published,  I'd  not  have 


11  Goldsmith's  The  Trav- 

eller, lines  23-30. 

12  Henry     Fielding,    the 

novelist. 


13  Reynolds  painted  his 
portrait,  and  it 
was  engraved  in 
mezzotint  by  Mar- 
chi  in  1770. 


562 


THE  VICTOBIAN  AGE 


been  without  it  half-an-hour. "  His  purse  and 
his  heart  were  everybody's,  and  his  friends'  as 
much  as  his  own.  When  he  was  at  the  height 
of  his  reputation,  and  the  Earl  of  Northumber- 
land, going  as  Lord  Lieutenant  to  Ireland, 
asked  if  he  could  be  of  any  service  to  Doctor 
Goldsmith,  Goldsmith  recommended  his  brother, 
and  not  himself,  to  the  great  man.  "My 
patrons, ' '  he  gallantly  said,  ' '  are  the  book- 
sellers, and  I  want  no  others."  Hard  patrons 
they  were,  and  hard  work  he  did;  but  he  did 
not  complain  much:  if  in  his  early  writings 
some  bitter  words  escaped  him,  some  allusions 
to  neglect  and  poverty,  he  withdrew  these  ex- 
pressions when  his  works  were  republished,  and 
betters  days  seemed  to  open  for  him;  and  he 
did  not  care  to  complain  that  printer  or  pub- 
lisher had  overlooked  his  merit,  or  left  him 
poor.  The  Court  face  was  turned  from  honest 
Oliver,  the  Court  patronised  Beattie;!*  the 
fashion  did  not  shine  on  him — fashion  adored 
Sterne.i5  Fashion  pronounced  Kellyic  to  be 
the  great  writer  of  comedy  of  his  day.  A  little 
— not  ill-humour,  but  plaintiveness — a  little  be- 
trayal of  wounded  pride  which  he  showed  ren- 
der him  not  the  less  amiable.  The  author  of 
the  "Vicar  of  Wakefield"  had  a  right  to  pro- 
test when  Newberyi7  kept  back  the  manuscript 
for  two  years;  had  a  right  to  be  a  little  peevish 
with  Sterne;  a  little  angry  when  Colman'sis 
actors  declined  their  parts  in  his  delightful 
comedy,  when  the  manager  refused  to  have  a 
scene  painted  for  it,  and  pronounced  its  damna- 
tion before  hearing.  He  had  not  the  great 
public  with  him ;  but  he  had  the  noble  John- 
son, and  the  admirable  Eeynolds,  and  the 
great  Gibbon,  and  the  great  Burke,  and  the 
great  Fox — friends  and  admirers  illustrious  in- 
deed, as  famous  as  those  who,  fifty  years  be- 
fore, sat  round  Pope's  table. 

Nobody  knows,  and  I  dare  say  Goldsmith's 
buoyant  temper  kept  no  account  of,  all  the 
pains  which  he  endured  during  the  early  period 
of  his  literary  career.  Should  any  man  of  let- 
ters in  our  day  have  to  bear  up  against  such, 
Heaven  grant  he  may  come  out  of  the  period 
of  misfortune  with  such  a  pure  kind  heart  as 
that  which  Goldsmith  obstinately  bore  in  his 
breast.    The  insults  to  which  he  had  to  submit 


14  .Tamos  Beattic.  a  Scottish  poet. 

15  Laurence  8ternp,  author  of  Tristram  Shandji- 

10  Hugh  Kelly,  author  of  False  DeUcacy,  which 
was  produced  at  Drury  Lane  Just  before 
ColdRtiilth's  The  Onod-Satured  Man. 

17  A   publisher. 

18  (;eori;e  rdman  the  elder,  a  dramatist  and  man- 

ager, who  brought  out  Goldsmith's  ^hc  Stoops 
to  Conquer  only  after  much  urging  by  Dr. 
.JohOHon  and  his  friends. 


are  shocking  to  read  of — slander,  contumely,! 
vulgar  satire,  brutal  malignity  perverting  his 
commonest  motives  and  actions;  he  had  his 
share  of  these,  and  one 's  anger  is  roused  at 
reading  of  them,  as  it  is  at  seeing  a  woman 
insulted  or  a  child  assaulted,  at  the  notion  that 
a  creature  so  very  gentle  and  weak,  and  full 
of  love,  should  have  had  to  suffer  so.  And  he 
had  worse  than  insult  to  undergo — to  own  to 
fault  and  deprecate  the  anger  of  ruffians. 
There  is  a  letter  of  his  extant  to  one  Griffiths, 
a  bookseller,  in  which  poor  Goldsmith  is  forced 
to  confess  that  certain  books  sent  by  Griffiths 
are  in  the  hands  of  a  friend  from  whom  Gold- 
smith had  been  forced  to  borrow  money.  "lie 
was  wild,  sir,"  Johnson  said,  speaking  of  Gold- 
smith to  Boswell,  with  his  great,  wise  benevo- 
lence and  noble  mercifulness  of  heart — ' '  Dr. 
Goldsmith  was  wild,  sir;  but  he  is  so  no  more." 
Ah!  if  we  pity  the  good  and  weak  man  who 
suffers  undeservedly,  let  us  deal  very  gently 
with  him  from  whom  misery  extorts  not  only 
tears,  but  shame;  let  us  think  humbly  and 
charitably  of  the  human  nature  that  suffers  so 
sadly  and  falls  so  low.  Whose  turn  may  it  be 
to-morrow?  What  weak  heart,  confident  before 
trial,  may  not  succumb  under  temptation  in- 
vincible? Cover  the  good  man  who  has  been 
vanquished — cover  his  face  and  pass  on. 

For  the  last  half-dozen  years  of  his  life. 
Goldsmith  was  far  removed  from  the  pressure 
of  any  ignoble  necessity:  and  in  the  receipt, 
indeed,  of  a  pretty  large  income  from  the  book- 
sellers his  patrons.  Had  he  lived  but  a  few 
years  more,  his  public  fame  would  have  been 
as  great  as  his  private  reputation,  and  he  might 
have  enjoyed  alive  a  part  of  that  esteem  which 
his  country  has  ever  since  paid  to  the  vivid  and 
versatile  genius  who  has  touched  on  almost 
every  subject  of  literature,  and  touched  nothing 
that  he  did  not  adorn.  Except  in  rare  in- 
stances, a  man  is  known  in  our  profession,  and 
esteemed  as  a  skillful  workman,  years  before 
the  lucky  hit  which  trebles  his  usual  gains,  and 
stamps  him  a  popular  author.  In  the  strength 
of  his  age,  and  the  dawn  of  his  reputation, 
having  for  backers  and  friends  the  most  illus- 
trious literary  men  of  his  time,  fame  and  pros- 
perity might  have  been  in  store  for  Goldsmith, 
had  fate  .so  willed  it.  and,  at  forty-six,  had 
not  sudden  disease  carried  him  off.  I  say  pros- 
perity rather  than  competence,  for  it  is  prob- 
able that  no  sum  could  have  put  order  into  his 
affairs,  or  sufficed  for  his  irreclaimable  habits 
of  dissipation.  It  must  be  remembered  that 
he  owed  £2000  when  he  died.  "Was  ever 
poet,"  Johnson  asked,  "so  trusted  before?" 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 


563 


As  has  been  the  case  with  many  another  good 
fellow  of  his  nation,  his  life  was  tracked  and 
his  substance  wasted  by  crowds  of  hungry  beg- 
gars and  lazy  dependants.  If  they  came  at  a 
lucky  time  (and  be  sure  they  knew  his  affairs 
better  than  he  did  himself,  and  watched  his 
pay-day),  he  gave  them  of  his  money:  if  they 
begged  on  empty-purse  days,  he  gave  them  his 
promissory  bills:  or  he  treated  them  to  a 
tavern  where  he  had  credit ;  or  he  obliged  them 
with  an  order  upon  honest  Mr.  Filby  for  coats, 
for  which  he  paid  as  long  as  he  could  earn,  and 
until  the  shears  of  Filby  were  to  cut  for  him 
no  more.  Staggering  under  a  load  of  debt  and 
labour,  tracked  by  bailiffs  and  reproachful  cred- 
itors, running  from  a  hundred  poor  dependants, 
whose  appealing  looks  were  perhaps  the  hardest 
of  all  pains  for  him  to  bear,  devising  fevered 
plans  for  the  morrow,  new  histories,  new  come- 
dies, all  sorts  of  new  literary  schemes,  flying 
from  all  these  into  seclusion,  and  out  of  seclu- 
sion into  pleasure — at  last,  at  five-and-forty, 
death  seized  him  and  closed  his  career.  I  have 
been  many  a  time  in  the  chambers  in  the  Tem- 
ple which  were  his,  and  passed  up  the  staircase, 
wnich  Johnson  and  Burke  and  Reynolds  trod 
to  see  their  friend,  their  poet,  their  kind  Gold- 
smith— the  stair  on  which  the  poor  women  sat 
weeping  bitterly  when  they  heard  that  the 
greatest  and  most  generous  of  all  men  was  dead 
within  the  black  oak  door.  Ah!  it  was  a  dif- 
ferent lot  from  that  for  which  the  poor  fellow 
sighed,  when  he  wrote  with  heart  yearning  for 
home  those  most  charming  of  all  fond  verses, 
in  which  he  fancies  he  revisits  Auburn: — 

"Here,  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds, 
Amidst  thy  tangling  walks  and  ruined  grounds. 
And,  many  a  year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew, 
Remembrance  wakes,  with  all  her  busy  train, 
Swells    at    my    breast,     and     turns    the    past    to 
pain.     .      .      ."• 

In  these  verses,  I  need  not  say  with  what 
melody,  with  what  touching  truth,  with  what 
exquisite  beauty  of  comparison — as  indeed  in 
hundreds  more  pages  of  the  writings  of  this 
honest  soul — the  whole  character  of  the  man 
is  told — his  humble  confession  of  faults  and 
weakness;  his  pleasant  little  vanity,  and  desire 
that  his  village  should  admire  him;  his  simple 
scheme  of  good  in  which  everybody  was  to  be 
happy — no  beggar  was  to  be  refused  his  dinner 
— nobody  in  fact  was  to  work  much,  and  he  to 
be  the  harmless  chief  of  the  Utopia,t  and  the 

*  Thackeray's  quotation  here  from  The  Deserted 
Village  extends  through  thirty  lines  more, 
for  which  see  page  374,  II.  83-112. 

t  See  page  110  and  note. 


monarch  of  the  Irish  Yvetot.J  He  would  have 
told  again,  and  without  fear  of  their  failing, 
those  famous  jokes  which  had  hung  fire  in  Lon- 
don;! he  would  have  talked  of  his  great  friends 
of  the  Club — of  my  Lord  Clare  and  my  Lord 
Bishop,  my  Lord  Xugent — sure  he  knew  them 
intimately,  and  was  hand  and  glove  with  some 
of  the  best  men  in  town — and  he  would  have 
spoken  of  Johnson  and  of  Burke,  and  of  Sir 
Joshua  who  had  painted  him — and  he  would 
have  told  wonderful  sly  stories  of  Ranelagh  and 
the  Pantheon,2  and  the  masquerades  at  Madame 
Cornelys;3  and  he  would  have  toasted,  with  a 
sigh,  the  Jessamy  Bride* — the  lovely  Mary 
Horneck. 

The  figure  of  that  charming  young  lady 
forms  one  of  the  prettiest  recollections  of  Gold- 
smith's  life.  She  and  her  beautiful  sister,  who 
married  Bunbury,  the  graceful  and  humorous 
amateur  artist  of  those  days,  when  Gillray'  had 
but  just  begun  to  try  his  powers,  were  among 
the  kindest  and  dearest  of  Goldsmith's  many 
friends,  cheered  and  pitied  him,  travelled 
abroad  with  him,  made  him  welcome  at  their 
home,  and  gave  him  many  a  pleasant  holiday. 
He  bought  his  finest  clothes  to  figure  at  their 
country  house  at  Barton — he  wrote  them  droll 
verses.  They  loved  him,  laughed  at  him,  played 
him  tricks  and  made  him  happy.  He  asked  for 
a  loan  from  Garrick,o  and  Garrick  kindly  sup- 
plied him,  to  enable  him  to  go  to  Barton :  but 
there  were  to  be  no  more  holidays  and  only  one 
brief  struggle  more  for  poor  Goldsmith.  A 
lock  of  his  hair  was  taken  from  the  coflBn  and 
given  to  the  Jessamy  Bride.  She  lived  quite 
into  our  time.  Hazlitt^  saw  her  an  old  lady, 
but  beautiful  still,  in  Xorthcote's*  painting- 
room,  who  told  the  eager  critic  how  proud  she 
always  was  that  Goldsmith  had  admired  her. 
The  younger  Colman^  has  left  a  touching  rem- 
iniscence of  him    (vol.  i,  63,  64)  : — 

1  Compare  page  36.3.  6  David      Garrick,      the 

2  London     pleasure     re-  actor. 

sorts  of  that  time.        v  William    Hazlitt,    the 

3  Conductress  of  a  pub-  essayist. 

lie  place  for  social        8  James     Northcote,    of 
gatherings.  the    Royal    Acade- 

4  Goldsmith's   pet   name  my. 

for  this  young  girl        9  George  Colman.  a  dra- 
friend  of  his.  matist,   son   of   the 

5  James  GlUray,  a  cari-  Colman    mentioned 

caturist.  above. 

t  A  little  town  in  Normandy  whose  lords  were 
once  called  kings.  Beranger  wrote  a  ballad 
on  the  subject,  which  Thackeray  translated : 

There  was  a  king  of  Yvetot. 

Of  whom  renown  hath  little  said. 
Who  let  all  thoughts  of  glory  go. 

And  dawdled  half  his  days  abed ; 
And  every  night,  as  night  came  round, 
By  Jenny  with  a  nightcap  crowned, 

Slept  very  sound : 
Sing  bo,  bo,  ho '.  and  he,  he,  he ! 
That's  the  kind  of  king  for  me.     Etc. 


564 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


• '  I  was  only  five  years  old, ' '  he  says,  ' '  when 
Goldsmith  took  me  on  his  knee  one  evening 
whilst  he  was  drinking  coffee  with  my  father, 
and  began  to  play  with  me,  which  amiable  act 
I  returned,  with  the  ingratitude  of  a  peevish 
brat,  by  giving  him  a  very  smart  slap  on  the 
face:  it  must  have  been  a  tingler,  for  it  left 
the  marks  of  my  spiteful  paw  on  his  cheek. 
This  infantile  outrage  was  followed  by  sum- 
mary justice,  and  I  was  locked  up  by  my  indig- 
nant father  in  an  adjoining  room  to  undergo 
solitary  imprisonment  in  the  dark.  Here  I 
began  to  howl  and  scream  most  abominably, 
which  was  no  bad  step  towards  my  liberation, 
since  those  who  were  not  inclined  to  pity  me 
might  be  likely  to  set  me  free  for  the  purpose 
of  abating  a  nuisance. 

"At  length  a  generous  friend  appeared  to 
extricate  me  from  jeopardy,  and  that  generous 
friend  was  no  other  than  the  man  I  had  so 
wantonly  molested  by  assault  and  battery — 
it  was  the  tender-hearted  Doctor  himself,  with 
a  lighted  candle  in  his  hand  and  a  smile  upon 
his  countenance,  which  was  still  partially  red 
from  the  effects  of  my  petulance.  I  sulked  and 
sobbed  as  he  fondled  and  soothed,  till  I  began 
to  brighten.  Goldsmith  seized  the  propitious 
moment  of  returning  good-humour,  when  he  put 
down  the  candle  and  began  to  conjure.  He 
placed  three  hats,  which  happened  to  be  in  the 
room,  and  a  shilling  under  each.  The  shillings, 
he  told  me,  were  England,  France,  and  Spain. 
'Hey  presto  cockalorum!  '  cried  the  Doctor,  and 
lo,  on  uncovering  the  shillings,  which  had  been 
dispersed  each  beneath  a  separate  hat,  they 
were  all  found  congregated  under  one.  I  was 
no  politician  at  five  years  old,  and  therefore 
might  not  have  wondered  at  the  sudden  revolu- 
tion which  brought  England,  France,  and 
Spain  all  under  one  crown;  but  as  also  I  was 
no  conjurer,  it  amazed  me  beyond  measure. 
.  .  .  From  tiiat  time,  whenever  the  Doctor 
came  to  visit  my  father,  *  [  plucked  his  gown 
to  share  the  good  man's  smile;'  a  game  at 
romps  constantly  ensued,  and  we  were  always 
cordial  friends  and  merry  playfellows.  Our 
unequal  companionship  varied  somewhat  as  to 
sports  as  I  grew  older;  but  it  did  not  last  long: 
my  senior  playmate  <lied  in  his  forty-fifth  year, 
when  I  had  attained  my  eleventh.  ,  .  .  In 
all  the  numerous  accounts  of  his  virtues  and 
foibles,  his  genius  and  absurdities,  his  knowl 
rdge  of  nature  and  ignorance  of  the  world,  his 
'compassion  for  another's  woe'  was  always  pre- 
dominant ;  and  my  trivial  story  of  his  humour- 
ing a  froward  child  weighs  but  as  a  feather 
in  the  recorded  scale  of  his  benevolence." 


Think  of  him  reckless,  thriftless,  vain,  if  you 
like — but  merciful,  gentle,  generous,  full  of 
love  and  pity.  He  passes  out  of  our  life,  ami 
goes  to  render  his  account  beyond  it.  Think 
of  the  poor  pensioners  weeping  at  his  grave; 
think  of  the  noble  spirits  that  admired  and 
deplored  him;  think  of  the  righteous  pen  that 
wrote  his  epitaph — and  of  the  wonderful  and 
unanimous  response  of  affection  with  which  the 
world  has  paid  back  the  love  he  gave  it.  His 
humour  delighting  us  still:  his  song  fresh  and 
b-^autiful  as  when  first  he  charmed  with  it:  his 
words  in  all  our  mouths:  his  very  weaknesses 
beloved  and  familiar — his  benevolent  spirit 
seems  still  to  smile  upon  us ;  to  do  gentle  kind- 
nesses: to  succour  with  sweet  charity:  to 
soothe,  caress,  and  forgive:  to  plead  with  the 
fortunate  for  the  unhappy  and  the  poor. 

His  name  is  the  last  in  the  list  of  those  men 
of  humour  who  have  formed  the  themes  of  the 
discourses  which  you  have  heard  so  kindly. 

From  KOUNDABOUT  PAPEKS* 

De    JUVENTUTEI 

Our  last  paper  of  this  veracious  and  round- 
about series  related  to  a  period  which  can  only 
be  i.istorical  to  a  great  number  of  readers  of 
this  Magazine.  Four  I  saw  at  the  station 
to-day  with  orange-covered  books  in  their 
hands,  who  can  but  have  known  George  IV.- 
by  bookSj  and  statues,  and  pictures.  Elderly 
gentlemen  were  in  their  prime,  old  men  in  their 
middle  age,  when  he  reigned  over  us.  His 
inuige  remains  on  coins ;  on  a  picture  or  two 
hanging  here  and  there  in  a  Club  or  old- 
fashioned  dining-room ;  on  horseback,  as  at 
Trafalgar  Square,  for  example,  where  I  defy 
any  monarch  to  look  more  uncomfortable.  He 
turns  up  in  sundry  memoirs  and  histories  which 
may  have  been  published  in  Mr.  Massey'ss 
"History";  in  the  "Buckingham  and  Gren- 
ville  Correspondence";  and  gentlemen  who 
have  accused  a  certain  writer  of  disloyalty  are 
referred  to  those  volumes  to  see  whether  the 
picture     drawn     of     George     is     overcharged. 

1  "Upon  Youth." 

::  Died  1830. 

3  William  Masscy,  autlior  of  a  history  of  George 
Ill's  reign.  Grenville's  Memoirs  of  the  Court 
of  George  IV  had  Just  been  published  (1859). 
Thackoray's  lectiUTs  on  The  Four  Oeorijea  had 
been  delivered  about  live  years  before. 

*  In  emulation  of  Household  WordK.  of  which 
DIckeUH  had  madr  such  a  great  success  iti 
the  fifties.  The  Coriihill  Magazine  was  founded 
in  18«0  and  Thackeray  was  engaged  to  edit 
it.  The  "Roundabout  Tapers"  were  his  regu 
lar  contribution  for  three  years.  The  Maga- 
zine bore  an  orange  cover. 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 


5G5 


Charon*  has  paddled  him  off;  he  has  mingled 
with  the  crowded  republic  of  the  dead.  His 
effigy  smiles  from  a  canvas  or  two.  Breechless 
he  bestrides  his  steed  in  Trafalgar  Square.  I 
believe  he  still  wears  his  robes  at  Madame  Tus- 
saud's>  (Madame  herself  having  quitted  Baker 
Street  and  life,  and  found  him  she  modelled 
t'other  side  the  Stygian  stream).  On  the  head 
of  a  five-shilling  piece  we  still  occasionally 
come  upon  him,  with  St.  George,  the  dragon- 
slayer,  on  the  other  side  of  the  coin.f  Ah  me  I 
did  this  George  slay  many  dragons?  Was  he  a 
brave,  heroic  champion,  and  rescuer  of  virgins? 
Well!  Well!  have  you  and  I  overcome  all  the 
dragons  that  assail  us?  come  alive  and  vic- 
torious out  of  all  the  caverns  which  we  have 
t'utered  in  life,  and  succoured,  at  risk  of  life 
and  limb,  all  poor  distressed  persons  in  whose 
naked  limbs  the  dragon  Poverty  is  about  to 
fasten  his  fangs,  whom  the  dragon  Crime  is 
poisoning  with  his  horrible  breath,  and  about 
to  crunch  up  and  devour?  O  my  royal  liege! 
O  my  gracious  prince  and  warrior!  You  a 
champion  to  fight  that  monster?  Your  feeble 
spear  ever  pierce  that  slimy  paunch  or  plated 
back?  See  how  the  flames  come  gurgling  out 
of  his  red-hot  brazen  throat!  WTiat  a  roar! 
Nearer  and  nearer  he  trails,  with  eyes  flaming 
like  the  lamps  of  a  railroad  engine.  How  he 
squeals,  rushing  out  through  the  darkness  of 
his  tunnel!  Now  he  is  near.  Now  he  is  here. 
And  now — what? — lance,  shield,  knight,  feath- 
ers, horse  and  all?  O  horror,  horror!  Next 
day,  round  the  monster's  cave,  there  lie  a  few 
bones  more.  You,  who  wish  to  keep  yours  in 
your  skins,  be  thankful  that  you  are  not  called 
upon  to  go  out  and  fight  dragons.  Be  grateful 
that  they  don't  sally  out  and  swallow  you. 
Keep  a  wise  distance  from  their  caves,  lest  you 
pay  too  dearly  for  approaching  them.  Eemem- 
ber  that  years  passed,  and  whole  districts  were 
ravaged,  before  the  warrior  came  who  was  able 
to  cope  with  the  devouring  monster.  When 
that  knight  does  make  his  appearance,  with  all 
my  heart  let  us  go  out  and  welcome  him  with 
our  best  songs,  huzzas,  and  laurel  wreaths,  and 
eagerly  recognize  his  valour  and  victory.  But 
he  comes  only  seldom.  Countless  knights  were 
sfain  before  St.  George  won  the  battle.  Tn  the 
battle  of  life  are  we  all  going  to  try  for  the 
honours  of  championship?     If  we  can  do  our 

4  Ferryman  of  the  river  Styx. 

5  The  proprietress  of  a  famous  show-place  contain- 

ing wax  eflSgies  of  various  celebrities, 

t  St.   George   is   the   great   Christian    hero   of  the 

middle    ages,     and    legendary    slayer    of  the 

dragon    (the  devil ».   whereby  ho  delivered  the 

virgin    Sahrn    (tb"    Cburchi:    adopted    as  the 
patron  saint  of  lOn^land. 


duty,  if  we  can  keep  our  place  pretty  honour- 
ably through  the  combat,  let  us  say  Laus  Deo!^ 
at  the  end  of  it,  as  the  firing  ceases,  and  the 
night  falls  over  the  field. 

The  old  were  middle-aged,  the  elderly  were  in 
their  prime,  then,  thirty  years  since,  when  yon 
royal  George  was  till  fighting  the  dragon.  As 
for  you,  my  pretty  lass,  with  your  saucy  hat 
and  golden  tresses  tumbled  in  your  net,  and 
you,  my  spruce  young  gentleman  in  your  man- 
darin's  cap  (the  young  folks  at  the  country- 
place  where  I  am  staying  are  so  attired),  your 
parents  were  unknown  to  each  other,  and  wore 
short  frocks  and  short  jackets,  at  the  date  of 
this  five-shilling  piece.  Only  to-day  I  met  a 
dog-cart  crammed  with  children — children  with 
moustaches  and  mandarin  caps — children  with 
saucy  hats  and  hair-nets — children  in  short 
frocks  and  knickerbockers  (surely  the  prettiest 
boy 's  dress  that  has  appeared  these  hundred 
years) — children  from  twenty  years  of  age  to 
six;  and  father,  with  mother  by  his  side,  driv- 
ing in  front — and  on  father's  countenance  I 
saw  that  very  laugh  which  I  remember  per- 
fectly in  the  time  when  tliis  crown-piece  was 
coined — in  his  time,  in  King  George's  time, 
when  we  were  school-boys  seated  on  the  same 
form.  The  smile  was  just  as  broad,  as  bright, 
as  jolly,  as  I  remember  it  in  the  past — unfor- 
gotten,  though  not  seen  or  thought  of,  for  how 
many  decades  of  years,  and  quite  and  instantly 
familiar,  though  so  long  out  of  sight. 

Any  contemporary  of  that  coin  who  takes 
it  up  and  reads  the  inscription  round  the  lau- 
relled head,  ' '  Georgius  IV  Britanniarum  Rex. 
Fid.  Def.7  1823,"  if  he  will  but  look  steadily 
at  the  round,  and  utter  the  proper  incantation, t 
I  dare  say  may  conjure  back  his  life  there. 
Look  well,  my  elderly  friend,  and  tell  me  what 
you  see?  First,  I  see  a  Sultan,  with  hair, 
beautiful  hair,  and  a  crown  of  laurels  round 
his  head,  and  his  name  is  Georgius  Rex.  Fid. 
Def.,  and  so  on.  Now  the  Sultan  has  disap- 
peared; and  what  is  it  that  I  see?  A  boy, — 
a  boy  in  a  jacket.  He  is  at  a  desk ;  he  has 
great  books  before  him,  Latin  and  Greek  books 
and  dictionaries.  Yes,  but  behind  the  great 
books,  which  he  pretends  to  read,  is  a  little  one. 
with  pictures,  which  he  is  really  reading.     It 

6  "Praise  God." 

7  "King  of  Britain.  Defender  of  the  Faith." 

t  This  word  suggests  to  Thackeray's  fancy  the 
oriental  terms  in  which  he  proceeds  to  de- 
scribe the  vision.  The  king  is  a  "Sultan." 
The  conjurer  who  reviews  his  own  past  life 
sees  himself  as  a  school-boy  under  the  instruc- 
tion of  a  gowned  "dervish"  :  later,  as  a  college 
youth  in  cap  and  gown  he  is  himself  a  "der- 
vish." disciplined  by  an  old  proctor  perhaps 
Cmoollah. '  .iudge.  priest)  ;  and  so  on. 


566 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


is — yes,  1  can  read  now — it  is  the  "Heart  of 
Mid  Lothian,"  by  the  author  of  "Waverley" 
— or,  no,  it  is  "Life  in  London,  or  the  Adven- 
tures of  Corinthian  Tom,  Jeremiah  Hawthorn, 
and  their  friend  Bob  Logic,"  by  Pierce  Egan ; 
and  it  has  pictures — oh!  such  funny  pictures! 
As  he  reads,  there  comes  behind  the  boy,  a  man. 
a  dervish,  in  a  black  gown,  like  a  woman,  and 
a  black  square  cap,  and  he  has  a  book  in  each 
hand,  and  he  seizes  the  boy  who  is  reading  the 
picture-book,  and  lays  his  head  upon  one  of  his 
books,  and  smacks  it  with  the  other.  The  boy 
makes  faces,  and  so  that  picture  disappears. 

Now  the  boy  has  grown  bigger.  He  has  got 
on  a  black  gown  and  cap,  something  like  the 
dervish.  He  is  at  a  table,  with  ever  so  many 
bottles  on  it,  and  fruit,  and  tobacco;  and  other 
young  dervishes  come  in.  They  seem  as  if  they 
were  singing.  To  them  enters  an  old  moollah; 
he  takes  down  their  names,  and  orders  them 
all  to  go  to  bed.  What  is  this?  A  carriage, 
with  four  beautiful  horses  all  galloping — a  man 
in  red  is  blowing  a  trumpet.  Many  young  men 
are  on  the  carriage — one  of  them  is  driving  the 
horses.  Surely  they  won't  drive  into  that — ? 
— ah!  they  have  all  disappeared.  And  now  I 
see  one  of  the  young  men  alone.  He  is  walk- 
ing in  a  street  —  a  dark  street  —  presently  a 
light  comes  to  a  window.  There  is  the  shadow 
of  a  lady  who  passes.  He  stands  there  till  the 
light  goes  out.  Now  he  is  in  a  room  scribbling 
on  a  piece  of  paper,  and  kissing  a  miniature 
every  now  and  then.  There  seem  to  be  lines 
each  pretty  much  of  a  length.  I  can  read 
heart,  smart,  dart;  Mary,  fairy;  Cupid,  stupid; 
true,  you;  and  never  mind  what  more.  Bah! 
it  is  bosh.  Now  see,  he  has  got  a  gown  on 
again,  and  a  wig  of  white  hair  on  his  head,  and 
he  is  sitting  with  other  dervishes  in  a  great 
room  full  of  them,  and  on  a  throne  in  the 
middle  is  an  old  Sultan  in  scarlet,  sitting  be- 
fore a  desk,  and  he  wears  a  wig  too — and  the 
young  man  gets  up  and  speaks  to  him.  And 
now  what  is  here?  He  is  in  a  room  with  ever 
80  many  children,  and  the  miniature  hanging 
up.  Can  it  be  a  likeness  of  that  woman  who 
is  sitting  before  that  copper  urn  with  a  silver 
vase  in  her  hand,  from  which  she  is  pouring 
hot  liquor  into  cups?  Was  she  ever  a  fairy? 
She  is  as  fat  as  a  hippopotamus  now.  He  is 
sitting  on  a  divan  by  the  fire.  He  has  a  paper 
on  his  knees.  Read  the  name.  It  is  the  Super- 
fine Review.  It  inclines  to  think  that  Mr. 
Dickens  is  not  a  true  gentleman,  that  Mr. 
Thackeray  is  not  a  true  gentleman,  and  that 
when  the  one  is  pert  and  the  other  arch,  we,  the 
gentlemen  of  the  Superfine  Review,  think,  and 


think  rightly,  that  we  have  some  cause  to  be 
indignant.  The  great  cause  why  modern 
humour  and  modern  sentimentalism  repel  us, 
is  that  they  are  unwarrantably  familiar.  Now, 
Mr.  Sterne,  the  Superfine  Review  thinks,  "was 
a  true  sentimentalist,  because  he  was  above 
all  things  a  true  gentleman."  The  flattering 
inference  is  obvious;  let  us  be  thankful  for  an 
elegant  moralist  watching  over  us,  and  learn, 
if  not  too  old,  to  imitate  his  high-bred  polite- 
ness and  catch  his  unobtrusive  grace.  If  we 
are  unwarrantably  familiar,  we  know  who  is 
not.  If  we  repel  by  pertness,  we  know  who 
never  does.  If  our  language  offends,  we  know 
whose  is  always  modest.  O  pity!  The  vision 
has  disappeared  off  the  silver,  the  images  of 
youth  and  the  past  are  vanishing  away!  We 
who  have  lived  before  railways  were  made  be- 
long to  another  world.  In  how  many  hours 
could  the  Prince  of  Wales  drive  from  Brighton 
to  London,  with  a  light  carriage  built  ex- 
pressly, and  relays  of  horses  longing  to  gallop 
the  next  .stage?  Do  you  remember  Sir  Some- 
body, the  coachman  of  the  Age,  who  took  our 
half-crown  so  affably?  It  was  only  yesterday; 
but  what  a  gulf  between  now  and  then!  Then 
was  the  old  world.  Stage-coaches,  more  or  less 
swift,  riding-horses,  pack-horses,  highwaymen, 
knights  in  armour,  Norman  invaders,  Roman 
legions,  Druids,  Ancient  Britons  painted  blue, 
and  so  forth — all  these  belong  to  the  old  period. 
I  will  concede  a  halt  in  the  midst  of  it,  and 
allow  that  gunpowder  and  printing  tended  to 
modernize  the  world.  But  your  railroad  starts 
the  new  era,  and  we  of  a  certain  age  belong 
to  the  new  time  and  the  old  one.  We  are  of  the 
time  of  chivalry  as  well  as  the  Black  Prince^ 
or  Sir  Walter  ]\Ianny.2  We  are  of  the  age  of 
steam.  We  have  stepped  out  of  the  old  world 
on  to  "Brunei's"  vast  deck,3  and  across  the 
waters  ingens  patet  tellus.*  Towards  what  new 
continent  are  we  wending?  to  what  new  laws, 
new  manners,  new  politics,  vast  new  expanses 
of  liberties  unknown  as  yet,  or  only  surmised? 
I  used  to  know  a  man  who  had  invented  a 
flying-machine.  "Sir,"  he  would  say,  "give 
me  but  five  hundred  pounds,  and  I  will  make 
it.  It  is  so  simple  of  construction  that  I  trem- 
ble daily  lest  some  other  person  should  lifeht 
upon  and  patent  my  discovery, ' '  Perhaps  faith 
was  wanting;  perhaps  the  five  hundred  pounds. 
He  is  dead,  and  somebody  else  must  make  the 
flying-machine.     But  that  will  only  be  a  step 

1  The    son    of    Edward       s  Tho  steamship  "Orpat 

III  ;    horo    of    Pol-  Kaatprn."    doal^ned 

tiers,   1,356.  by     I.     K.     Brunol. 

2  A   soldier   of   Edward  1858. 

in.  *  "A  great  world  looms." 


ALFRED,  LOKD  TENNYSON 


567 


forward  on  the  journey  already  begun  since  j 
we  quitted  the  old  world.  There  it  lies  on  the 
other  side  of  yonder  embankments.  You  young 
folks  have  never  seen  it;  and  Waterloo^  is  to 
you  no  more  than  Agincourt,^  and  George  IV. 
than  Sardanapalus.7  We  elderly  people  have 
lived  in  that  pre-railroad  world,  which  has 
passed  into  limbo  and  vanished  from  under  us. 
I  tell  you  it  was  firm  under  our  feet  once,  and 
not  long  ago.  They  have  raised  those  railroad 
embankments  up,  and  shut  off  the  old  world 
that  was  behind  them.  Climb  up  that  bank  on 
which  the  irons  are  laid,  and  look  to  the  other 
side — it  is  gone.  There  is  no  other  side.  Try 
and  catch  yesterday.  Where  is  itf  Here  is  a 
Times  newspaper,  dated  Monday  26th,  and  this 
is  Tuesday  27th.  Suppose  you  deny  there  was 
such  a  day  as  yesterday. 

We  who  lived  before  railways,  and  survive 
out  of  the  ancient  world,  are  like  Father  Noah 
and  his  family  out  of  the  Ark.  The  children 
will  gather  round  and  say  to  us  patriarchs, 
' '  Tell  us,  grandpapa,  about  the  old  world. ' ' 
And  we  shall  mumble  our  old  stories;  and  we 
shall  drop  off  one  by  one;  and  there  will  be 
fewer  and  fewer  of  us,  and  these  very  old  and 
feeble.  There  will  be  but  ten  pre-railroad  ites 
left ;  then  three — then  two — then  one — then  O ! 
If  the  hippopotamus  had  the  least  sensibility 
(of  which  I  cannot  trace  any  signs  either  in 
his  hide  or  his  face),  I  think  he  would  go  down 
to  the  bottom  of  his  tank,  and  never  come  up 
again.  Does  he  not  see  that  he  belongs  to 
bygone  ages,  and  that  his  great  hulking  barrel 
of  a  body  is  out  of  place  in  these  times!  What 
has  he  in  common  with  the  brisk  young  life 
surrounding  him!  In  the  watches  of  the  night, 
when  the  keepers  are  asleep,  when  the  birds 
are  on  one  leg,  when  even  the  little  armadillo 
is  quiet,  and  the  monkeys  have  ceased  their 
chatter, — he,  I  mean  the  hippopotamus,  and  the 
elephant,  and  the  long-necked  giraffe,  perhaps 
may  lay  their  heads  together  and  have  a  col- 
loquy about  the  great  silent  antediluvian  world 
which  they  remember,  where  mighty  monsters 
floundered  through  the  ooze,  crocodiles  basked 
on  the  banks,  and  dragons  darted  out  of  the 
caves  and  waters  before  men  were  made  to  slay 
them.  We  who  lived  before  railroads  are  ante- 
diluvians— we  must  pass  away.  We  are  grow- 
ing scarcer  every  day;  and  old — old — very  old 
relics  of  the  times  when  George  was  still  fight- 
ing the  Dragon. 


ALFRED.  LORD  TENNYSON 
(1809-1892) 

THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT* 

PART   I 

On  either  side  the  river  lie 

Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye. 
That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky; 
And  thro'  the  field  the  road  runs  by 

To    many-tower  'd    Camelot ;  i 
And  up  and  down  the  people  go, 
Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  there  below, 

The  island  of  Shalott. 

Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver, 
Little  breezes  dusk  and  shiver 
Thro'  the  wave  that  runs  for  ever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 

Flowing  down  to  Camelot. 
Four  gray  walls,  and  four  gray  towers, 
Overlook  a  space  of  flowers. 
And  the  silent  isle  imbowers 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

By  the  margin,  willow-veil 'd, 
Slide  the  heavy  barges  trail 'd 
By  slow  horses;  and  unhail'd 
The  shallop  flitteth  silken-sail 'd 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot; 
But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand? 
Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand? 
Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott? 

Only  reapers,  reaping  early 
In  among  the  bearded  barley, 
Hear  a  song  that  echoes  cheerly 
From  the  river  winding  clearly, 

Down  to  tower 'd  Camelot; 
And  by  the  moon  the  reaper  weary, 
Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airy. 
Listening,  whispers  "  'T  is  the  fairy 

Lady  of  Shalott." 

PART  II 

There  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 
A  magic  web  with  colours  gay. 
She  has  heard  a  whisper  say, 
A  curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 


10 


20 


30 


5  Fought  1815. 
8  Fought  1415. 


7  An      Assyrian      king : 
died  626  B.  C. 


40 


1  The  place  of  Arthur's  court. 

*  This  is,  with  some  variations,  essentially  the 
storv  of  Elaine,  "the  lily  maid  of  Astolat." 
which  is  told  at  greater  length  and  with  more 
fidelity  in  the  IdijUs  of  the  King.  It  is  Tenny- 
son's earliest  venture  into  the  Arthurian  field. 


S68 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be, 
And  so  she  weaveth  steadily, 
And  little  other  care  hath  she. 
The  Lady  of  Shalott, 

And  moving  thro*  a  mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  all  the  year, 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear. 
There  she  sees  the  highway  near 

Winding  down  to  Camelot;  50 

There  the  river  eddy  whirls, 
And  there  the  surly  village-churls, 
And  the  red  cloaks  of  market  girls, 

Pass  onward  from  Shalott. 

Sometimes  a  troop  of  damsels  glad, 
An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad, 
Sometimes  a  curly  shepherd-lad, 
Or  long-hair 'd  page  in  crimson  clad, 

Goes  by  to  tower 'd  Camelot; 
And  sometimes  thro'  the  mirror  blue  60 

The  knights  come  riding  two  and  two: 
She  hath  no  loyal  knight  and  true, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 
To  weave  the  mirror's  magic  sights. 
For  often  thro'  the  silent  nights 
A  funeral,  with  plumes  and  lights 

And  music,  went  to  Camelot; 
Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead. 
Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed:  70 

"I  am  half  sick  of  shadows,"  said 

The  Lady  of  Shalott.f 

PART   III 

A  bow-shot  from  her  bower-eaves, 
He  rode  between  the  barley-sheaves, 
The  sun  came  dazzling  thro '  the  leaves, 
And  flamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 

Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot. 
A  red-cross  knight  for  ever  kneel  'd 
To  a  lady  in  his  shield, 
'That  sparkled  on  the  yellow  field,  80 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

The  gemmy  bridle  glitter 'd  free. 
Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 
Hung  in  the  golden  Galaxy.2 
The  bridle  bells  rang  merrily 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot; 
And  from  his  blazon 'd  baldric  slung 
A  mighty  silver  bugle  hung, 

2  The  Milky  Way. 

t  In  these  lines.  Bays  Tennyson's  son.  is  to  be 
found  the  key  to  the  poem.  The  allegory 
then,  If  one  be  desired,  is  not  bard  to  trace. 


90 


100 


110 


And  as  he  rode  his  armour  rung, 
Beside  remote  Shalott. 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick- jewell'd  shone  the  saddle-leather. 
The  helmet  and  the  helmet-feather 
Burn'd  like  one  burning  flame  together. 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot; 
As  often  thro'  the  purple  night. 
Below  the  starry  clusters  bright. 
Some  bearded  meteor,  trailing  light. 

Moves  over  still  Shalott. 

His  broad  clear  brow  in  sunlight  glow  'd ; 
On  burnish 'd  hooves  his  war-horse  trode; 
From  underneath  his  helmet  flow'd 
His  coal-black  curls  as  on  he  rode, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
From  the  bank  and  from  the  river 
He  flash 'd  into  the  crystal  mirror, 
' '  Tirra  lirra, ' '  by  the  river 

Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 

She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom. 
She  made  three  paces  thro '  the  room, 
She  saw  the  water-lily  bloom. 
She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume, 

She  look'd  down  to  Camelot. 
Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide; 
The  mirror  crack 'd  from  side  to  side; 
"The  curse  is  come  upon  me,"  cried 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


In  the  stormy  east-wind  straining, 

The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning, 

The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  complaining,  120 

Heavily  the  low  sky  raining 

Over  tower 'd  Camelot; 
Down  she  came  and  found  a  boat 
Beneath  a  willow  left  afloat. 
And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


And  down  the  river's  dim  expanse 
Like  some  bold  seer  in  a  trance. 
Seeing  all  his  own  mischance — 
With  a  glassy  countenance 

Did  she  look  to  Camelot. 
And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 
She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she  lay ; 
The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


l.SO 


Lying,  robed  in  snowy  white 

That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right  — 

The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light— 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON 


569 


'Thro'  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot;  140 

And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among, 
They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Heard  a  carol,  mournful,  holy, 
Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly, 
Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly. 
And  her  eyes  were  darken  'd  wholly, 

Turn'd  to  tower 'd  Camelot. 
For  ere  she  reach 'd  upon  the  tide  160 

The  first  house  by  the  water-side, 
Singing  in  her  song  she  died, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Under  tower  and  balcony, 

By  garden-wall  and  gallery, 

A  gleaming  shape  she  floated  by. 

Dead-pale  between  the  houses  high, 

Silent  into  Camelot. 
Out  upon  the  wharfs  they  came, 
Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame,  160 

And  round  the  prow  they  read  her  name, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Who  is  this?  and  what  is  here? 
And  in  the  lighted  palace  near 
Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer. 
And  they  cross 'd  themselves  for  fear. 

All  the  knights  at  Camelot: 
But  Lancelot  mused  a  little  space; 
He  said,  "She  has  a  lovely  face; 
God  in  his  mercy  lend  her  grace,  170 

The  Lady  of  Shalott." 

OINONE* 

There  lies  a  vale  in  Ida,  lovelier 

Than  all  the  valleys  of  Ionian  hills. 

The  swimming  vapour  slopes  athwart  the  glen. 

Puts   forth   an   arm,   and   creeps   from   pine  to 

pine. 
And  loiters,  slowly  drawn.     On  either  hand 
The  lawns  and  meadow-ledges  midway  down 
Hang  rich  in  flowers,  and  far  below  them  roars 
The  long  brook  falling  thro'  the  cloven  ravine 
In  cataract  after  cataract  to  the  sea. 
Behind  the  valley  topmost  Gargarus  10 

Stands  up  and  takes  the  morning;  but  in  front 
The  gorges,  opening  wide  apart,  reveal 
Troas  and  Ilion's  column 'd  citadel. 
The  crown  of  Troas. 

*  CEnone.  a  nymph  of  Mt.  Ida  in  the  Troad,  early 
the  beloved  of  the  shepherd  Paris,  mourns  his 
desertion  of  hei.  and  relates  the  story  of  the 
famous  ".ludgment  of  Paris"  which  led  to  the 
Trojan  war. 


Hither  came  at  noon-'  •-' 
Mournful  CEnone,  wandering  forlorn 
Of  Paris,  once  her  playmate  on  the  hills. 
Her  cheek  had  lost  the  rose,  and  round  her  neck 
Floated  her  hair  or  seem'd  to  float  in  rest. 
She,  leaning  on  a  fragment  twined  with   vine. 
Sang  to  the  stillness,  till  the  mountain-shade    20 
Sloped  downward   to  her  seat   from   the   upper 
cliflF. 

"O  mother  Ida,  many  fountain 'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
For  now  the  noonday  quiet  holds  the  hill; 
The  grasshopper  is  silent  in  the  grass; 
The  lizard,  with  his  shadow  on  the  stone. 
Rests  like  a  shadow,  and  the  winds  are  dead. 
The  purple  flower  droops,  the  golden  bee 
Is  Uly-cradled :  I  alone  awake. 
My  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  my  heart  of  love,     30 
My  heart  is  breaking  and  my  eyes  are  dim. 
And  I  am  all  aweary  of  my  life. 

"O  mother  Ida,  many-fountain 'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Hear  me,  O  earth,  hear  me,  O  hills,  O  caves 
That  house  the  cold  crown 'd  snake!    O  moun- 
tain brooks, 
I  am  the  daughter  of  a  River-God, 
Hear  me,  for  I  will  speak,  and  build  up  all 
My  sorrow  with  my  song,  as  yonder  walls 
Rose  slowly  to  a  music  slowly  breathed,!         40 
A  cloud  that  gather 'd  shape;  for  it  may  be 
That,  while  I  speak  of  it,  a  little  tvhile 
My  heart  may  wander  from  its  deeper  woe. 

"O  mother  Ida,  many-f ountain 'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
I   waited  underneath   the   dawning  hills; 
Aloft  the  mountain-lawn  was  dewy-dark, 
And  dewy-dark  aloft  the  mountain-pine. 
Beautiful  Paris,  evil-hearted  Paris, 
Leading   a  jet-black   goat   white-horn 'd.   white- 
hooved,  50 

Came  up  from  reedy  Simois  all  alone. 

"O  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Far  off  the  torrent  call'd  me  from  the  cleft; 
Far  up  the  solitary  morning  smote 
The  streaks  of  virgin  snow.     With  down-dropt 

eyes 
I  sat  alone;  white-breasted  like  a  star 
Fronting  the  dawn  he  moved;  a  leopard  skin 
Droop 'd  from  his  shoulder,  but  his  sunny  hair 
Cluster 'd  about  his  temples  like  a  God's; 
And    his    cheek    brighten  M    as    the    foam-bow 

brightens  60 

+  According  to  a  legend  in  Ovid,  the  walls  of  Troy 
rose  to  the  music  of  Apollo's  lyre. 


570 


THE  VICTOBIAN  AGE 


When  the  wind  blows  the  foam,  and  all  my 

heart 
Went  forth  to  embrace  him  coming  ere  he  came. 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
He  smiled,  and  opening  out  his  milk-white  palm 
Disclosed  a  fruit  of  pure  Hesperian  gold, 
That  smelt  ambrosially,  and  while  I  look'd 
And  listen  'd,  the  full-flowing  river  of  speech 
Came  down  upon  my  heart: 

*  My  own  GCnone, 
Beautiful-brow 'd  ffinone,  my  own  soul. 
Behold    this    fruit,    whose    gleaming    rind    in- 
graven  70 
"For  the  most  fair,"  would  seem  to  award  it 

thine, 
As  lovelier  than  whatever  Oreadi  haunt 
The  knolls  of  Ida,  loveliest  in  all  grace 
Of    movement,    and    the    charm    of    married 
brows. ' 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
He  prest  the  blossom  of  his  lips  to  mine. 
And  added,  'This  was  cast  upon  the  board. 
When  all  the  full-faced  presence  of  the  Gods 
Banged  in  the  halls  of  Peleus;^  whereupon 
Rose   feud,    with   question    unto    whom    'twere 
due;  80 

But  light-foot  Iriss  brought  it  yester-eve. 
Delivering,  that  to  me,  by  common  voice 
Elected  umpire,  Herfe  comes  to-day, 
Pallas  and  Aphrodite,*  claiming  each 
This  meed  of  fairest.     Thou,  within  the  cave 
Behind  yon  whispering  tuft  of  oldest  pine, 
Mayst  well  behold  them  unbeheld,  unheard 
Hear  all,  and  see  thy  Paris  judge  of  Gods.' 

' '  Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
It  was  the  deep  midnoon;  one  silvery  cloud    90 
Had  lost  his  way  between  the  piny  sides 
Of  this  long  glen.     Then  to   the   bower  they 

came, 
Naked  they  came  to  that  smooth-swarded  bower. 
And  at  their  feet  the  crocus  brake  like  fire, 
Violet,  amaracus,  and  asphodel, 
Lotos  and  lilies;  and  a  wind  arose, 
And  overhead  the  wandering  ivy  and  vine, 
This  way  and  that,  in  many  a  wild  festoon 
Ban  riot,  garlanding  the  gnarl^^d  boughs 
With   bunch   and   berry   and    flower   thro'   and 

thro '.  100 

"O  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
On  the  tree-tops  a  crested  peacock-  lit, 


1  Mountain  nymph. 

2  Tho    husband    of    the 

Koa-nymph  THoHh. 
and  the  father  of 
A<hllleH. 


8  The  meRsenRer  of  the 

KOdR. 

4  Juno,    MInorvn,    and 

VenuH. 
fi  Haered  to  .luno. 


And  o  'er  him  flow  'd  a  golden  cloud,  and  lean  'd 
Upon  him,  slowly  dropping  fragrant  dew. 
Then  first  I  heard  the  voice  of  her  to  whom 
Coming  thro'  heaven,  like  a  light  that  grows 
Larger  and  clearer,  with  one  mind  the  Gods 
Rise  up  for  reverence.     She  to  Paris  made 
Proffer  of  royal  power,  ample  rule 
Unquestion 'd,   overflowing   revenue  110 

Wherewith   to   embellish   state,   'from   many   a 

vale 
And    river-sunder 'd    champaign    clothed    with 

corn, 
Or  labour 'd  mine  undrainable  of  ore. 
Honour,'  she  said,  'and  homage,  tax  and  toll, 
From  many  an  inland  town  and  haven  large. 
Mast-throng 'd  beneath  her  shadowing  citadel 
In  glassy  bays  among  her  tallest  towers.' 

"O  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Still  she  spake  on  and  still  she  spake  of  power, 
'Which  in  all  action  is  the  end  of  all;         120 
Power  fitted  to  the  season;   wisdom-bred 
And   throned   of  wisdom — from   all    neighbour 

crowns 
Alliance  and  allegiance,  till  thy  hand 
Fail  from  the  sceptre-staff.     Such   boon  from 

me, 
From  me,  heaven's  queen,  Paris,  to  thee  king- 
born, 
A  shepherd  all  thy  life  but  yet  king-born,* 
Should    come    most    welcome,    seeing    men,    in 

power 
Only,  are  likest  Gods,  who  have  attain  'd 
Rest  in  a  happy  place  and  quiet  seats 
Above  the   thunder,  with  undying  bliss         130 
In  knowledge  of  their  own  supremacy. ' 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
She  ceased,  and  Paris  held  the  costly  fruit 
Out  at  arm's-length,  so  much  the  thought  of 

power 
Flatter 'd  his  spirit;  but  Pallas  where  she  stood 
Somewhat  apart,  her  clear  and  bared  limbs 
O'erthwarted  with  the  brazen-headed  spear 
Upon  her  pearly  shoulder  leaning  cold. 
The  while,  above,  her  full  and  earnest  eye 
Over  her  snow-cold  breast  and  angry  cheek   140 
Kept  watch,  waiting  decision,  made  reply: 
'Self-reverence,  self-knowledge,  self-control. 
These  three  alone  lead  life  to  sovereign  power. 
Yet  not  for  power   (power  of  herself 
Would  come  uncall  'd  for)  but  to  live  by  law, 
Acting  the  law  we  live  by  without  fear; 
And,  because  right  is  right,  to  follow  right 
Were  wisdom  in  the  scorn  of  eonsequence. ' 

•  Paris   was   the   son   of   Priam   of  Troy ;    he  had 
heen    left    exposed    on    tho    monntnln-slde    l»p- 
enusp   of   the   prophecy    that    he   would    liring    ] 
ruin  to  Troy.  ■ 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON 


571 


"Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Again  she  said :     '  I  woo  thee  not  with  gifts. 
Sequel  of  guerdon  could  not  alter  me  151 

To  fairer.     Judge  thou  me  by  what  I  am, 
So  shalt  thou  find  me  fairest. 

Yet,  indeed, 
If  gazing  on  divinity  disrobed 
Thy  mortal  eyes  are  frail  to  judge  of  fair, 
Unbias'd  by  self -profit,  0,  rest  thee  sure 
That  I  shall  love  thee  well  and  cleave  to  thee, 
So  that  my  vigour,  wedded  to  thy  blood, 
Shall  strike  within  thy  pulses,  like  a  God's, 
To  push  thee  forward  thro'  a  life  of  shocks,  160 
Dangers,  and  ileeds,  until  endurance  grow 
Sinew  'd   with  action,  and   the  full-grown   will. 
Circled  thro'  all  experiences,  pure  law, 
Commeasure    perfect    freedom,  't 

"Here  she  ceas'd. 
And  Paris  ponder 'd  and  I  cried,  *0  Paris, 
Give  it  to  Pallas!  '  but  he  heard  me  not, 
Or  hearing  would  not  hear  me,  woe  is  me! 

"O  mother  Ida,  many-f ountain 'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Idalian  Aphrodite  beautiful,  170 

Fresh    as    the    foam,    new-bathed    in    Paphian 

wells,t 
With  rosy  slender  fingers  backward  drew§ 
From  her  warm  brows  and  bosom  her  deep  hair 
Ambrosial,   golden   round   her  lucid   throat 
And  shoulder;   from  the  violets  her  light  foot 
Shone  rosy-white,  and  o'er  her  rounded  form 
Between  the  shadows  of  the  vine-bunches 
Floated  the  glowing  sunlights,  as  she  moved. 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
She  with  a  subtle  smile  in  her  mild  eyes,       180 
The  herald  of  her  triumph,  drawing  nigh 
Half-whisper 'd  in  his  ear,  'I   promise   thee 
The  fairest  and  most  loving  wife  in  Greece.' 
She  spoke  and  laugh 'd;   I  shut  my   sight   for 

fear; 
But  when  I  look'd,  Paris  had  raised  his  arm, 
And  I  beheld  great  Herfe's  angry  eyes, 
As  she  withdrew  into  the  golden  cloud, 
And  I  was  left  alone  within  the  bower; 
And  from  that  time  to  this  I  am  alone, 
And  I  shall  be  alone  until  I  die.  190 

"Yet,  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Fairest — why  fairest  wife!  am  T  not  fair? 


t  Thp  will,  tried  and  porfectPd  by  experience  until 
it  is  redeemed  from  all  temptation  to  lawless- 
ness, attains — and  only  then — to  perfect  free- 
dom. 

t  Idalia  and  Paphos.  in  Cyprus,  were  places  where 
Venus  was  especially  worshiped. 

§  Note  the  marked  delaying  effect  of  four  trochaic 
words  in  an  iambic  line. 


My  love  hath  told  me  so  a  thousand  times. 
Methinks  I  must  be  fair,  for  yesterday. 
When  I  past  by,  a  wild  and  wanton  pard. 
Eyed  like  the  evening  star,  with  playful  tail 
Crouch 'd  fawning  in  the  weed.    Most  loving  is 

she? 
Ah  me,  my  mountain  shepherd,  that  my  arms 
Were  wound  about  thee,  and  my  hot  lips  prest 
Close,  close  to  thine  in  that  quick-falling  dew 
Of  fruitful  kisses,  thick  as  autumn  rains       200 
Flash  in  the  pools  of  whirling  Simois! 

"O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
They  came,  they  cut  away  my  tallest  pines. 
My   tall   dark   pines,   that  plumed  the  craggy 

ledge 
High  over  the  blue  gorge,  and  all  between 
The  snowy  peak  and  snow-white  cataract 
Foster 'd  the  callow  eaglet — from  beneath 
Whose    thick    mysterious    boughs   in    the    dark 

morn 
The  panther's  roar  came  muffled,  while  I  sat 
Low  in  the  valley.    Never,  never  more  210 

Shall  lone  Oi^none  see  the  morning  mist 
Sweep  thro'  them;   never  see  them  overlaid 
With  narrow  moonlit  slips  of  silver  cloud. 
Between    the   loud   stream   and   the   trembling 

stars. 

"O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
I  wish  that  somewhere  in  the  ruin'd  folds. 
Among  the  fragments  tumbled  from  the  glens. 
Or  the  dry  thickets,  I  could  meet  with  her 
The  Abominable.e  that   uninvited   came         220 
Into  the  fair  Pelelan  banquet-hall. 
And  east  the  golden  fruit  upon  the  board, 
And  bred  this  change;  that  I  might  speak  my 

mind, 
And  tell  her  to  her  face  how  much  I  hate 
Her  presence,  hated  both  of  Gods  and  men. 

"O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hath  he  not  sworn  his  love  a  thousand  times. 
In  this  green  valley,  under  this  green  hill, 
Even  on  this  hand,  and  sitting  on  this  stone? 
Seal'd  it  with  kisses?  water 'd  it  with  tears?  230 
O  happy  tears,  and  how  unlike  to  these! 
O  happy  heaven,  how  canst  thou  see  my  face? 
O  happy  earth,  how  canst  thou  bear  my  weight? 

0  death,  death,  death,  thou  ever-floating  cloud. 
There  are  enough  unhappy  on  this  earth, 

Pass  by  the  happy  souls,  that  love  to  live; 

1  pray  thee,  pass  before  my  light  of  life, 
And  shadow  all  my  soul,  that  I  may  die. 
Thou  weighest  heavy  on  the  heart  within. 
Weigh  heavy  on  my  eyelids;  let  me  die.        240 

6  Erls,  or  "Strife"  :  whence  the  apple  was  called 
the  "Apple  of  Discord."' 


572 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


"O  mother,  hear  lue  yet  before  1  (lie. 
I  will  not  die  alone,^  for  fiery  thoughts 
Do  shape  themselves  within  me,  more  and  more, 
Whereof  1  catch  the  issue,  as  I  hear 
Dead  sounds  at  night  come   from  the   inmost 

hills. 
Like  footsteps  upon  wool.     I  dimly  see 
My  far-off  doubtful  purpose,  as  a  mother 
Conjectures  of  the  features  of  her  child 
Ere  it  is  born.    Her  child! — a  shudder  comes 
Across  me:    never  child  be  born  of  me,         250 
Unblest,  to  vex  me  with  his  father's  eyes! 

* '  O,  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hear  me,  O  earth.     I  will  not  die  alone, 
Lest  their  shrill  happy  laughter  come  to  me 
Walking  the  cold  and  starless  road  of  death 
Uncomforted,  leaving  my  ancient  love 
With  tlie  Greek  woman.    I  will  rise  and  go 
Down  into  Troy,  and  ere  the  stars  come  forth 
Talk  with  the  wild  Cassandra,8  for  she  says 
A  fire  dances  before  her,  and  a  sound         260 
Rings  ever  in  her  ears  of  arm6d  men. 
What  this  may  be  I  know  not,  but  I  know 
That  wheresoe'er  I  am  by  night  and  day, 
All  earth  and  air  seem  only  burning  fire, ' ' 

THE   LOTOS-EATERS* 

"Courage!"  he  said,  and  pointed  toward  the 

land, 
* '  This  mounting  wave  will  roll   us   shoreward 

soon. ' ' 
In  the  afternoon  they  came  unto  a  land 
In  which  it  seemed  always  afternoon. 
All  round  the  coast  the  languid  air  did  swoon, 
Breathing  like  one  that  hath  a  weary  dream. 
Full-faced  above  the  valley  stood  the  moon; 
And,  like  a  downward  smoke,  the  slender  stream 
Along  the  cliff  to  fall  and  pause  and  fall  did 

seem.  9 

A    land    of    streams!    some,    like    a    downward 

smoke, 
Slow-dropping  veils  of  thinnest  lawn,  did  go; 
And   some   thro '   wavering   lights   and   shadows 

broke, 
Rolling  a  slumbrous  sheet  of  foam  below. 

7  The  Death  of  (Enone,  a  late  poem  of  Tennyson's. 
(l<>sfrlbos  her  death  on  the  funeral  pyre  of 
Paris. 

«  SiHter  of  Paris,  and  u  prophetess. 

*  This  poem  Is  founded  on  the  story  told  by  TIlvs 
ses  (Odynsci/  IX.  8.'M)7)  of  himself  and  nls 
men  arriving  at  the  land  of  the  lotos  and  par- 
taklne  of  the  "flowery  food"  which  caused  for- 
gotfulness  of  iiome.  These  Ave  Spenserian 
stanzas,  which  are  followed  in  Ihe  original  by 
a  long  "Ohorlc  Sonir."  contain  some  distinct 
ocliooH  of  Thomson's  Cantle  of  Indnlrncr. 
which   sec    ()..    ;i44>. 


They  saw  the  gleaming  river  seaward  flow 
From  the  inner  land;   far  off,  three  mountain- 
tops, 
Three  silent  pinnacles  of  aged  snow, 
Stood  sunset-flush 'd ;  and,  dew 'd  with  showery 
drops, 
Up-clomb  the  shadowy  pine  above  the  woven 
copse.  18 

The  charmed  sunset  linger 'd  low  adown 

In  the  red  W^est;  thro'  mountain  clefts  the  dale 

AVas  seen  far  inland,  and  the  yellow  down 

Border 'd  with  palm,  and  many  a  winding  vale 

And  meadow,  set  Avith  slender  galingale;i 

A    land    where    all    things    always    seem  'd    the 

same ! 
And  round  about  the  keel  with  faces  pale, 
Dark  faces  pale  against  that  rosy  flame,         26 
The  mild-eyed  melancholy  Lotos-eaters  came. 

Branches  they  bore  of  that  enchanted  stem, 
Laden  with  flower  and  fruit,  whereof  they  gave 
To  each,  but  whoso  did  receive  of  them 
And  taste,  to  him  the  gushing  of  the  wave 
Far  far  away  did  seem  to  mourn  and  rave 
On  alien  shores;  and  if  his  fellow  spake, 
His  voice  was  thin,  as  voices  from  the  grave; 
And  deep-asleep  he  seem'd,  yet  all  awake, 
And  music  in  his  ears  his  beating  heart  did 
make.  36 

They  sat  them  down  upon  the  yellow  sand. 
Between  the  sun  and  moon  upon  the  shore; 
And  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  Fatherland, 
Of  child,  and  wife,  and  slave;  but  evermore 
Most  weary  seem'd  the  sea,  weary  the  oar, 
Weary  the  wandering  fields  of  barren  foam. 
Then    some    one    said,    "We    will    return    no 

more ; ' ' 
And  all  at  once  they  sang,  "Our  island  home 
Is  far  beyond  the  wave;   we  will  no  longer 

roam. ' '  45 

SAINT  AGNES'   EVE 

Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows 

Are  sparkling  to  the  moon; 
My  breath  to  heaven  like  vapour  goes; 

May  my  soul  follow  soon! 
The  shadows  of  the  convent:towers 

Slant  down  the  snowy  sward, 
Still  creeping  with  the  creeping  hours 

That  lead  me  to  my  lord. 
Make  Thou  my  spirit  pure  and  clear 

As  are  the  frosty  skies. 
Or  this  first  snowdrop  of  the  year 

That  in  my  bosom  lies.  12 

'  1  \  tall  sedRP. 


ALFRED.  LORD  TENNYSON 


573 


As  these  white  robes  are  soil  'd  and  dark, 

To  yonder  shining  ground ; 
As  this  pale  taper's  earthly  spark, 

To  yonder  argent  round; 
So  shows  my  soul  before  the  Lamb, 

My  spirit  before  Thee; 
So  in  mine  earthly  house   I  am, 

To  that  I  hope  to  be. 
Break  up  the  heavens.  O  Lord!    and  far. 

Thro '   all  yon   starlight  keen, 
Draw  me,  thy  bride,  a  glittering  star, 

In   raiment   white   and   clean.  24 

He  lifts  me  to  the  golden  doors; 

The  flashes  come  and  go; 
All  heaven  bursts  her  starry  floors. 

And  strows  her  lights  below, 
And  deepens  on  and  up!    the  gates 

Roll   back,   and   far   within 
For  me  the  Heavenly  Bridegroom  waits, 

To  make  me  pure  of  sin. 
The  Sabbaths  of  Eternity, 

One  Sabbath  deep  and  wide — 
A   light   upon   the   shining  sea — 

The  Bridegroom   with   his  bride!  36 

SIR  GALAHAD* 

My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men. 

My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure, 
My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten. 

Because   my   heart   is   pure. 
The  shattering   trumpet   shrilleth  high. 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel. 
The   splinter 'd   spear-shafts   crack   and   fly. 

The  horse  and  rider  reel; 
They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists, 

And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands,  10 

Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers, 

That  lightly  rain  from  ladies'   hands. 

How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 

On  whom  their  favours  fall! 
For  them  I   battle  till  the  end. 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall; 
But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above. 

My  knees   are  bow'd  in  crypti   and   shrine; 
I  never  felt  the  kiss  of  love. 

Nor  maiden's  hand  in  mine.  20 

More  bounteous  aspects  on  me  beam. 

Me  mightier  transports  move  and  thrill; 
So  keep  I  fair  thro'  faith  and  prayer 

A  virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 

When  down  the  stormy  crescent  goes, 
A    light   before   me   swims, 

1  vault,  cell 

*  Spp  Malory's  account  on  pages  100,  10.5-108. 


Between  dark  stems  the  forest  glows, 

I  hear  a  noise  of  hymns. 
Then  by  some  secret  shrine  1  ride; 

I  hear  a  voice,  but  none  are  there;  30 

The  stalls  are  void,  the  doors  are  wide, 

The  tapers  burning  fair. 
Fair   gleams  the   snowy   altar-cloth. 

The   silver  vessels  sparkle  clean. 
The  shrill  bell  rings,  the  censer  swings, 

And  solemn  chants  resound  between. 

Sometimes  on  lonely  mountain-meres 

I  find  a  magic  bark. 
I  leap  on  board;  no  helmsman  steers; 

I  float  till  all  is  dark.  40 

A  gentle  sound,  an  awful  light! 

Three  angels  bear  the  Holy  Grail; 
With  folded   feet,   in  stoles  of  white. 

On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 
Ah,  blessed  vision!     blood  of  God! 

My  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars. 
As  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides, 

And    starlike    mingles   with    the   stars. 

W^hen  on  my  goodly  charger  borne 

Thro'  dreaming  towns  I  go,  50 

The  cock  crows  ere  the  Christmas  morn,2 

The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow. 
The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads. 

And,  ringing,  springs  from  brand  and  mail; 
But  o  'er  the  dark  a  glory  spreads. 

And   gilds   the   driving   hail. 
[  leave  the  plain,  I  climb  the  height ; 

No   branchy  thicket   shelter  yields; 
But  blessed  forms  in  whistling  storms 

Fly  o'er  waste  fens  and  windy  fields.  60 

A  maiden  knight — to  me  is  given 

Such  hope,  I  know  not  fear; 
I  yearn  to  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven 

That  often  meet  me  here. 
I  muse  on  joy  that  will  not  cease. 

Pure  spaces  clothed  in  living  beams. 
Pure    lilies    of    eternal    peace. 

Whose  odours  haunt  my  dreams; 
And,  stricken  by  an  angel's  hand, 

This  mortal  armour  that  I  wear,  70 

This  weight  and  size,  this  heart  and   eyes, 

Are  touch  'd,  are  turn  'd  to  finest  air. 

The   clouds  are  broken   in   the  sky. 

And  thro'  the  mountain-walls 
A    rolling    organ-harmony 

Swells  up   and   shakes   and    falls. 
Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod, 

Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear: 

2Cp.  Hamlet,  I,  1,  158. 


574 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


"O  just  and  faithful  knight  of  God! 

Ride  on!    the  prize  is  near."  80 

So  pass  I  hostel,  hall,  and  grange; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and  pale, 
All-arm  'd   I   ride,  whate  'er  betide, 

Until  I  find  the  Holy  Grail. 

THE  BEGGAR  MAID* 

Her  arms  across  her  breast  she  laid; 

She  was  more  fair  than  words  can  say; 
Barefooted  came   the  beggar  maid 

Before  the  king  Cophetua. 
In  robe  and  crown  the  king  stept  down, 

To  meet  and  greet  her  on  her  way; 
* '  It   is  no  wonder, ' '   said  the   lords, 

"She  is  more  beautiful  than  day." 

As  shines  the  moon  in  clouded  skies, 

She  in  her  poor  attire  was  seen; 
One  praised  her  ankles,  one  her  eyes. 

One  her  dark  hair  and  lovesome  mien. 
So  sweet  a  face,  such  angel  grace. 

In  all  that  land  had  never  been. 
Cophetua  sware  a  royal  oath: 

' '  This  beggar  maid  shall  be  my  queen !  ' ' 

YOU  ASK  ME,  WHY,  THO'  ILL  AT  EASE 

You  ask  me,  why,  tho'  ill  at  ease. 
Within  this  region  I  subsist. 
Whose  spirits  falter  in  the  mist, 

And  languish  for  the  purple  seas. 

It  is  the  land  that  freemen  till, 
That  sober-suited  Freedom  chose. 
The  land,  whore  girt  with  friends  or  foes 

A  man  may  speak  the  thing  he  will;  8 

A  land  of  settled  government, 
A  land  of  just  and  old  renown. 
Where  Freedom  slowly  broadens  downf 

From  precedent  to  precedent; 

Where  faction  seldom  gathers  head, 
But,    by   degrees   to    fullness   wrought, 
The   strength   of   some   diffusive   thought 

Hath  time  and  space  to  work  and  spread.       16 

Should  banded  unions  persecute 
Opinion,  and  induce  a  time 
When  single  thought  is  civil  crime. 

And  individual  freedom  mute, 

•  Fniindod   on   an   old   ballad,   which   mny   l>o   read 

In  I'crov'H  llrlUiueH. 
t  Til.'    oriclnnl    reading,    "broadens    slowly   down." 

wbic'b   wiiH  cbanKt'd  for  the  Hake  of  eui>hony, 

jjave  a  more  eorre<'t  eiuphaHlN. 


Tho'  power  should  make  from  land  to  land 
The  name  of  Britain  trebly  great — 
Tho'  every  channel  of  the  State 

Should  fill  and  choke  with  golden  sand —       24 

Yet  waft  me  from  the  harbour-mouth. 
Wild  wind!     I  seek  a  warmer  sky. 
And  I  will  see  before  I  die 

The  palms  and  temples  of  the  South. 

OF  OLD  SAT  FREEDOM  ON  THE 
HEIGHTS 

Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights. 
The  thunders  breaking  at  her  feet; 

Above  her  shook  the  starry  lights; 
She  heard  the  torrents  meet. 

There  in  her  place  she  did  rejoice. 
Self -gather  'd  in  her  prophet-mind. 

But  fragments  of  her  mighty  voice 

Came  rolling  on  the  wind.  8 

Then  stepped  she  down  thro'  town  and  field 
To  mingle  with  the  human  race, 

And  part  by  part  to  men  reveal 'd 
The  fulness  of  her  face — 


Grave  mother  of  majestic  works, 
From  her  isle-altar  gazing  down, 

Who,  Godlike,  grasps  the  triple  forks,! 
And,  king-like,  wears  the  crown. 


16 


Her  open  eyes  desire  the  truth. 

The  wisdom  of  a  thousand  years 
Is  in  them.     May  perpetual  youth 

Keep  dry  their  light  from  tears; 

That  her  fair  form  may  stand  and  shine, 
Make  bright  our  days  and  light  our  dreams, 

Turning  to  scorn  with  lips  divine 

The  falsehood  of  extremes!  24 

MORTE  D 'ARTHUR* 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roll'd 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea. 
Until  King  Arthur's  table,  man  by  man. 
Had  fallen  in  Lyonesse-  about  their  lord, 
King    Arthur;    then,    because    his    wound    was 

deep, 
The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 

1  .love's   thunderbolt. 

•-•  Supposed  to  have  been   In  Corn  wall. 

♦  See  Malory's  aoronnt  on  pages  108-110.  This 
fraRment  was  the  Keiin  of  the  lihillx  of  the 
Kiiiii.  It  was  written  in  IH.sn.  and  was  Incor- 
porated In  the  "I'asslnR  of  .\rlliiir"  when  thai 
was  published  In  ISO!). 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON 


575 


Sir  Bedivere,  the  last  of  all  his  knights, 

And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 

A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross. 

That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren  land.      10 

On  one  side  lay  the  ocean,  and  on  one 

Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was  full. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere: 
''The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous  knights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.     Such  a  sleep 
They  sleep — the  men  I  loved.     1  think  that  we 
Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time. 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly  deeds, 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls       20 
Of  Camelot,3  as  in  the  days  that  were. 
I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made, — 
Tho'  ^Merlin*  sware  that  I  should  come  again 
To  rule  once  more — but  let  what  will  be  be, 
I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 
That  without  help   I  cannot  last  till  morn. 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalibur, 
Which   was   my   pride;     for   thou   rememberest 

how 
In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an  arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake,       30 
Clothed  in  white   samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
Holding  the  sword — and  how  I  row'd  across 
And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a  kingj^ 
And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 
In  aftertime,  this  also  shall  be  known. 
But   now  delay   not;    take   Excalibur, 
And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere; 6 
Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly"  bring  me 

word. ' ' 
To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
"It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee  thus. 
Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro'  the  helm.       41 
A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man. 
Yet  I  thy  hest  will  all  perform  at  full, 
Watch    what    I    see,    and    lightly    bring    thee 

word. ' ' 
So  saying,  from  the  ruin'd  shrine  he  stept 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of  tombs, 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient  men. 
Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind  sang 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.    He,  stepping 

down 
By  zigzag  paths  and  juts  of  pointed  rppk,      50 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Excalibur, 
And  o'er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter  moon. 
Brightening   the   skirts   of   a  long   cloud,    ran 

forth 
And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against  the  hilt; 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond  sparks, 


3  The  capital  of  Arthur. 

4  See  pages  90,  99,  etc. 

5  See   page   98. 


6  into  the  mid-Iakc 

7  quickly 


Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth  work 
Of  subtlest  jewellery.     He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled,  as  he  stood, 
This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift  mind,     60 
In  act  to  throw;    but  at  the  last  it  seem'd 
Better   to   leave   Excalibur   conceal 'd 
There  in  the  many-knotted  water-flags. 
That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the  marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded  king. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere: 
"Hast    thou    perform 'd    my    mission    which    I 

gave? 
What    is    it    thou    hast    seen,    or    what    hast 
heard?" 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
' '  I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds,      70 
And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag." 

To    whom    replied    King   Arthur,    faint    and 
pale: 
"Thou  hast  betray 'd  thy  nature  and  thy  name. 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseem  'd 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight; 
For  surer  sign  had  follow 'd,  either  hand. 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  quickly  go  again 
As  thou  art  lief«  and  dear,  and  do  the  thing   80 
I    bade    thee,    watch,    and    lightly    bring    me 
word. ' ' 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second  time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the  mere. 
Counting  the   dewy  pebbles,   fix  'd  in  thought : 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt. 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he  smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud : 

'  *  And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away. 
Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note. 
Should  thus  be  lost  forever  from  the  earth,     90 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of  many 

men. 
What    good    should    follow    this,    if   this   were 

done? 
Wliat  harm,  undone?   deep  harm  to  disobey. 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a  king  demand 
An   act   unprofitable,   against   himself? 
The  king  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what  he  does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should  be  to  aftertime,  but  empty  breath       99 
And  rumours  of  a  doubt?    but  were  this  kept. 
Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty  kings. 
Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of  arms, 
Saying,   'King    Arthur's   sword,    Excalibur, 
Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the  lake; 
Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the  deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 

8  beloved 


576 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the  aftertime  j  Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never  saw, 


120 


thee 
130 


To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence; 
But   now   much   honour   and   much    fame   were 
lost." 
So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own  conceit," 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time,  m 

And  ?o  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded  king. 
Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing  heavily: 
*  *  What    IS    it    thou    hast    seen,    or    what    hast 
heard?" 
And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
* '  I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag. 
And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds. ' ' 
To    whom    replied    King    Arthur,    much    in 
wrath : 
"Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted!    Woe  is  me! 
Authority   forgets   a   dying  king, 
Laid  widow 'd  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bow  'd  the  will.    I  see  thee  what  thou  art, 
For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  my  knights, 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all. 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious  hilt; 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  forio  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice, 
And    the    third    time    may    prosper,    get 

hence ; 
But,  if  thou   spare  to  fling   Excalibur, 
I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands. ' '        i 

Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and  ran, 
And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly,  plunged  j 
Among     the    bulrush-beds,    and    clutch  'd     the 

sword, 
And  strongly  wheel 'd  and  threw  it.     The  great 

brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  splendour  of  the  moon, 
And  flashing  round  and  round,  and  whirl 'd   in 

an  arch. 
Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  morn, 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter  shock      140 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea. 
So  flash 'd  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur; 
But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Cloth  'd  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
And   caught   him    by   the   hilt,   and   brandish 'd 

him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere. 
And   lightly  went  the  other  to  the  king. 

Then    spoke    King    Arthur,    drawing    thicker 
breath : 
"Now  I  see  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is  done. 
Speak    out ;     what    is    it   thou    hast    heard,    or 
seen?"  160 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
"Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest  the  gems 

» fancy  lohecanne 


behold  an  arm, 
mystic,   wonderful, 
hilt,   and   brandish 'd 
160 


Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I  die. 
Not  tho'  1  live  three  lives  of  mortal  men. 
So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 
Then   with   both   hands   I   flung    him,   wheeling 

him; 
But  when  I  look  'd  again, 
Clothed   in   white   samite, 
That   caught   him   by  the 

him  160  1 

Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere. ' ' 
And   answer   made   King   Arthur,    breathing 
hard: 
' '  My  end  draws  nigh ;     't  is  time  that   I  were 

gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my  weight, 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin;    yet  I  fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall   die.'* 
So  saying,   from  the  pavement  he  half  rose, 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm, 
And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 
As  in  a  picture.     Him  Sir  Bedivere  HO 

Remorsefully  regarded  thro'  his  tears, 
And    would    have    spoken,    but    he    found    not 

words. 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on  one  knee, 
O'er     both    his    shoulders    drew     the    languid 

hands, 
And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place  of  tombs. 
But,  as  he  walk'd.  King  Arthur  panted  hard. 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his  bed 
When   all   the  house   is   mute.     So   sigh  'il  the 

king, 
Muttering  and  murmuring  at  his  ear,  "Quick, 

quick ! 
I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die." 
But    the    other    swiftly    strode    from    ridge 

ridge. 
Clothed    with    his    breath,    and    looking,    as 

walk  'd, 
Larger  tlian   human   on   the   frozen   hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a  cry 
Before.     His    own    thought    drove   him    like   a 

goad. 
Dry  clash  'd  his  harness  in   the  icy  caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and  right 
The  bare  black  cliff  clang 'd  round  him,  as  he 

based 
His  feet  on  juts  of  slipi)ery  crag  that  rang 
Sharp-smitten   with   the   dint   of  arm^d  heels — 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo!    the  level  lake,  191 

And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon. 

Then  saw  tiiey  how  there  hove  a  dusky  barge, 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stern. 
Beneath  them;    and  descending  they  were  ware 
That    all    the    decks    were    dense    with    stately 
forma 


180 
to 


he 


ALFKED,  LOKD  TExNNYSON 


577 


200 


Black-stoled,    black-hooded,    like    a    dream — by 

these 
Three  queens  with  crowns  of  gold — and   from 

them  rose 
A  cry  that  shiver 'd  to  the  tingling  stars, 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,   like  a   wind  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  Avliere  no  one  comes. 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the  world. 
Then   murmur 'd   Arthur,   "Place   me  in   the 

barge. ' ' 
And    to    the    barge    they    came.      There    those 

three  queens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  king,  and 

wept. 
But  she  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap. 
And   loosed   his  shatter 'd   casque,   and   chafed 

his   hands,  209 

And  call  'd  him  by  his  name,  complaining  loud, 
And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his  brow 
Striped  with  dark  blood ;    for  all  his  face  was 

white 
And  colourless,  and  like  the  wither  'd  moon 
Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing  east; 
And   aJl   his  greaves  and   cuisses   dash  'd  with 

drops 
Of   onset;     and  the  light  and  lustrous  curls — 
That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun 
High  from  the  dais-throne — were  parch  'd  with 

dust; 
Or.  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 
Mix  'd   with   the  knightly   growth  that   fringed 

his  lips.  220 

So  like  a  shatter  'd  column  lay  the  king ; 
Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in  rest, 
From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament, 
Shot  thro'  the  lists  at   Camelot,  and  charged 
Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
"Ah!  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I  go? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my  eyes? 
For  now  I  see  the  good  old  times  are  dead,  229 
When  every  morning  brought  a  noble  chance. 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble  knight. 
Such  times  have  not  been  since  the  light  that 

led 
The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  Eound  Table  is  dissolved 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world; 
And  I,  the  last,  go   forth  companionless, 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the  years, 
Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other  minds. ' ' 
And  slowly  answer 'd  Arthur  from  the  barge: 
"The   old    order    changeth,    yielding    place    to 

new.  240 

And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways. 


Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the  world. 

Comfort  thyself:    what  comfort  is  in  me  I 

I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I  have 

done 
May  He  within  himself  make  pure!    but  thou, 
If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again, 
Pray  for   my   soul.      More   things  are  wrought 

by  prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of.     W'herefore,  let  thy 

voice 
Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and  day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats     250 
That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  tlie  brain. 
If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of  prayer 
Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call  them 

friend  ? 
For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  God.i 
But  now  farewell.     I  am  going  a  long  way 
With  these  thou  seest — if  indeed  1  go- — 
For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt — 
To  the  island- valley  of  Avilion;* 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow,     260 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly,  but  it  lies 
Deep-meadow  'd,  happy,  fair  with  orchard  lawns 
And  bowery  hollows  crown 'd  with  summer  sea. 
Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous  wound. ' ' 
So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and  sail 
Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full-breasted 

swan 
That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death, 
Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes  the  flood 
With  swarthy  webs.     Long  stood  Sir  Bedivere 
Revolving  many  memories,   till   the  hull        270 
Look'd    one    black    dot    against    the   verge   of 

dawn, 
And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 

ULYSSESt 
It  little  pr.ofits  that  an  idle  king, 
By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  barren  crags, 
jNlatch'd  with  an  aged  wdfe,  I  mete  and  dole 
Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race. 
Til  at   hoard,   and    sleep,    and    feed,    and   know 
not  me. 

1  Cp.  Paradise  Lost,  II,  1051  (p.  255). 

*  The  earthly  paradise  of  mediaeval  romance,  cor- 
responding to  the  Grecian  Isles  of  the  Blest. 

t  Tke  germ  of  this  poem  Is  found,  not  in  the 
Odyssey,  but  in  the  story  which  Dante  makes 
Ulysses  tell  of  his  adventures  {Inferno,  XXVI, 
91  ff.).  It  was  written  shortly  after  the 
death  of  Tennyson's  friend,  Arthur  Ilallam 
(see  In  Memoriam),  and  voiced,  said  Tenny- 
son, his  "feelings  about  the  need  of  going 
forward  and  braving  the  struggle  of  life 
more  simply  than  anything  in  In  Memoriam." 
(Memoir,  I.  196).  It  is  an  admirable  comple- 
ment to  The  Lotos-Eaters.  Of  lines  62-64 
Carlyle  said  :  "These  lines  do  not  make  me 
weep,  but  there  is  in  me  what  would  flU  whole 
Lachrymatories  as  I  read." 


578 


THE  VICTOKIAN  AGE 


I  cannot  rest  from  travel;    I  will  drink 
Life  to  the  lees.     All  times  I  have  enjoy'd 
Greatly,  have  suffer 'd  greatly,  both  with  those 
That  loved  me,  and  alone;    on  shore,  and  when 
Thro'  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades2         10 
Vext  the  dim  sea,     I  am  become  a  name; 
For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 
Much  have  I  seen  and  known, — cities  of  men 
And  manners,  climates,  councils,  governments. 
Myself  not  least,  but  honour 'd  of  them  all, — 
And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my  peers. 
Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 
I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met; 
Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethro' 
Gleams   that   untravell'd   world   whose   margin 

fades  20 

For  ever  and  for  ever  when  I  move. 
How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end. 
To  rust  unburnish  'd,  not  to  shine  in  use ! 
As  tho'  to  breathe  were  life!     Life  piled  on 

life 
Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 
Little  remains;    but  every  hour  is  saved 
From  that  eternal  silence,  something  more, 
A  bringer  of  new  things:    and  vile  it  were 
For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard  myself, 
And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire         30 
To  follow  knowledge  like  a  sinking  star. 
Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human  thought. 

This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telemachus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle, — 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil 
This  labour,  by  slow  prudence  to  make  mild 
A  rugged  people,  and  thro'  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 
Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the  sphere 
Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail  40 

In  oflSees  of  tenderness,  and  pay 
Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods. 
When  I  am  gone.    He  works  his  work,  I  mine. 

There  lies  the  port;  the  vessel  puffs  her  sail; 
There  gloom  the  dark,  broad  seas.  My  mariners, 
Souls    that    have    toil'd,     and    wrought,     and 

thought  with  me, — 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 
The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  opposed 
Free  hearts,  free  foreheads, — you  and  I  are  old ; 
Old  age  hath  yet  his  honour  and  his  toil.       50 
Death  closes  all ;    but  something  ere  the  end. 
Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done, 
,Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with  Gods. 
The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks; 
The  long  day  wanes;     the  slow  moon  climbs; 
the  deep 

2  Starn  in  the  ronHtollation  Taurus,  nnpposed  to  be 
barbingcrg  of  rain,     ^neid,  I,  744. 


Moans   round   with   many   voices.*     Come,   my 

friends, 
'T  is  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 
Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 
The  sounding  furrows;    for  my  purpose  holds 
To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths       60 
Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 
It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down; 
It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles,t 
And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew. 
Tho'  much  is  taken,  much  abides;    and  tho' 
We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in  old  days 
Moved  earth  and  heaven,  that  which  we  are, 

we  are, — 
One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts, 
Made  weak  by  time  and   fate,  but  strong  in 

will 
To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield.    70 

LOCKSLEY  HALLJ 

Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while  as  yet 

't  is  early  morn : 
Leave  me  here,  and  when  you  want  me,  sound 

upon  the  bugle-horn. 

'T  is  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  as  of  old,  the 

curlews  call, 
Dreary  gleams  about  the  moorland  flying  over 

Locksley  Hall; 

Locksley  Hall,  that  in   the   distance  overlooks 

the  sandy  tracts. 
And     the     hollow     ocean-ridges     roaring     into 

cataracts. 

Many  a  night  from  yonder  ivied  casement,  ere 

I  went  to  rest, 
Did  I  look  on  great  Orion  sloping  slowly  to  the 

west. 

Many  a  night  I  saw  the  Pleiads,  rising  thro ' 

the  mellow  shade. 
Glitter  like  a  swarm  of  fireflies  tangled  in  a 

silver    braid.  10 

Here  about  the  beach  I  wander 'd,  nourishing 
a  youth  sublime 

♦  Successive  heavy  monosyllables.  Ions  vowels,  and 
full  pauses,  combine  to  malte  thi.s  a  passaj^e 
of  remarlcable  weight  and  slowness. 

t  Compare  note  on  preceding  poem,  1.  2.">0. 

$  This  was  intended  to  be  a  purely  dramatic  poem, 
giving  expression  to  the  conflicting  and  some- 
what morbid  feelings  characteristic  perhaps 
of  introspective  youth  at  any  time,  but  with 
particular  reference  both  to  contemporary  so- 
cial conditions  in  England  (it  was  published 
in  1842)  and  to  the  fresh  spur  given  to  im 
agination  by  the  discoveries  in  science  and 
mechanics.  Some  forty  .years  later.  Tennyson 
wrote  a  sequel,  Locksley  Hall  Sixty  Years 
After. 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON 


579 


With  the  fairy  tales  of  science,  and  the  long 
result  of  time; 

When  the  centuries  behind  me  like  a  fruitful 

land  reposed; 
When  I  clung  to  all  the  present  for  the  promise 

that  it  closedi; 

When  I  dipt  into  the  future  far  as  human  eye 

could  see, 
Saw  the  vision  of  the  world  and  all  the  wonder 

that  would  be. — 

In  the  spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the 

robin's   breast; 
In  the  spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets  himself 

another  crest; 

lu   the   spring   a   livelier   iris   changes   on   the 

burnish 'd  dove; 
In    the    spring    a   young   man 's    fancy   lightly 

turns  to   thoughts  of   love.  20 

Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thinner  than 
should  be  for  one  so  young. 

And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a  mute 
observance    hung. 

And    I    said,    "My    cousin    Amy,    speak,    and 

speak  the  truth  to  me, 
Trust  me,  cousin,  all  the  current  of  my  being 

sets  to  thee." 

On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead  came  a  colour 

and   a  light, 
As   I   have   seen   the   rosy   red   flushing   in   the 

northern  night. 

And    she    turn'd — her    bosom    shaken    with    a 

sudden   storm   of   sighs — 
All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the  dark  of 

hazel  eyes — 

Saying,  "I  have  hid  my  feelings,  fearing  they 

should  do  me  wrong ; ' ' 
Saying,  ' '  Dost  thou  love  me,  cousin  ? ' '  weeping, 

"I  have  loved  thee  long."  30 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  turn'd  it 

in  his  glowing  hands; 
Every    moment,    lightly   shaken,    ran    itself    in 

golden  sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on 

all  the  chords  with  might; 
Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling,  past 

in  music  out  of  sight. 

I  enclosed 


Many  a  morning  on  the  moorland  did  we  hear 

the  copses  ring. 
And  her  whisper  throng  'd  my  pulses  with  the 

fulness  of  the  spring. 

Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we  watch 

the  stately  ships, 
And  our  spirits  rushed  together  at  the  touching 

of  the  lips. 

O   my   cousin,    shallow-hearted!  O    my    Amy, 

mine  no  more! 

O  the  dreary,  dreary  moorland!  O  the  barren, 

barren  shore!  40 

Falser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  falser  than  all 

songs  have   sung. 
Puppet  to  a  father's  threat,  and  servile  to  a 

shrewish  tongue! 

Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy?    having  known 

me — to   decline 
On  a  range  of  lower  feelings  and  a  narrower 

heart  than  mine! 

Yet  it  shall  be;    thou  shalt  lower  to  his  level 

day  by  day, 
What    is    fine    within    thee    growing    coarse    to 

sympathize  with  clay. 

As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is;    thou  art  mated 

with  a  clown. 
And    the    grossness    of    his    nature    will    have 

weight  to  drag  thee  down. 

He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall  have 

spent   its   novel    force, 
Something  better  than  his  dog,  a  little  dearer 

than  his  horse.  50 

What  is  this?    his  eyes  are  heavy;    think  not 

they  are  glazed  with  wine. 
Go  to  him,  it  is  thy  duty;    kiss  him,  take  his 

hand  in  thine. 

It  may  be  my  lord  is  weary,  that  his  brain  is 

overwrought ; 
Soothe  him   with   thy   finer   fancies,  touch   him 

with  thy  lighter   thought. 

He  will  answer  to  the  purpose,  easy  things  to 

understand — 
Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  tho'  I  slew 

thee  with  my  hand! 

Better  thou  and  I  were  lying,  hidden  from  the 
heart's  disgrace. 


580 


THE  Vl(  TUKIAX  AGE 


SoU'd  in  one  another's  arms,  and  silent  iu  a 
last  embrace. 

Cursed  be  the  social  wants  that  sin  against  the 

strength  of  youth! 

Cursed   be   the  social  lies   that  warp   us   from 

the  li\-ing  truth!  60 

Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err  from  honest 

Nature's  rule! 
Cursed   be  the   gold   that   gilds  the   straiten  \\ 

forehead  of  the  fool! 


Like  a  dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams,  and  thou  art 

staring  at   the  wall, 
Where   the   dying   night-lamp   flickers,   and   the 

shadows   rise  and   fall.  80 

Then   a   hand   shall   pass  before  thee,   pointing 

to  his  drunken  sleep, 
To  thy  widow  'd  marriage-pillows,  to  the  tears 

that  thou  wilt  weep. 

Tliou  shalt  hear  the  "Never,  never,"  wiiis 
per'd  by  the  phantom  years, 

And  a  song  from  out  the  distance  in  the  ring- 
ing  of  thine  ears; 


Well— 'tis  well  that  I  should  bluster!— Hadst 
thou  less  unworthy  proved —  I 

Would  to  God — for  I  had  loved  thee  more  than  |  And    an    eye    shall    vex    thee,   looking    ancient 


ever  wife  was  loved. 

Am   I  mad,  that  I  should  cherish   tliat   which 

bears  but  bitter  fruit? 
1  will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  tho'  my  heart 

be  at  the  root. 

Never,  tho'  my  mortal  summers  to  such  length 

of  years  should  come 
As    the    many-winter 'd    crow    that    leads    the 

clanging  rookery  home. 

Where  is  comfort?    in  division  of  the  records 

of  the  mind? 
Can  I  part  her  from  herself,  and  love  her,  as  1 

knew  her,  kind?  70 

I  remember  one  that  perish 'd;i  sweetly  did  she 

speak   and  move; 
Such  a  one  do  I  remember,  whom  to  look  at  was 

to  love. 

Can  I  think  of  her  as  dead,  and  love  her  for 

the  love  she  bore? 
Xo — slie  never  loved  me  truly;    love  is  love  for 

erermore. 

Comfort?  comfort  scorn 'd  of  devils!  this  is 
truth  the  poet  sings. 

That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remember- 
ing happier  things.2 

Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  learn  it,  lest  thy 

heart   be   put   to   proof, 
In  the  dead  unhappy  night,  and  when  the  rain 

is  on  the  roof. 


1  I.  e.,  she  has  lo«t  the  perRonallty  which  1  re- 
member. 

-'  Dante :  Inferno,  V,  121.  The  thought  may  l)o 
traced  to  many  writers — to  IMndnr.  among 
the  earllPHt. 


kindness  on  thy  pain. 
Turn  thee,  turn  thee  on  thy  pillow ;    get  thee  to 
thy  rest   again. 

Nay,    but    Nature   brings    thee    solace;     for    a 

tender  voice  will  cry. 
'T  is  a  purer  life  than  thine,  a  lip  to  drain  thy 

trouble  dry. 

Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  down;    my  latest  rival 

brings  thee  rest. 
Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me  from  tlie 

mother's  breast.  90 

O,  the  child  too  clothes  the  father  with  a  dear- 

ness  not  his  due. 
Half  is  thine  and  half  is  his;    it  will  be  worthy 

of  the  two. 

O,  I  see  thee  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy  petty  » 

part, 
With  a  little  hoard  of  maxims  preaching  down 

a  daughter's  heart. 

* '  They   were   dangerous   guides   the   feelings — 

she  herself  was  not  exempt — 
Truly,    she   herself   had   suffer 'd  "a — Perish    in 

thy  self-contempt! 

Overlive    it — lower  yet — be   hapi)y!     wherefore 
should    I   care?  J 

I    myself  must   mix  with   action,   lost   1  wither  | 
by   despair.  f 

What  is  that  which  I  should  turn  to,  lighting 

upon  days  like  these? 
Every  door  is  barr'd  with  gold,  and  opens  but 

to  golden  keys 


100 


3  Amy   Is  Imagined  to  be  talking  to  hor  daughter. 
at  some  niture  time,  of  her  own  early  life. 


ALFKED,  LORD  TENNYSON 


581 


Every   gate  is   throng  'd   with   suitors,   all   the  j  Heard  the  heavens  fill  with  shouting,  and  there 


markets  overflow. 
1  have  but  an  angry  fancy;    what  is  that  which 
I  shouH  do? 

I   had   been   content  to  perish,  falling  on   the 

foeman's  ground, 
When  the  ranks  are  roll 'd  in  vapour,  and  the 

winds   are   laid   with   sound. 

But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps  the  hurt 

that  Honour  feels, 
And   the   nations   do   but   murmur,   snarling   at 

each  other's  heels. 

Can  I  but  relive  in  sadness?  I  will  turn  that 
earlier  page. 

Hide  me  from  my  deep  emotion,  O  tbou  won- 
drous Mother-Age!* 

Make  me   feel   the   wild  pulsation   that   I   felt 

before   the   strife, 
When    I    heard    my   days   before    me,    and    the 

tumult  of  my  life;  110 

Yearning    for    the    large    excitement    that    the 

coming  years  would  yield, 
Eager-hearted  as  a  boy  when  first  he  leaves  his 

father's  field, 

And   at   night  along   the  dusky  highway   near 

and  nearer  drawn, 
Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London  flaring  like 

a  dreary  dawn; 

And   his    spirit    leaps   within   him    to    be   gone 

before  him  then, 
Underneath   the   light   he   looks   at,   in    among 

the  throngs  of  men; 

Men,  my  brothers,  men  the  workers,  ever  reap- 
ing something  new ; 

That  which  they  have  done  but  earnest  of  the 
things  that  they  shall  do. 

For  I  dipt  into  the  future,  far  as  human  eye 
could  see. 

Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  won- 
der that  would  be;  120 

Saw   the   heavens   fill  with   commerce,   argosies 

of  magic  sails. 
Pilots   of   the   purple   twilight,   dropping    down 

with  costly  bales;* 


rain  'd  a  ghastly  dew 
From    the    nations'    airy    navies    grappling    in 
the  central  blue; 

Far  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the  south- 
wind  rushing  warm, 

With  the  standards  of  the  peoples  plunging 
thro  '  the  thunder-storm ; 

Till  the  war-drum  throbb  'd  no  longer,  and  the 

battle-flags  were  furl'd 
In  the  Parliament  of  man,  the  Federation  of 
the  world. 

There  the  common  sense  of  most  shall  hold  a 

fretful  realm  in  awe, 
And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapped^  in 

universal  law.  130 

So  I  triumphed  ere  my  passion  sweeping  thro' 

me  left  me  dry. 
Left   me  with   the  palsied   heart,   and   left   me 

with  the  jaundiced  eye; 

Eye,  to  which  all  order  festers,  all  things  here 

are  out   of  joint. 
Science  moves,  but  slowly,  slowly,  creeping  on 

from  point  to  point; 

Slowly  comes  a  hungry  people,  as  a  lion,  creep- 
ing nigher. 

Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind  a 
slowly-dying  fire.t 

Yet  I  doubt  not  thro'  the  ages  one  increasing 

purpose  runs, 
And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widen 'd  with  the 

process  of  the  suns. 

What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not  harvest  of 

his  youthful  joys, 
Tho'  the  deep  heart  of  existence  beat  for  ever 

like  a  boy's!  140 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom   lingers,  and   I 
linger  on  the  shore. 
I  And  the   individual   withers,   and   the   world   is 
more  and  more." 


5  wrapped 
I  <>  Looms   forever    larger   by   contrast.      Cp.    /"    Ur- 


*  Cp.  line  185. 

•  Tennyson    had    a    rare    faculty    for    putting    the 

dopes  and  achievements  of  science  into  poetic  i 
laagruage.  It  is  interesting,  however,  to  ob- ; 
serve  at  what  a  cautious  distance  he  placed  | 
th3  realization  of  this  seemingly  extrava'.;ant  j 
prophecy.  ' 


moriam,  LV. 
I  t  He  of  the  "laundiced  eye"  scoffs  at  science  and 
I  is    suspicious    of    democratic    and    socialistic 

tendencies.  The  weak  point  in  Tennyson's 
picture  is  the  connection  of  this  large  pessi- 
mism with  the  purely  personal  disappointment 
of  his  hero.  It  may  not  be  altogether  unfaith- 
ful, but  it  is  undramatic. 


682 


THE  VICTOBIAN  AGE 


Kuowledge  comes,  but  Avisdom  Jingers,  aud  he 

bears  a  laden  breast, 
i'ull    of    sad    experience,    moving    toward    the 

stillness  of  his  rest. 

Hark,   my   merry   comrades   call   mo,    sounding 

on  the  bugle-horn, 
They  to  whom  my  foolish  passion  were  a  target 

for  their  scorn. 

Shall  it  not  be  scorn  to  me  to  harp  on  such  a 

moulder 'd  string? 
I  am  shamed  thro'  all  my  nature  to  have  loved 

so  slight  a  thing. 

Weakness  to  be  wroth  with  weakness !  woman 's 

pleasure,  woman's  pain — 

Nature   made   them   blinder   motions"  bounded 

in  a  shallower  brain.  150 

Womao-is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy  passions, 

match 'd  with   mine. 
Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as  water 

unto  wine — 

Here  at  least,  Avhere  nature  sickens,  nothing.s 

Ah,  for  some  retreat 
Deep  in  yonder  shining  Orient,  where  my  life 

began  to  beat. 

Where  in  wild  Mahratta-battleo  fell  my  father 

evil-starred; — 
I    was   left   a  trampled   orphan,   and   a   selfish 

uncle's  ward. 

Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit — there  to  wander 

far  away. 
On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gateways  of 

the  day. 

Larger    constellations    burning,    mellow    moons 

and  happy  skies, 
Breadths  of  tropic  shade  and  palms  in  cluster. 
knots  of  Paradise.io  160 

Never     comes     the     trader,     never     floats     an 

European  flag, 
Slides  the  bird  o'er  lustrous  woodland,  swings 

the  trailer  from  the  crag; 

Droops  the  heavy-blossom  'd   bower,  hangs   the 
heavy-fruited  tree — 

7  beinsTR  8  The  British  have  had 

8  Implying  that  tho  in-  many  conflicts  with 

fcrlorlty  of  woman  the    warlike    Mali- 
may    be    the    result  rattas  «>f  India, 
of   the   con  vent  ionH  i"  Sec     I'ur.     Lost,     Iv, 
of  a  false  civiliza-  242. 
tlon.  Compare   The 
PrinvcHs. 


Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark-purple 
spheres  of  sea. 

There  methinks  would  be  enjoyment  more  than 

in  this  march   of  mind. 
In     the     steamship,     in     the    railway,     in     the 

thoughts  that  shake  mankind. 

There  the  passions  cramp  'd  no  longer  shall 
have  scope   and   breathing  space ; 

I  will  take  some  savage  woman,  she  shall  rear 
my  dusky  race. 

Iron-jointed,    supple-sinew  'd,    they    shall    dive, 

and    they   shall   run. 
Catch  the  wild  goat  by  the  hair,  and  hurl  their 

lances  in  the  sun;  170 

Whistle  back  the  parrot 's  call,  and  leap  the 
rainbows  of  the  brooks. 

Not  with  blinded  eyesight  poring  over  mis- 
erable books — 

Fool,  again  the  dream,  the  fancy!    but  I  Inoxo 

my  words  are  wild. 
But  I  count  the  gray  barbarian  lower  than  the 

Christian   child. 

I,   to   herd  with   narrow   foreheads,   vacant   of 

our  glorious  gains. 
Like  a  beast  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a  beast 

with  lower  pains! 

Mated  with  a  squalid  savage — what  to  me  wore 

sun  or  clime! 
I  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost  files 

of  time — 

I  that  rather  held  it  better  men  should  perish 

one  by  one, 
Than    that    earth    should    stand    at    gaze    like 
Joshua's  moon  in  Ajalon!" 

Not    in   vain    the   distance   beaieons.      Forward, 

forward  let  us  range. 
Let  the   great   world   spin   for  ever   down   llic 

ringing  grooves  of  change.'" 

Thro'  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep  into 

the  younger  day; 
Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of 

Cathay. 

Mother-Age, — for  mine  I  knew  not, — help  mr 
as  when  life  begun; 

II  JoHhiia,  X  lii. 

12  Tennyson  drew  this  figure  from  the  railway. 
then  new,  under  the  false  impressiuu  that  lix 
car-wheels  ran  in  groovt-s. 


ALFRED,  LOKD  TENNYSON 


583 


Bift   the  hills,  and   roll  the  waters,  flash    the 
lightnings,  weigh  the  sun. 

O,  I  see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  spirit  hath 

not    set. 
Ancient    founts    of    inspiration    well    thro'    all 

my  fancy  yet. 

Howsoever  these  things  be,  a  long  farewell  to 

Locksley  Hall! 
Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither,  now  for  me 

the  roof-tree  fall.  190 

Comes  a  vapour  from  the  margin,  blackening 

over  heath  and  holt, 
Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  in  its  breast 

a  thunderbolt. 

Let  it  fall  on  Locksley  Hall,  with  rain  or  hail, 

or  fire  or  snow; 
For  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring  seaward. 

and  I  go. 

A  FAREWELL 

Flow  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  the  sea, 

Thy  tribute  wave  deliver; 
No  more  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be. 

For   ever  and   for   ever. 

Flow,  softly  flow,  by  lawn  and  lea, 

A   rivulet,   then   a   river; 
Nowhere  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be. 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 

But  here  will  sigh  thine  alder-tree, 
And  here  thine  aspen  shiver ; 

And  here  by  thee  will  hum  the  bee. 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 

A  thousand  suns  will  stream  on  thee, 
A  thousand  moons  will  quiver; 

But  not  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be. 
For  ever  and  for  ever, 

BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK* 

Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea! 
And    I    would   that   my   tongue    could    utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O,  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy. 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play! 

♦  Tlipso  linos  were  written  in  memory  of  Arthur 
Hallam,  and  might  well  have  been  included 
among  the  poems  of  fn  Meinoiiain  had  they 
not  been  cast  in  a  dififercnt  metre. 


O,  well   for  the  sailor  lad. 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill; 
But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish  M  hand, 

And   the  sound  of  a  voice   that   is  still! 

Break,  break,  break. 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 

SONGS  FROM  THE  PRINCESS 
Sweet  and  Low 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,   breathe   and   blow. 

Wind   of  the  western  sea! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go. 
Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 

Blow  him  again  to  me: 
While    my    little    one,    while    my    pretty    one, 
sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest. 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon; 
Rest,  rest,  on  mother 's  breast, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon; 
Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest. 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 

Under  the  silver  moon; 
Sleep,    my    little    one,    sleep,    my    pretty    one, 
sleep. 

The  Splendour  FALLsf 

The  splendour  falls  on  castle  walls 
And  snowy  summits  old  in  story; 

The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes. 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 

Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying. 

Blow,    bugle;     answer,    echoes,    dying,    dying, 
dying. 

O,  hark,  0,  hear!    how  thin  and  clear. 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going! 

0,  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing! 

Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying. 

Blow,    bugle;     answer,    echoes,    dying,    dying, 
dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river; 

t  This   song   was   inspired   by   the   echoes   at   the 
Lakes  of  Killarney. 


584 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 

And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying. 
And    answer,    echoes,    answer,    dying,    dying, 
dying. 

Tears,  Idle  Tears 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean, 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Bise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes. 
In  looking  on  the  happy  autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail, 
That   brings   our  friends  up   from   the  under- 
world, 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Ah,    sad    and    strange    as    in    dark    summer 

dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken  'd  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The     casement     slowly     grows     a     glimmering 

square ; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Dear  as  remember 'd  kisses  after  death. 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign  M 
On  lips  that  are  for  others;    deep  as  love. 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret; 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  morel 

From  IN  MEMOKIAM* 


I  held  it  truth,  with  hinii  who  sings 
To  one  clear  harp  in  divers  tones, 
That  men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 

Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things. 

But  who  shall  so  forecast  the  years 
And  find  in  loss  a  gain  to  match! 
Or  reach  a  hand  thro'  time  to  catch 

The  far-off  interest  of  tears? 

Let  Love  clasp  Grief  lest  both  be  drown 'd, 
Let  darkness  keep  her  raven  gloss.s 

1  Goethe,     says    Tennygon. 

*  TcnnyBon's  friend,  Arthur  Henry  ilallam,  died  at 
Vienna  in  lH'i'.i.  The  Hhort  poems  written  in 
his  memory  at  variouH  times  and  in  variouK 
moodfl,  TennyKon  arranged  and  published  in 
the  year  18.'»0.  See  Kng.  Lit.,  p.  204.  The 
earlier  poems  are  chiefly  personal  in  nature ; 
the  later  treat  some  of  the  larger  problems  of 
human  life  and  destiny  growing  out  of  both 
personal  berearemenf  and  the  unrest  produced 
bv  the  ehanges  that  were  then  taking  plaet-  In 
the  realm  of  religious  and  sclentlflc  thought. 


Ah,  sweeter  to  be  drunk  with  loss, 
To  dance  with  Death,  to  beat  the  ground, 

Thau  that  the  victor  Hours  should  scorn 
The  long3  result  of  love,  and  boast, 
'Behold   the  man   that  loved  and  lost, 

But  all  he  was  is  overworn. ' 


XXVIl 

I  envy  not  in  any  moods 

The  captive  void  of  noble  rage. 
The  linnet  born  within  the  cage, 

That  never  knew  the  summer  woods; 

I  envy  not  the  beast  that  takes 
His  license  in  the  field  of  time, 
Unfetter 'd  by  the  sense  of  crime, 

To  whom  a  conscience  never  wakes; 

Nor,  what  may  count  itself  as  blest, 
The  heart  that  never  plighted  troth 
But  stagnates  in  the  weeds  of  sloth; 

Nor  any  want-begotten  rest.* 

I  hold  it  true,  whate'er  befall; 

I  feel  it,  when  I  sorrow  most; 

'T  is  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. 

uv 

O,  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill, 
To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 

Defects  of  doubt,  and   taints  of  blood; 

That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet; 

That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroy 'd. 

Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void. 
When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete; 

That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain; 

That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 

Is  shrivell  'd  in  a  fruitless  fire, 
Or  but  subserves  another's  gain. 

Behold,  we  know  not  anything; 

I  can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 

At  last — far  off — at  last,  to  all. 
And  every  winter  change  to  spring. 

So  runs  my  dream;    but  what  am  If 
An  infant  crying  in  the  night; 

:;  Cp.  Milton's  ContiiH,  251. 

:j  Used    poetically     for     "ultimate."      Cp.     Lockshif 

Hall.  1.  12. 
t  Content  due  to  mere  want  of  higher  faeultles. 


ALFRED,  LORD  T1-:NNYS0X 


585 


An  infant   crying   for  the  light. 
And  with  no  language  but  a  cry. 


The  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole 
No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave. 
Derives  it  not  from  what  we  have 

The  likest  God  within  the  soul? 

Are  God  and  Nature  then  at  strife, 
That  Nature  lends  such  evil  dreams  f 
So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems, 

So  careless  of  the  single  life, 

That  I,  considering  everywhere 
Her  secret  meaning  in  her  deeds, 
And  finding  that  of  fifty  seeds 

She  often  brings  but  one  to  bear, 

I  falter  where  I  firmly  trod. 

And  falling  with  my  weight  of  cares 
Upon  the  great  world's  altar-stairs 

That  slope  thro'  darkness  up  to  God, 

I  stretch  lame  hands  of  faith,  and  grope. 
And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and  call 
To  what  I  feel  is  Lord  of  all. 

And  faintly  trust  the  larger  hope. 


"So  careful  of  the  type!"  but  no, 
From  scarped  cliff  and  quarried  stone^ 
She  cries,  "A  thousand  types  are  gone; 

I  care  for  nothing,  all  shall  go. 

"Thou  makest  thine  appeal  to  me: 
I  bring  to  life,  I  bring  to  death; 
The  spirit  does  but  mean  the  breath: 

I  know  no  more."     And  he,  shall  he, 

Man,  her  last  work,  w-ho  seera'd  so  fair, 
Such  splendid  purpose  in  his  eyes. 
Who  roll'd  the  psalm  to  wintry  skies. 

Who  built  him  fanes  of  fruitless  prayer, 

Who  trusted  God  was  love  indeed 
And  love  Creation's  final  law — 
Tho'  Nature,  red  in  tooth  and  claw 

With  ravine,  shriek 'd  against  his  creed — 

Who  loved,  who  suffer 'd  countless  ills, 
Who  battled  for  the  True,  the  Just, 
Be  blown  about  the  desert  dust. 

Or   seal'd   within   the   iron   hills? 

No  more?    A  monst«r  then,  a  dream, 
A  discord.     Dragons  of  the  prime, 

1  Which  shows  fossil  remains  of  extinct  forms. 


That  tare  each  other  in  their  slime. 
Were  mellow  music  match 'd  with  him. 

O  life  as  futile,  then,  as  frail! 

O  for  thy  voice  to  soothe  and  bless! 

What  hope  of  answer,  or  redress? 
Behind  the  veil,  behind  the  veil. 


Peace;    come  away:    the  song  of  woe 

Is  after  all  an  earthly  song. 

Peace;    come  away:    we  do  him  wrong 
To  sing  so  wildly:    let  us  go. 

Come;    let  us  go:    your  cheeks  are  pale; 
But  half  my  life  I  leave  behind.2 
Methinks  my  friend  is  richly  shrined;* 

But  I  shall  pass,  my  work  will  fail. 

Yet  in  these  ears,  till  hearing  dies, 
One  set  slow  bell  will  seem  to  toll 
The  passing  of  the  sweetest  soul 

That  ever  look'd  with  human  eyes. 

I  hear  it  now,  and  o'er  and  o'er, 

Eternal  greetings  to  the  dead; 

And  "Ave,  Ave,  Ave,"  said, 
"Adieu,  adieu,"  for  evermore. 

LVIII 

In  those  sad  words  I  took  farewell. 
Like  echoes  in  sepulchral  halls. 
As  drop  by  drop  the  water  falls 

In  vaults  and  catacombs,  they  fell; 

.\nd,  falling,  idly  broke  the  peace 
Of  hearts  that  beat  from  day  to  day, 
Half-conscious*  of  their  dying  clay, 

And  those  cold  crypts  where  they  shall  cease. 

The  high  Muse  answer  'd :     "  Wherefore  grieve 
Thy  brethren  with  a  fruitless  tear? 
Abide  a  little  longer  here. 

And  thou  shalt  take  a  nobler  leave." 


The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ;* 
The  moon  is  hid,  the  night  is  still; 
A  single  church  below  the  hill 

Is  pealing,  folded  in  the  mist. 

A  single  peal  of  bells  below, 
That  wakens  at  this  hour  of  rest 

2  In  the  grave.  4  Only  half-conscious. 

3  In  these  poe  ns. 

*  This    is    the    third    Christmas   described    in    the 
poem.     Tennyson  had  removed  to  a  new  home. 


586 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


A  single  murmur  in  the  breast, 
That  these  are  not  the  bells  I  know. 

Like  strangers'  voices  here  they  sound, 
In  lands  where  not  a  memory  strays, 
Nor  landmark  breathes  of  other  days. 

But  all  is  new  unhallow'd  ground.  .  , 

CVI 

Bing  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light: 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night; 

Bing  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Bing  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new. 
Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow: 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go; 

Bing  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Bing  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind. 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more; 
Bing  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor; 

Bing  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Bing  out  a  slowly  dying  cause. 
And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife; 
Bing  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life. 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Bing  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin. 
The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times; 
Bing  out,  ring  out  my  mournful  rhymes. 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel   in. 

Bing  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood. 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite; 
Bing  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 

Bing  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Bing  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease; 

Bing  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold; 

Bing  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 
Bing  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Bing  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand; 
Bing  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 

Bing  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 

cxy 

Now  fades  the  last  long  streak  of  snow, 
Now  burgeons  every  maze  of  quicki 
About  the  flowering  squares,'-  and  thick 

By  ashen  roots  the  violets  blow. 


1  hodfce  (espeolally  hawthorn) 
1'  tIcidH 


Now  rings  the  woodland  loud  and  long, 
The  distance  takes  a  lovelier  hue, 
And  drown  'd  in  yonder  living  blue 

The  lark  becomes  a  sightless  song. 

Now  dance  the  lights  on  lawn  and  lea. 
The  flocks  are  whiter  down  the  vale. 
And  milkier  every  milky  sail 

On   winding  stream   or   distant  sea; 

Where  now  the  seamew  pipes,  or  dives 
In  yonder  greening  gleam,  and  fly 
The  happy   birds,  that  change  their  sky 

To  build  and  brood,  that  live  their  lives 

From  land  to  land ;    and  in  my  breast 
Spring  wakens  too,  and  my  regret 
Becomes  an  April  violet. 

And  buds  and  blossoms  like  the  rest. 

CXVI 
Is  it,  then,  regret  for  buried  time 
That  keenlier  in  sweet  April  wakes. 
And  meets  the  year,  and  gives  and  takes 
The  colours  of  the  crescent  prime ?3 

Not  all:    the  songs,  the  stirring  air. 
The  life  re-orient  out  of  dust. 
Cry  thro'  the  sense  to  hearten  trust 

In  that  which  made  the  world  so  fair. 

Not  all  regret:    the  face  will  shine 
Upon  me,  while  I  muse  alone. 
And  that  dear  voice,  I  once  have  known, 

Still  speak  to  me  of  me  and  mine. 

Yet  loss  of  sorrow  lives  in  me 
For  days  of  happy  commune  dead. 
Less  yearning  for  the  friendship  fled 

Than  some  strong  bond  which  is  to  be. 

CXVll 
O  days  and  hours,  your  work  is  this. 
To  hold  me  from  my  proper  place, 
A  little  while  from  his  embrace, 
For  fuller  gain  of  after  bliss; 

That  out  of  distance  might  ensue 
Desire  of  nearness  doubly  sweet, 
And  unto  meeting,  when  we  meet, 

Delight  a  hundredfold  accrue,  • 

For  every  grain  of  sand  that  runs,* 
And  every  span  of  shade  that  steals, 


3  IncreasInK  spring 
■»  This     stanzn     desorlbos 
moaHiirIng  time. 


tho    various    monna    of 


ALFBED,  LOBD  TENNYSON 


587 


And  every  kiss  of  toothed  wheels, 
And  all  the  courses  of  the  suns. 

CXVIII 

Contemplate  all  this  work  of  Time, 
The  giant  labouring  in  his  youth; 
Nor  dream  of  human  love  and  truth, 

As  dying  Nature's  earth  and  lime; 

But  trust  that  those  we  call  the  dead 
Are  breathers  of  an  ampler  day 
For  ever  nobler  ends.     They  say, 

The  solid  earth  whereon  we  tread 

In  tracts  of  fluent  heat  began. 

And  grew  to  seeming-random  forms, 
The  seeming  prey  of  cyclic^  storms, 

Till  at  the  last  arose  the  man; 

Who  throve  and  branch  'd  from  clime  to  clime, 

The  herald  of  a  higher  race. 

And  of  himself  in  higher  place. 
If  so  he  typec  this  work  of  time 

Within  himself,  from  more  to  more; 
Or,  crown  'd  with  attributes  of  woe 
Like  glories,  move  his  course,  and  show 

That  life  is  not  as  idle  ore, 

But  iron  dug  from  central  gloom. 
And  heated  hot  with  burning  fears. 
And  dipped  in  baths  of   hissing  tears, 

And  batter 'd  with  the  shocks  of  doom 

To  shape  and  use.     Arise  and  fly 
The  reeling  Faun,  the  sensual  feast; 
^love  upward,   working   out   the   beast, 

And  let  the  ape  and  tiger  die. 


cxxv 

What  ever  I  have  said  or  sung, 

Some  bitter  notes  my  harp  would  give. 
Yea,  tho'  there  often  seem'd  to  live 

A  contradiction  on  the  tongue. 

Yet  Hope  had  never  lost  her  youth. 
She  did  but  look  through  dimmer  eyes; 
Or  Love  but  play'd  with  gracious  lies. 

Because  he  felt  so  fix'd  in  truth; 

And  if  the  song  were  full  of  care. 
He  breathed  the  spirit  of  the  song; 
And  if  the  words  were  sweet  and  strong 

He  set  his  royal  signet  there; 


r.  periodic  (in  a  large  sense) 
0  represent,  properly 


Abiding  with  me  till  I  sail 

To  seek  thee  on  the  mystic  deeps, 
And  this  electric  force,  that  keeps 

A  thousand  pulses  dancing,  fail. 

CXXVI 

Love  is  and  was  my  lord  and  king, 
And  in  his  presence  I   attend 
To  hear  the  tidings  of  my  friend. 

Which  every  hour  his  couriers  bring. 

Love  is  and  was  my  king  and  lord. 
And  will  be,  tho'  as  yet  I  keep 
Within  the  court  on  earth,  and  sleep 

Encompass 'd  by  his  faithful  guard. 

And  hear  at  times  a  sentinel 

Who  moves  about  from  place  to  place, 
And  whispers  to  the  worlds  of  space. 

In  the  deep  night,  that  all  is  well. 

CXXVII 
And  all  is  well,  tho'  faith  and  form 

Be  sunder 'd  in  the  night  of  fear; 

Well  roars  the  storm  to  those  that  hear 
A  deeper  voice  across  the  storm. 

Proclaiming  social  truth  shall  spread. 
And  justice,  even  tho'  thrice  again 
The  red   fool-fury   of  the   Seine 

Should  pile  her  barricades  with  dead.* 

But  ill  for  him  that  wears  a  crown, 
And  him,  the  lazar,  in  his  rags! 
They  tremble,  the  sustaining  crags; 

The  spires  of  ice  are  toppled  down, 

And  molten  up,  and  roar  in  flood; 
The  fortress  crashes  from  on  high. 
The  brute  earth  lightens  to  the  sky. 

And  the  great  iEon  sinks  in  blood. 

And  compass 'd  by  the  fires  of  hell; 
While  thou,  dear  spirit,  happy  star, 
O  'erlook  'st  the  tumult  from  afar. 

And  smilest,  knowing  all  is  well. 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  CAUTERETZf 

All  along  the  valley,  stream  that  flashest  white. 
Deepening  thy  voice  with  the  deepening  of  the 

night, 
All  along  the  valley,  where  thy  waters  flow, 

*  There  was  a  violent  revolution  in  France  In 
1830.  resulting  in  the  overthrow  of  Charles  X. 

t  In  1861.  Tennyson  revisited  this  valley  In  the 
French  Pyrenees  which  he  had  visited  with 
Hallam  In  1830. 


588 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


I  walk'd  with  one  I  loved  two  and  thirty  years 

ago. 
All  along  the  valley,  while  I  walk'd  to-day, 
The   two    and    thirty   years    were    a    mist    that 

rolls  away; 
For  all  along  the  valley,  down  thy  rocky  betl, 
Thy  living  voice  to   me   was   as  the   voice  of 

the  dead, 
And  all  along  the  valley,  by  rock  and  cave  and 

tree, 
The  voice  of  the  dead  was  a  living  voice  to  me. 

IN  THE  GAEDEN  AT  SWAINSTONf 

Nightingales  warbled  without. 

Within  was  weeping  for  thee; 
Shadows  of   three   dead  men 

Walk'd  in  the  garden  with  me. 

Shadows  of  three  dead  men,  and  thou  wast 
one  of  the  three. 

Nightingales  sang  in  his  woods, 

The  Master  was  far  away; 
Nightingales  warbled  and  sang 

Of  a  passion  that  lasts  but  a  day; 

Still  in  the  house  in  his  coffin  the  Prince  of 
courtesy  lay. 

Two  dead  men  have  I  known 

In  courtesy  like  to  thee; 
Two  dead  men  have  I  loved 

With  a  love  that  ever  will  be; 

Three  dead  men  have  I  loved,  and  thou  art 
last  of  the  three. 

SONG   FROM   MAUD§ 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown, 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone; 

And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad. 
And  the  musk  of  the  rose  is  blown.  6 

For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves, 
And  the  planet  of  love  is  on  high, 

Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she  loves 
On  a  bed  of  daflfodil  sky. 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  she  loves, 
To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die.  12 

t  The  borne  of  Sir  John  Simeon  In  the  Isie  of 
Wlglit,  where  Tennyson  also  lived  in  the  lat- 
ter part  of  bis  life.  Sir  .Tohn  died  in  1870. 
The  other  two  friends  referred  to  were  Arthur 
Hallam  (see  precedinf;  poems)  and  Henry 
LushlnKton  (d.  18.55).  to  whom  Tennyson  had 
dedicated  The  Princess.  All  three,  by  a  cu- 
riouH  coincidence,  died  abroad. 

I  There  is  a  distinct  echo  in  this  song  of  The 
Hnnf)  of  ffolnmon ;  cp.  chapters  v  and  vl. 


All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bassoon; 
All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine  stirr'd 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune; 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird. 

And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon.  IS 

I  said  to  the  lily,  ' '  There  is  but  one, 

With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 
When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone? 

She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play." 
Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone. 

And  half  to  the  rising  day; 
Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 

The  last  wheel  echoes  away.  26 

I  said  to  the  rose,  ' '  The  brief  night  goes 

In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 
O  young  lord-lover,  what  sighs  are  those, 

For  one  that  will  never  be  thine? 
But  mine,  but  mine,"  so  I  sware  to  the  rose, 

"For  ever  and  ever,  mine."  32 

And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into  my  blood, 
As  the  music  clash 'd  in  the  Hall; 

And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood, 
For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 

From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to  the 
wood. 
Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all;  38 

From    the   meadow    your    walks    have    left    so 
sweet 

That  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs 
He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 

In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes. 
To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we  meet 

And  the  valleys  of  Paradise.  44 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 

One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree; 
The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake 

As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea; 
But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your  sake. 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 

They  sigh'd  for  the  dawn  and  thee.  52 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls, 
Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done, 

In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls. 
Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one; 

Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over  with  curls, 
To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun.  58 

There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 
From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate, 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON 


589 


She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate. 
The  red  rose  cries,  *  *  She  is  near,  she  is  near ; ' ' 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  ''She  is  late;" 
The  larkspur  listens,  '  *  1  hear,  I  hear ; ' ' 

And  the  lily  whispers,  "1  wait."  66 


She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread, 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed; 
My  dust  would  hear   her  and  beat, 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead, 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 


74 


THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE* 

Half  a  league,  half   a   league, 
Half  a  league  onward. 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 
♦'Forward  the  Light  Brigade! 
Charge  for  the  guns !  "  he  said. 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 


10 


20 


"Forward,  the  Light  Brigade!" 
"Was  there  a  man  dismay 'd? 
Not  tho'  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  blunder 'd. 
Theirs  not   to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why. 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die. 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them. 
Cannon  to  left  of  them. 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 

Volley 'd  and  thunder 'd; 
Storm  'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  hell 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Flash 'd  all  their  sabres  bare. 
Flash 'd  as  they  turn'd  in  air 
Sabring  the  gunners  there. 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wonder 'd. 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke 
Right  thro'  the  line  they  broke; 

♦This  fatal  charge,  due  to  a  misunderstanding  of 
orders,  was  made  at  Balaklava,  in  the  Crimea, 
in  1854.  Less  than  one-third  of  the  brigade 
returned  alive. 


30 


Cossack  and  Russian 

Reel'd  from  the  sabre-stroke 

Shatter  'd    and   sunder  'd. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not, 

Not  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  behind  them 

Volley 'd  and  thunder 'd; 
Storm 'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell. 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  thro'  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 

Left  of  six  hundred. 

When  can  their  glory  fadef 
O  the  wild  charge  they  made! 

All  the  w^orld  wonder 'd. 
Honour  the  charge  they  made! 
Honour  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred! 


THE  CAPTAIN 

A    LEGEND    OF    THE    NAVY 

He  that  only  rules  by  terror 

Doeth  grievous  wrong. 
Deep  as  hell  I  count  his  error. 

Let   him   hear  my   song. 
Brave  the  captain  was;     the  seamen 

Made  a  gallant  crew. 
Gallant   sons    of    English   freemen, 

Sailors   bold   and  true. 
But  they  hated  his  oppression; 

Stern  he  was  anil  rash, 
So    for    every    light    transgression 

Doom'd  them  to  the  lash. 
Day  by  day  more  harsh  and  cruel 

Seem'd  the  Captain's  mood. 
Secret  wrath  like  smother 'd  fuel 

Burnt  in  each  man's  blood. 
Yet  he  hoped  to  purchase  glory, 

Hoped  to  make  the  name 
Of  his  vessel  great  in  story, 

Wlieresoe'er  he  came. 
So  they  past  by  capes  and  islands^ 

ilany  a  harbour-mouth. 
Sailing  under  palmy  highlands 

Far  within  the  South. 
On  a  day  when  they  were  going 

O'er  the  lone  expanse, 
In  the  north,  her  canvas  flowing. 

Rose   a   ship   of   France. 


40 


50 


10 


20 


590 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Then  the  Captain's  colour  heightened, 

Joyful  caiue  his  speech;  30 

But  a  cloudy  gladness  lighten 'd 

In  the  eyes  of  each. 
"Chase,"   he  said;     the   ship   flew    fonvard, 

And  the  wind  did  blow; 
Stately,  lightly,  went  she  norward, 

Till  she   near'd  the  foe. 
Then  they  look  M  at  him  they  hated, 

Had  what  they  desired; 
Mute  with  folded  arms  they  waited — 

Not   a  gun  was   fired.  40 

But  they  heard  the  f oeman  's  thunder 

Roaring   out  their  doom; 
All  the  air  was  torn  in  sunder, 

Crashing  went  the  boom, 
Spars  were  splinter 'd.  decks  were  shatter 'd, 

Bullets  fell  like  rain; 
Over  mast  and  deck  were  scatter 'd 

Blood  and  brains  of  men. 
Spars  were  splinter 'd;    decks  were  broken; 

Every  mother 's  son —  50 

Down  they  dropt — no  word  was  spoken — 

Each  beside  his  gun. 
On  the  decks  as  they  were  lying, 

Were  their  faces  grim. 
In  their  blood,  as  they  lay  dying, 

Did   they   smile   on  him. 
Those  in  whom  he  had  reliance 

For  his  noble  name 
With  one  smile  of  still  defiance 

Sold  him  unto  shame.  60 

Shame  and  wrath  his  heart  confounded, 

Pale  he  turn'd  and  red, 
Till  himself  was  deadly  wounded 

Falling  on  the  dead. 
Dismal  error!     fearful  slaughter! 

Years  have  wandered  by; 
Side  by  side  beneath  the  water 

Crew  and  Captain  lie; 
There  the  sunlit  ocean  tosses 

O'er  them  mouldering,  70 

And  the  lonely  seabird  crosses 

With  one  waft  of  the  wing. 

THE  REVENGE* 

A    BALLAD   OF   THE    FLEET 
I 

At  Floros  in  the  Azores  Sir  Richard  Grenvillc 

lay, 
And    a    pinnace,    like    a    flutter 'd    bird,    came 

flying  from   far  away; 
"Spanish  ships  of  war  at  sea!    we  have  sighted 

fifty-three!" 

•  S'M'  Sir  WaMcr  Ilnli'ltfh'R  ncconnt,  p.  'JOS. 


Then  sware  Lord  Thomas  Howard:     "  'Fore 

God  I  am  no  coward; 
But  I  cannot  meet  them  here,  for  my  ships  are 

out   of   gear. 
And  the  half  my  men  are  sick.     I  must  fly,  but 

follow   quick. 
We  are   six  ships  of  the  line;t   can  we  fight 

with  fifty-three?" 


Then  spake  Sir  Richard  Grenville:     "I  know 

you  are  no  coward; 
You  fly  them  for  a  moment  to  fight  with  them 

again. 
But  I  've  ninety  men  and  more  that  are  lying 

sick  ashore.  10 

I    should    count    myself    the    coward   if    I    left 

them,  my  Lord  Howard, 
To   these   Inquisition    dogs   and   the   devildoms 

of  Spain." 


So  Lord  Howard  past  away  with  five  ships  of 

war  that  day. 
Till  he  melted  like  a  cloud  in  the  silent  summer 

heaven ; 
But  Sir  Richard  bore  in  hand  all  his  sick  men 

from  the  land 
Very  carefully   and   slow, 
Men  of  Bideford  in  Devon, 
And  we  laid  them  on  the  ballast  down  below: 
For  we  brouglit  them  all  aboard, 
And   they   blest   him   in   their   pain,   that   they 

were  not  left  to  Spain,  20 

To    the    thumb-screw    and    the    stake,    for    the 

glory  of  the  Lord. 


He  had  only  a  hundred  seamen  to  work  the 
ship  and  to  fight 

And  he  sailed  away  from  Flores  till  the  Span- 
iard came  in  sight. 

With  his  huge  sea-castles  heaving  upon  the 
weather  bow, 

"Shall  we  fight  or  shall  we  fly? 

Good  Sir  Richard,  tell  us  now, 

For  to  fight  is  but  to  die! 

There'll  be  little  of  us  left  by  the  time  this 
sun  be  set." 

And  Sir  Richard  said  again :  ' '  We  be  all 
good   English   men. 

Let  us  bang  these  dogs  of  Seville,  the  children 
of  the  devil,  30 

t  I.  e.,  ships  of  the  llKhtinR  lino,  the  old  term  for 
hnttlf-shlpa. 


i^ 


ALFEED,  LORD  TENNYSON 


591 


For  I  never  turn'd  my  back  upon  Don  or  devil 
yet. ' ' 

V 

Sir    Eichard    spoke    and    he   laughed,    and    we 

roar  'd  a  hurrah,  and  so 
The  little  Eevenge  ran  on  sheer  into  the  heart 

of  the  foe. 
With   her    hundred    fighters   on    deck,   and   her 

ninety  sick  below; 
For  half  of  their  fleet  to  the  right  and  half  to 

the  left  were  seen, 
And  the  little  Eevenge  ran  on  thro'  the  long 

sea-lane  between. 

VI 

Thousands  of  their  soldiers  look'd  down  from 

their  decks  and  laugh 'd, 
Thousands  of  their  seamen  made  mock  at  the 

mad  little  craft 
Eunning  on  and  on,  till  delay  M 
By    their    mountain-like    San    Philip    that,    of 

fifteen  hundred  tons,  40 

And    up-shadowing    high    above    us    with    her 

yawning  tiers  of  guns, 
Took  the  breath  from  our  sails,  and  we  stay'd. 

vn 

And    while    now    the    great    San    Philip    hung 

above  us  like  a  cloud 
Whence  the  thunderbolt  will  fall 
Long  and  loud, 
Four  galleons  drew  away 
From  the  Spanish  fleet  that  day, 
And  two  upon  the  larboard  and  two  upon  the 

starboard  lay, 
And  the  battle-thunder  broke  from  them  all. 

VIII 

But  anon  the  great  San  Philip,  she  bethought 

herself   and  went,  50 

Having  that  within  her  womb  that  had  left  her 

ill  content; 
And  the  rest  they  came  aboard  us,  and  they 

fought  us  hand  to  hand. 
For  a  dozen  times  they  came  with  their  pikes 

and  musqueteers, 
And  a  dozen  times  we  shook   'em  off  as  a  dog 

that  shakes  his  ears 
When  he  leaps  from  the  water  to  the  land. 

IX 

And  the  sun  went  down,  and  the  stars  came 
out  far  over  the  summer  sea. 

But  never  a  moment  ceased  the  fight  of  the 
one  and  the   fifty-three. 


Ship    after   ship,    the   whole    night   long,   their 

high-built  galleons  came, 
Ship  after  ship,  tlie  whole  night  long,  with  her 

battle-thunder  and  flame: 
Ship    after   ship,    the   whole    night   long,    drew 

back  with  her  dead  and  her  shame.     60 
For  some  were  sunk  and  many  were  shatter 'd, 

and  so  could  fight  no  more — 
God  of  battles,  was  ever  a  battle  like  this  in 

the  world  before? 


For  he  said,  "Fight  on!  fight  on!" 
Tho'  his  vessel  was  all  but  a  wreck; 
And   it   chanced  that,   when  half   of   the  short 

summer  night  was  gone. 
With  a  grisly  wound  to  be  drest  he  had  left 

the  deck, 
But  a   bullet  struck   him   that  was  dressing  it 

suddenly  dead. 
And  himself  he  was  wounded  again  in  the  side 

and  the  head. 
And  he  said,  "Fight  on!   fight  on!" 

XI 

And  the  night  went  down,  and  the  sun  smiled 

out  far  over  the  summer  sea,  70 

And   the   Spanish   fleet   with    broken   sides   lay 

round  us  all  in  a  ring; 
But  they  dared  not  touch  us  again,  for  they 

fear  'd  that  we  still  could  sting. 
So  they  watch 'd  what  the  end  would  be. 
And  we  had  not  fought  them  in  vain, 
But  in  perilous  plight  were  we. 
Seeing  forty  of  our  poor  hundred  were  slain, 
And  half  of  the  rest  of  us  maim'd  for  life 
In  the  crash  of  the  cannonades  and  the  des- 
perate strife: 
And  the  sick  men  down  in  the  hold  were  most 

of  them  stark  and  cold, 
And  the  pikes  were  all  broken  or  bent,  and  the 

powder  was  all  of  it  spent;  80 

And  the  masts  and  the  rigging  were  lying  over 

the  side; 
But  Sir  Eichard  cried  in  his  English  pride: 
"We  have  fought  such  a  fight  for  a  day  and 

a  night 
As  may  never  be  fought  again! 
We  have  won  great  glory,  my  men! 
And  a  day  less  or  more 
At  sea  or  ashore. 
We  die — does  it  matter  when? 
Sink    me   the   ship,    blaster   Gunner — sink   her, 

split  her  in  twain! 
Fall  into  the  hands  of  God,  not  into  the  hands 

of  Spain!"  90 


592 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Xll 

And  the  gunner  said,  '  *  Ay,  ay, ' '  but  the  sea- 
men made  reply: 

"We  have  children,  we  have  wives, 

And  the  Lord  hath  spared  our  lives. 

We  will  make  the  Spaniard  promise,  if  we 
yield,  to  let  us  go; 

We  shall  live  to  fight  again  and  to  strike  an- 
other blow." 

And  the  lion  there  lay  dying,  and  ttiey  yielded 
to  the  foe. 

XIII 

And  the  stately  Spanish  men  to  their  flagship 

bore  him  then, 
Where    they    laid    him    by    the    mast,    old    Sir 

Richard  caught  at  last, 
And  they  praised  him   to  his   face  with  their 

courtly  foreign  grace; 
But  he  rose  upon  their  decks,  and  he  cried:   100 
"I  have  fought   for  Queen   and  Faith  like   a 

valiant  man  and  true; 
I  have  only  done  my  duty  as  a  man  is  bound 

to  do. 
With  a  joyful  spirit   I  Sir  Richard  Grenville 

die!" 
And  he  fell  upon  their  decks,  and  he  died. 

XIV 
And  they  stared  at  the  dead  that  had  been  so 

valiant  and  true, 
And  had  holden  the  power  and  glory  of  Spain 

so  cheap 
That  he  dared  her  with  one  little  ship  and  his 

English  few; 
Was  he  devil  or  man?    He  was  devil  for  aught 

they  knew. 
But  they  sank  his  body  with  honour  down  into 

the  deep. 
And  they  mann'd  the  Revenge  with  a  swarthier 

alien  crew,  HO 

And  away  she  sail'd  with  her  loss  and  long'd 

for  her  own; 
When  a  wind  from  the  lands  they  had  ruin  'd 

awoke  from  sleep. 
And  the  water  began  to  heave  and  the  weather 

to  moan, 
And  or  ever  that  evening  ended  a  great  gale 

blew, 
And  a  wave  like  the  wave  that  is  raised  by  an 

earthquake  grew. 
Till  it  smote  on  their  hulls  and  their  sails  and 

their  masts  and  their  flags, 
And  the  whole  sea  plunged  and  fell  on  the  shot- 
shatter 'd  navy  of  Spain, 
And  the  little  Revenge  herself  wont   down  by 

the  island  crags 
To  be  lost  evermore  in  the  main. 


NORTHERN  FARMER* 
Old  Style 

I 
Wheer    'asta  bean   saw   long  and  mea   liggin' 

'ere  aloan? 
Xoorsel   thoort  nowt  o'  a  noorse;   whoy,   l^o<- 

tor   's  abean  an  '  agoan ; 
Says   that   ]    nioant    'a   naw   moor   aale,   but    I 

beiint  a  fool; 
Git  ma  my  aale,  fur  1  beant  a-gawin '  to  breiik 

my  rule.  4 

II 
Doctors,  they  knaws  nowt,  fur  a  says  what    's 

nawways  true; 
Naw  soort  o'  koind  o'  use  to  saay  the  things 

that  a  do. 
I    've    'ed  my  point  o'  aale  ivry  noight  sin'  I 

bean    'ere. 
An '  I  've   'ed  my  quart  ivry  market-noight  for 

foorty  year.  8 

ni 
Parson    's  a  bean  loikewoise,  an '  a  sittin '  ere 

o '  my  bed. 
"The  Amoighty   's  a  taiikin  o'  youi  to    'issen> 

my  friend,"  a  said, 
An '  a  towd  ma  my  sins,  an '  's  toithe  were  due, 

an'  I  gied  it  in  hond; 
I   done  moy  duty  boy    'um,  as  I    'a  done   boy 

the  lond.  12 

IV. 
Larn'd    a    ma'    beii.      I    reckons    I    'annot    sa 

mooch  to  larn. 
But   a  cast  oop,  thot  a  did,    'bout  Bossy  ^[ar- 
ris's barne. 
Thaw  a  knaws  I  hallus  voated  wi'  Squoire  an' 

choorch  an'  staate, 
An'   i'  the  woost  o'   toimes  I  war  nivor   agin 

the  raate.  l* 

V 
An'  I  hallus  coom'd  to    's  choorch  afoor  moy 

Sally  wur  dead. 
An'    'card    'um  a  bummin'  awaay  loike  a  buz- 
zard-clocks ower  my    'ead, 

1  ott  as  In  7»0Mr  2  cockchafer 

*  Noto  that  In  this  dialect  poem  an  a  pronounced 
very  lightly  represents  thou,  as  in  "  'asta 
(hast  thou),  or  he,  as  In  "a  says";  or  it  Is  a 
mere  prefix  to  a  participle,  as  in  "a  boiln,' 
"a  sittin'  " ;  or,  pronounced  broadly,  it  may 
stand  for  hare,  as  in  "as  I  'a  done."  Further, 
toltne  =  tithe  ;  barne  =  bairn:  rail  te  =  church- 
rate,  or  tax;  'sivor  =  howsoever  ;  stubbed — 
Krubbed;  boKglo  =  bogle  (ghost):  rnilved  and 
rembled  =  tore  out  and  removed  ;  'soize  =  as- 
sizes :  yow8  =  ewe8;  'ail  poth  =  half -penn.v- 
worth  ;  sewer-loy  =  surely  :  atta  =  art  thoii ; 
hallus  V  the  owd  taiUe  =  alwa.vs  urging  the 
samp  thing.  Ihe  numbered  notes  nrc  Tenny- 
son's. 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON 


593 


An '  I  niver  knaw  'il  whot  a  mean  'd  but  I 
thowt  a  'ad  sunimut  to  saay, 

An'  I  thowt  a  said  whot  a  owt  to  'a  said,  an' 
I  coom  'd  awaay.  20 

VI 

Bessy  Marris's  barnel   tha  knaws  she  laiiid  it 

to  mea. 
Mowt  a  bean,  mayhap,  for  she  wur  a  bad  un, 

shea. 
'Siver,  1  kep   'um,  I  kep   'uni,  ray  lass,  tha  niun 

understond ; 
I  done  mov  duty  boy  'um,  as  I  'a  done  boy  the 

lond.        '  24 

VII 

But  Parson  a  cooms  an '  a  goas.  an '  a  says  it 

eiisy  an  '  f  rea : 
' '  The  Amoighty    's  a  taakin  o '  you   to    'issen, 

my  friend,"  says    'ea. 
I  wejiut  sajiy  men  be  loiars,  thaw  summun  said 


Done    it    ta-year    I    mean  'd,    an '   runu  'd    plow 

thruflF  it  an '  all, 
If  Godamoighty  an '  parson   'ud  nobbut  let  ma 

aloan, — 
Mea,  wi '  haate  hoonderd  haacre  o '  Squoire  's, 

an  lond  o'  my  oan,  44 


Do  Godamoighty  knaw  what  a's  doing  a-taakin' 
o'  mea? 

I  beant  wonn  as  saws  'ere  a  bean  an  yonder  a 
pea; 

An '  Squoire  'ull  be  sa  mad  an '  all — a '  dear, 
a'  dear! 

And  I  'a  managed  for  Squoire  coom  Michael- 
mas thutty  year.  48 

XIII 
A  mowt    'a  taaen  owd  Joanes,  as    'ant  not  a 
'aiipoth  0 '  sense, 


it  in     aaste;  l  q^    a    mowt    a'   tasien   young   Robins — a   niver 


But    'e  reads  wonn  sarinin   a  weeak,  an 
stubb'd  Thurnaby  waaste. 


2S 


VIII 


D'  ya  moind  the  waaste.  ray  lassf  naw,   naw, 

tha  was  not  born  then; 
Theer  wur  a   boggle  in   it,  I   often    'eiird    'um 

mysen ; 
Moast   loike   a   butter-bump.s   fur   1    'eard    'um 

about  an'  about, 
But  I  stubb  'd   'um  oop  wi '  the  lot,  an '  raaved 

an'  renibled    'um  out.  32 

IX 
Keaper  's  it  wur ;  f o '  they  fun  'um  theer  a-laaid 

of   'is  faace 
Down  i '  the  woild   'enemies^  af oor  I  coora  'd  to 

the  plaace. 
Noaks  or  Thimbleby — toaner^    'ed  shot    'um  as 

dead  as  a  naail. 
Noaks  wur   'ang'd  for  it  oop  at   'soize — but  git 

ma  my  aale.  36 

X 
Dubbut  loook  at  the  waaste ;  theer  warn 't  not 

feead  for  a  cow; 
Nowt  at  all  but  bracken  an'  fuzz,  an'  loook  at 

it  now — 
Warn  't  worth  nowt  a  haacre.  an '  now  theer   's 

lots  o '  feead, 
Fourscoor  yowsi  upon  it,  an '  some  on  it  down 

i '  seeiid.fi 

XI 

Xobbut  a  bit  on  it   's  left,  an'  I  meiin'd  to   'a 
stubb'd  it  at  fall, 


mended  a  fence; 
But  Godamoighty  a  moost  taiike  mea  an'  taake 

ma  now, 
Wi '    aaf    the    cows    to    cauve    an '    Thurnaby 

hoalms  to  plow!  52 

XIV 
Loook    'ow    quoloty    smoiles    when    they    seeas 

ma  a  passin'  boy, 
Says  to  thessen,   naw  doubt,  * '  What  a  man   a 

bea  sewer-loy ! ' ' 
Fur  they  knaws   what   I   bean   to   Squoire  sin' 

fust  a  coom'd  to  the   'AH; 
I  done  raoy  duty  by  Squoire  an'  I  done  moy 

duty  boy  hall.  56 

XV 
Squoire    's  i '  Lunnou,  an '  summun  I  reckons 

'ull  'a  to  wroite, 
For  whoa    's  to  howd  the  lond  ater  mea  thot 

muddles  ma  quoit; 
Sartin-sewer  I  bea  thot   a  weiint   niver  give   it 

to  Joanes, 
Naw,  nor  a  moiint  to  Robins — a  niver  rembles 

the  stoans.  60 


.'.  Uittern 
4  anemones 


5  ono  or  other 

6  clover 


But  summun  'ull  come  ater  mea  mayhap  wi'  'is 

kittle  o'  steam 
^**  I  Huzzin'  an'  maazin'  the  blessed  fealds  wi'  the 

divil's  oiin  team. 
Sin '  I  mun  doy  I   mun  doy,  thaw  loife  they 

says  is  sweet, 
But  sin'  1  mun  doy  I  mun  doy,  for  I  couldn 

abear  to  see  it.  ** 


594 


THE  VICTOEIAN  AGE 


What  atta  ptannin'  theer  fur,  an'  doesn  bring 

ma  the  aalel 
Doctor   's  a   'toattler,  lass,  an  a 's  hallus  i '  the 

owd  taale; 
I  weant  break  rules  fur  Doctor,  a  knaws  naw 

moor  nor  a  floy; 
Git  ma  my  aale,  I  tell  tha,  an'  if  I  mun  doy  1 

mun  doy.  68 

EIZPAH* 
17— 


Wailing,  wailing,  wailing,  the  wind  over  laud 

and  sea — 
And    Willy's   voice   in   the   wind,    "O    mother, 

come  out  to  me  \" 
Why  should  he  call  me  to-night,  when  he  knows 

that  I  cannot  go? 
For  the  downs  are  as  bright  as   day,  and  the 

full  moon  stares  at  the  snow. 


We  should  be  seen,  my  dear;  they  would  spy  us 

out  of  the  town. 
The  loud   black  nights   for   us,   and  the   storm 

rushing  over  the  down, 
When  I  cannot  see  my  own  hand,  but  am  led  by 

the  creak  of  the  ehain,i 
And  grovel  and  grope  for  my  son  till  I  find 

myself  drenched  with  the  rain. 

Ill 
Anything   fallen   again?   nay — what   was  there 

left  to  fall? 
I  have  taken  them  home,  I  have  number 'd  the 

bones,  I  have  hidden  them  all.  10 

What  am  I  saying?  and  what  are  you.^  do  you 

come  as  a  spy! 
Falls?   what   falls!    who   knows?     As   the  tree 

falls  so  must  it  lie. 


Who  let  her  in?  how  long  has  she  been?  you — 

what  have  you  heard? 
Why    did    you    sit    so    quiet?   you    never    have 

spoken   a   word. 
O — to    pray    with    me — yes — a    lady — none    of 

their  spies — 
But   the   night   has  crept   into   my   heart,   and 

begun  to  darken  my  eyes. 

•  Foiindpd  on  a  story  rolntod  In  a  p^nny  mnKflzinp, 
and  on  thi'  fact  that  (TlniiDalR  "were  of  ton 
denied  CliriHtian  burial.  The  title  is  taken 
from  the  narrative  in  2  Samuel,  xxi,  1-14. 

1  See  line  35. 


Ah — you,  that  have  lived  so  soft,  what  should 
you  know  of  the  night, 

The  blast  and  the  burning  shame  and  the  bit- 
ter frost  and  the  fright? 

I  have  done  it,  Avhile  you  were  asleep — you 
were  only  made  for  the  day. 

I  have  gather 'd  my  baby  together — and  now 
you  may  go  your  way.  20 


VI 

Nay — for  it 's  kind  of  you,  madam,  to  sit  by  an 

old  dying  wife. 
But  say  nothing  hard  of  my  boy,  I  have  only 

an  hour  of  life. 
I  kiss'd  my  boy  in  the  prison,  before  he  went 

out  to  die. 
"They   dared  me  to   do  it,"   he  said,   and   he 

never  has  told  me  a  lie. 
I  whipt  him  for  robbing  an  orchard  once  when 

he  was  but  a  child — 
"The  farmer  dared  me  to  do  it,"  he  said;  he 

was  always  so  wild — 
And  idle — and  could  n't  be  idle — my  Willy — 

he  never  could  rest. 
The  King  should  have  made  him  a  soldier,  he 

would  have  been  one  of  his  best. 

vn 

But  he  lived  with  a  lot  of  wild  mates,  and  they 

never  would  let  him  be  good ; 
They  swore  that  he  dare  not  rob  the  mail,  and 

he  swore  that  he  would;  30 

And  he  took  no  life,  but  he  took  one  purse,  and 

when  all  was  done 
He  flung  it  among  his  fellows — ' '  I  '11  none  of 

it,"  said  my  son. 

vni 

I  came  into  court  to  the  judge  and  the  lawyers. 

I  told  them  my  tale, 
God  'a   own    truth — but    they   kill  'd    him,   they 

kill'd  him  for  robbing  the  mail. 
They  hang'd  him  in  chains  for  a  show — we  had 

always  borne  a  good  name — 
To  be  hang'd  for  a  thief — and  then  put  away 

— is  n't  that  enough  shame? 
Dust  to  dust — low  down — let  us  hide!  but  they 

set  him  so  high 
That  all  the  ships  of  the  world  could  stare  at 

him,  passing  by. 
God  *11  pardon  the  hell-black  raven  and  horrible 

fowls  of  the  air, 
But    not   the   black   heart    of   the    lawyer   who 

kill  'd  him  and  hang  'd  him  there.  40 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON 


595 


And  the  jailer  forced  me  away.  I  had  bid  Mm 
my  last  good-bye; 

They  had  fasten 'd  the  door  of  his  cell.  "O 
mother!  "  I  heard  him  cry. 

J  could  n't  get  back  tho'  I  tried,  he  had  some- 
thing further  to  say, 

And  now  I  never  shall  know  it.  The  jailer 
forced  me  away. 


Then  since  I  could  n't  but  hear  that  cry  of  my 

boy  that  was  dead, 
They  seized  me  and  shut  me  up:  they  fasten 'd 

me  down  on  my  bed. 
''Mother,  O  mother!" — he  call'd  in   the  dark 

to  me  year  after  year — 
They  beat  me  for  that,  tliey  beat  me — you  know 

that  I  could  n  't  but  hear ; 
And  then  at  the  last  they  found  I  had  grown 

so  stupid  and  still 
They  let  me  abroad  again — but  the  creatures 

had  worked  their  will.  50 


Flesh  of  my  flesh  was  gone,  but  bone  of  my 

bone  was  left — 
I  stole  them  all  from  the  lawyers — and  you,  will 

you  call  it  a  theft  f — 
My  baby,   the  bones  that   had  suck'd   me,  the 

bones  that  had  laugh 'd  and  had  cried — 
Theirs?     O,  no!    they  are  mine — not   theirs — 

they  had  moved  in  my  side. 

xa 

Do  you  think  I  was  scared  by  the  bones?    I 

kiss'd   'em,  I  buried  'em  all — 
I  can 't  dig  deep,  I  am  old — in  the  night  by  the 

churchyard  wall. 
My  Willy  'II  rise  up  whole  when  the  trumpet  of 

judgment    '11  sound, 
But  I  charge  you  never  to  say  that  I  laid  him 

in  holy  ground. 

xni 

They  would  scratch  him  uii — they  would  hang 
him  again  on  the  cursed  tree. 

Sin?  O,  yes,  we  are  sinners,  I  know — let  all 
that  be,  60 

And  read  me  a  Bible  verse  of  the  Lord's  good- 
will toward  men — 

' '  Full  of  compassion  and  mercy,  the  Lord  ' ' — 
let  me  hear  it  again ; 

"Full  of  compassion  and  mercy — long-suffer- 
ing."    Yes,  O,  yes! 


For   the    lawyer    is   born   but   to   murder — the 

Saviour  lives  but  to  bless. 
He   '11  never  put  on  the  black  cap  except  for 

the  worst  of  the  worst, 
And  the  first  may  be  last — I  have  heard  it  in 

church — and  the  last  may  be  first. 
Suffering — O,  long-suffering — yes,  as  the  Lord 

must  know, 
Year  after  year  in  the  mist  and  the  wind  and 

the  shower  and  the  snow. 


Heard,  have  you?  what?  they  have  told  you  he 

never  repented  his  sin. 
How  do  they  know  it?  are  they  his  mother?  are 

you   of   his  kinf  70 

Heard!    have  you  ever  heard,  when  the  storm 

on  the  downs  began. 
The  wind  that   '11  wail  like  a  child  and  the  sea 

that   'II  moan  like  a  man? 

XV 

Election,  Election,  and  Reprobation — it    's  ail 

very  well. 
But  I  go  to-night  to  my  boy,  and  I  shall  not 

find  him  in  hell. 
For  I  cared  so  much  for  my  boy  that  the  Lord 

has  look'd  into  my  care. 
And  He  means  me  I  'm  sure  to  be  happy  with 

Willy,  I  know  not  where. 

XVI 

And  if  he  be  lost — but  to  save  my  soul,  that  is 

all  your  desire — 
Do  you  think  that  I  care  for  my  soul  if  my  boy 

be  gone  to  the  fire? 
I  have  been  with  God  in  the  dark — go,  go,  you 

may  leave  me  alone — 
You  never  have  borne  a  child — you  are  just  as 

hard  as  a  stone.  80 

xvn 

Madam,  I  beg  your  pardon!     T  think  that  yon 

mean  to  be  kind, 
But  I  cannot  hear  what  you  say  for  my  Willy's 

voice  in  the  wind — 
The  snow  and  the  sky  so  bright — he  used  but 

to  call  in  the  dark, 
And  he  calls  to  me  now  from  the  church  and 

not  from  the  gibbet — for  hark! 
Nay — you  can  hear  it  yourself — it  is  coming — 

shaking  the  walla — 
Willy — the  moon   's  in  a  cloud Good-night. 

I  am  going.    He  calls. 


696 


THE  VICTOKIAN  AGE 


MILTON 
(Alcaics)  * 

O  mighty-mouth  W  inventor  of  harmonies, 

0  skill 'd  to  sing  of  Time  or  Eternity, 
(.lod-gifted  organ-voice  of  England, 

Milton,  a  name  to  resound  for  ages: 
Whose  Titan  angels,  Gabriel,  Abdiel, 
Starr 'd  from  Jehovah's  gorgeous  armories. 
Tower,  as  the  deep-domed  empyrean 
Bings  to  the  roar  of  an  angel  onset! 
^le  rather  all  that  bowery  loneliness. 
The  brooks  of  Eden  mazily  murmuring. 
And  bloom  profuse  and  cedar  arches 
Charm,  as  a  wanderer  out  in  ocean, 
Where  some  refulgent  sunset  of  India 
Streams  o'er  a  rich  ambrosial  ocean  isle. 
And  crimson-hued  the  stately  palm-woods 
Whisper  in  odorous  heights  of  even. 

TO  DANTE 
(Written  at  the  Request  of  the  Floren- 
tines) t 
King,  that  hast  reign 'd  six  hundred  years,  and 

grown 
In  power,  and  ever  growest,  since  thine  own 
Fair  Florence  honouring  thy  nativity, 
Thy  Florence  now  the  crown  of  Italy, 
Hath  sought  the  tribute  of  a  verse  from  me, 
I,  wearing  but  the  garland  of  a  day, 
Cast  at  thy  feet  one  flower  that  fades  away. 

TO  VIEGIL 

(written  at  the  request  of  the  mantuans 
for  the  nineteenth  centenary  of  virgil 's 
death.) 

Boman  Virgil,  thou  that  singest 
Ilion  's  lofty  temples  robed  in  fire, 

Ilion   falling,  Bome  arising, 

wars,  and  filial  faith,  and  Dido's  pyre; 

Landsc-ape-lover,  lord  of  language 

more   than    he   that   sang   the   "Works   and 
Days,"» 
All  the  chosen  coin  of  fancy 

flashing  out  from  many  a  golden  phrase; 

Thou  that  singest  wheat  and  woodland, 

tilth  and  vineyard,  hive  and  horse  and  herd ; 

1  Hesiod. 

*  ThiH  poom  Ik  one  of  Tennyson'M  cxperiiuents  in 
the  quantitative  metre  of  the  claRsios.  The 
two  Htyies  of  Milton  here  described  may  be 
found  in  many  passages  of  Paradise  Lost;  see 
especlaliy,  for  the  "angel  onset,"  Boox  VI.  96 
ff.,  and  for  the  "bowery  loneliness,"  IV,  214  ff. 

t  For  a  festival  on  the  six  hundredth  anniversary 
of  the  birth  of  Dante,  180.">. 


All  the  charm  of  all  the  Muses 
often  flowering  in  a  lonely  word; 

Poet  of  the  happy  Tityrus^ 

piping  underneath  his  beechen  bowers; 
Poet  of  the  poet-satyr 

whom  the  laughing  shepherd  bound  with  flow- 
ers; a 

Chantei  of  the  PoUio,*  glorying 

in  the  blissful  years  again  to  be. 
Summers  of  the  snakeless  meadow, 

unlaborious  earth  and  oarless  sea;  10 

Thou  that  seest  Universal 

Nature  moved  by  Universal  Mind; 

Thou  majestic  in  thy  sadness 
at  the  doubtful  doom  of  human  kind; 

Light  among  the  vanish 'd  ages; 

star  that  gildest  yet  this  phantom  shore; 
Golden  branch  amid  the  shadows, 

kings  and  realms  that  pass  to  rise  no  more; 

Now  thy  Forum  roars  no  longer, 
fallen  every  purple  Ca-sar's  dome — 

Tho'  thine  ocean-roll  of  rhythm 
sound  forever  of  Imperial  Rome — 

Now  the  Rome  of  slaves  hath  perish 'd, 
and  the  Bome  of  freemen  holds  her  place, 

I,  from  out  the  Northern  Island 

sunder 'd  once  from  all  the  human  race, 

I  salute  thee,  Mantovano, 

T  that  loved  thee  since  my  day  began, 
Wielder  of  the  stateliest  measure 

ever  moulded  by  the  lips  of  man.  20 


"FRATER  AVE  ATQUE  VALE"* 

Bow  us  out  from  Desenzano,  to  your  Sirmione 

row! 
So    they    row  'd,    and    there    we    landed — * '  O     i 

venusta  Sirmio!  "  I 

2  A  shepherd  piper  In  *  Title  of  the  fourth 
Virgil's     first     Kc-  Kclogue.    wbiCli    is 

loguc.  prophetic  of  a  gold- 

.1  Eclogue  sixth.  en  age. 

*  In  these  words.  "Hail,  brother,  and  farewell." 
the  Roman  poet  Catullus  lamented  the  d<>atli 
of  his  brother  (Cannina  101,  10).  Catullus 
had  a  villa  on  the  peninsula  of  Sermlone — 
"venusta  (beautiful)  Sirmio" — in  Lake  Uarda, 
northern  Italy.  The  last  two  lines  of  this 
little  poem,  which  reproduce  so  well  the  soft 
music  of  Catullus's  verse,  are  modelled  tipon 
lines  in  his  thirty-first  song.  Catullus  used 
the  word  "Lydlan"  in  the  belief  that  the 
Ktruscans,  who  anciently  had  settlements  near 
the  Lake  of  Garda.  were  of  Lydinn  origin. 


ALl'KED,  LORD  TE^•^'YSO^" 


597 


There  to  me  thro '  all  the  groves  of  olive  in  the 

summer  glow. 
There  beneath  the  Roman  ruin  where  the  purple 

flowers  grow, 
Came  that   "Ave  atque  Vale"   of  the  Poet's 

hopeless  woe, 
Temlerest    of    Roman    poets    nineteen    hundred 

years    ago, 
' M" rater  Ave  atque  Vale" — as  we  wander M  to 

and  fro 
Gazing  at   the  Lydian  laughter  of  the  Garda 

Lake  below 
Sweet     Catullus 's     all-but-island,     olive-silvery 

Sirmio  1 

FLOWER  IN  THE  CRANNIED  WALL 

Flower  in  the  crannied  wall, 

I   i)luck  you  out  of  the  crannies, 

I   hold  you  here,  root  and  all.  in  my  hand, 

I.ittle  ilower — but  if  I  could  understand 

What  you  are,  root  and  all.  and  all  in  all, 

I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 

WAGES 

Glory  of  warrior,  glory  of  orator,  glory  of  song. 
Paid  with  a  voice  flying  by  to  be  lost  on  an 
endless  sea — 
Glory  of  Virtue,  to  fight,  to  struggle,  to  right 
the  wrong — 
Nay,  but  she  aim'd  not  at  glory,  no  lover  of 
glory   she : 
Give  her  the  glory  of  going  on,  and  still  to  be. 

The  wages  of  sin  is  death :  if  the  wages  of  Vir- 
tue be  dust, 
Would  she  have  heart  to  endure  for  the  life 
of  the  worm  and  the  fly? 
She  desires  no  isles  of  the  blest,  no  quiet  seats 
of  the  just, 
To  rest  in  a  golden  grove,  or  to  bask  in  a 
summer  sky: 
Give  her  the  wages  of  going  on,  and  not  to  die. 

BY  AN  EVOLUTIONIST 

The  Lord  let  the  house  of  a  brute  to  the  soul 
of  a  man. 
And  the  man  said,  'Am  I  your  debtor?' 
And  the  Lord — 'Not  yet:  but  make  it  as  clean 
as  you  can, 
And  then  I  will  let  you  a  better.' 

I 

If  my  body  come  from  brutes,  my  soul  uncer- 
tain or  a  fable. 
Why  not  bask  amid  the  senses  while  the  sun 
of  morning  shines, 


1,  the  finer  brute  rejoicing  in  my  hounds,  and  in 
my  stable. 
Youth  and  health,  and  birth  and  wealth,  and 
choice  of  women  and  of  wines  I 


What  hast  thou  done  for  me,  grim  Old  Age, 
save  breaking  my  bones  on  the  rack? 
Would  I  had  past  in  the  morning  that  looks 
so  bright  from  afar! 

Old  Age 

Done  for  thee?  starved  the  wild  beast  that  was 
linkt  with  thee  eighty  years  back. 
Less    weight    now    for    the    ladder-of-heaven 
that  hangs  on  a  star. 


If  my  body  come  from  brutes,  tho'  somewhat 
finer  than  their  own, 
I  am  heir,  and  this  my  kingdom.     Shall  the 
royal  voice  be  mute? 
No,  but   if  the  rebel  subject  seek  to   drag  me 
from  the  throne. 
Hold  the  sceptre,  Human  Soul,  and  rule  thy 
province  of  the  brute. 


I  have  climb 'd  to  the  snows  of  Age,  and  I  gaze 
at  a  field  in  the  Past, 
Where  I  sank  with  the  body  at  times  in  the 
sloughs  of  a  low  desire. 
But  I  hear  no  yelp  of  the  beast,  and  the  Man 
is  quiet  at  last 
As  he  stands  on  the  heights  of  his  life  with  a 
glimpse  of  a  height  that  is  higher, 

VASTNESS 

Many  a  hearth  upon  our  dark  globe  sighs  after 

many  a  vanish 'd  face, 
Many  a  planet  by  many  a  sun  may  roll  with  the 

dust  of  a  vanish 'd  race. 

Raving    politics,    never    at    rest — as   this   poor 

earth  's  pale  history  runs, — 
What  is  it  all  but  a  trouble  of  ants  in  the  gleam 

of  a  million  million  of  suns? 

Lies  upon  this  side,  lies  upon  that  side,  truth- 
less violence  mourned  by  the  wise. 

Thousands  of  voices  drowning  his  own  in  a 
popular  torrent  of  lies  upon  lies; 

Stately  purposes,  valour  in  battle,  glorious  an- 
nals of  army  and  fleet, 

Death  for  the  right  cause,  death  for  the  wrong 
cause,  trumpets  of  victory,  groans  of  de- 
feat: 


598 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Innocence  seethed  in  her  mother's  milk,  and 
Charity  setting  the  martyr  aflame ; 

Thraldom  who  walks  with  the  banner  of  Free- 
dom, and  recka  not  to  ruin  a  realm  in  her 
name.  i^ 

Faith  at  her  zenith,  or  all  but  lost  in  the  gloom 
of  doubts  that  darken  the  schools; 

Craft  with  a  bunch  of  all-heal  in  her  hand,  fol- 
low 'd  up  by  her  vassal  legion  of  fools ; 

Trade  flying  over  a  thousand  seas  with  her  spice 
and  her  vintage,  her  silk  and  her  corn; 

Desolate  offing,  sailorless  harbours,  famishing 
populace,  wharves  forlorn; 

Star   of   the   morning,    Hope    in   the    sunrise; 

gloom  of  the  evening,  Life  at  a  close; 
Pleasure  who  flaunts  on  her  wide  downway  with 

her  flying  robe  and  her  poison 'd  rose; 

Pain  that  has  crawl  'd  from  the  corpse  of  Pleas- 
ure, a  worm  which  writhes  all  day,  and 
at  night 

Stirs  up  again  in  the  heart  of  the  sleeper,  and 
stings  him  back  to  the  curse  of  the  light ; 

Wealth  with  his  wines  and  his  wedded  harlots; 

honest  Poverty,  bare  to  the  bone; 
Opulent    Avarice,    lean    as    Poverty;    Flattery 

gilding  the  rift  in  a  throne;  20 

Fame  blowing  out  from  her  golden  trumpet  a 
jubilant  challenge  to  Time  and  to  Fate; 

Slander,  her  shadow,  sowing  the  nettle  on  all 
the  laurell'd  graves  of  the  great; 

Love  for  the  maiden,  crown 'd  with  marriage,  no 
regrets  for  aught  that  has  been. 

Household  happiness,  gracious  children,  debtless 
competence,  golden  mean; 

National  hatreds  of  whole  generations,  and 
pigmy  spites  of  the  village  spire; 

Vows  that  will  last  to  the  last  death-ruckle,  and 
vows  that  are  snapt  in  a  moment  of  fire; 

He  that  has  lived  for  the  lust  of  the  minute, 
and  died  in  the  doing  it,  flesh  without 
mind; 

He  that  has  nail'd  all  flesh  to  the  Cross,  till 
Self  died  out  in  the  love  of  his  kind; 

Spring  and  Summer  and  Autumn  and  Winter, 
and  all  these  old  revolutions  of  earth; 

All  new-old  revolutions  of  Empire — change  of 
the  tide — what  is  all  of  it  worth  f        30 


What  the  philosophies,  all  the  sciences,  poesy, 

varying  voices  of  prayer, 
All  that  is  noblest,  all  that  is  basest,  all  that  is 

filthy  with  all  that  is  fairf 

What  is  it  all,  if  we  all  of  us  end  but  in  being 
our  own  corpse-coflins  at  lastf 

Swallow  'd  in  Vastness,  lost  in  Silence,  drown  'd 
in  the  deeps  of  a  meaningless  Past! 

What  but  a  murmur  of  gnats  in  the  gloom,  or  a 
moment's  anger  of  bees  in  their  hivef — 

Peace,  let  it  be!  for  I  loved  him,  and  love  him 
for  ever:  the  dead  are  not  dead  but 
alive. 

CROSSING  THE  BAR* 

Sunset  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 

When  I  put  out  to  sea. 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep. 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When  that  w'hich  drew  from  out  the  boun<lless 
deep 

Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell. 

And  after  that  the  dark! 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell. 

When  I  embark; 

For  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and 
Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  crost  the  bar. 


ROBERT  BROWNING   (1812-1889) 

From  PIPPA  PASSES 
New  Year's    Hymn 

All  service  ranks  the  same  with  God: 

If  now,  as  formerly  he  trod 

Paradise,  his  presence  fills 

Our  earth,  each  only  as  God  wills 

Can  work — God 's  puppets,  best  and  worst. 

Are  we;  there  is  no  last  nor  first. 

Say  not  "a  small  event !  "    Why  " small ' ' t 
Costs  it  more  pain  that  this,  ye  call 

•  Written  In  Tennyson's  eighty-first  year. 


KOBERT  BROWNING 


599 


A  "great  event,"  should  come  to  pass, 
Than  that  I   Untwine  me  from  the  mass 
Of  deeds  which  make  up  life,  one  deed 
Power  shall  fall  short  in  or  exceed! 

Song 

The  year's  at  the  spring 
And  day's  at  the  morn; 
Morning's  at  seven; 
The  hillside 's  dew-pearled ; 
The  lark's  on  the  wing; 
The  snail's  on  the  thorn; 
God's  in  his  heaven — 
All's  right  with  the  world! 

CAVALIER   TUNES* 

I.      MARCHING   ALONG 

Kentish  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  King, 
Bidding  the  crop-headed  Parliament  swing: 
And,  pressiugi  a  troop  unable  to  stoop 
And   see   the   rogues   flourish   and   honest   folk 

droop, 
Marched  them  along,  fifty-score  strong, 
Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song. 

God  for  King  Charles!  Pym  and  such  carles 
To  the  Devil  that  prompts  'em  their  treasonous 

parles2 ! 
Cavaliers,  up!     Lips  from  the  cup, 
Hands  from  the  pasty,  nor  bite  take,  nor  sup, 
Till  you're — 

Chorus. — Marching  along,  fifty-score  strong, 
Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this 
song! 

Hampden  to  hell,  and  his  obsequies'  knell 
Serves  Hazelrig,  Fiennes,  and  young  Harry,  as 

well! 
England,  good  cheer!     Rupert  is  near! 
Kentish  and  loyalists,  keep  we  not  here, 
Cho. — Marching  along,  fifty-score  strong, 
Great-hearted     gentlemen,    singing    this 
song? 


Then,  God   for  King  Charles! 
snarls 


Pym  and  his 


1  impressing,  enlisting 

2  parleys,  debates 

3  may  it  serve 

•  These  songs  are  meant  to  portray  the  spirit  of 
tlie  adherents  of  Charles  I.,  and  their  hatred 
of  the  Puritans,  or  Roundheads.  The  Byngs 
of  Kent  are  famous  in  the  annals  of  British 
warfare.  Pym,  a  leader  of  the  Long  Parlia- 
ment, Hazelrig  (or  Hesilrige).  Fiennes  (Lord 
Say),  and  Sir  Henry  Vane  the  Younger,  were 
all  important  figures  in  the  rebellion  against 
Charles.  Prince  Rupert  was  a  nephew  of 
Charles,  and  a  celebrated  cavalry  leader. 


To    the    Devil    that    pricks    on    such    pestilent 

carles ! 
Hold  by  the  right,  you  double  your  might; 
So,  onward  to  Nottingham,!  fresh  for  the  fight, 
Cho. — March  we  along,  fifty-score  strong. 
Great-hearted     gentlemen,    singing    this 
song! 

11.      GIVE    A    ROUSE 

King  Charles,  and  who    '11  do  him  right  now! 
King  Charles,  and  who   's  ripe  for  fight  now? 
Give  a  rouse;  here's,  in  hell's  despite  now, 
King  Charles! 

Who  gave  me  the  goods  that  went  since? 
Who  raised  me  the  house  that  sank  once? 
Who  helped  me  to  gold  I  spent  since? 
Who  found  me  in  wine  you  drank  once? 

Cho. — King  Charles,  and  who  11  do  him  right 

now  ? 
King  Charles,  and  who   's  ripe  for  fight 

now? 
Give  a  rouse:  here   's,  in  hell's  despite 

now, 
King  Charles! 

To  whom  used  my  boy  George  quaff  else, 
By  the  old  fool's  side  that  begot  him? 
For  whom  did  he  cheer  and  laugh  else. 
While  Noll's*  damned  troopers  shot  him? 
Cho. — King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right 
now? 
King  Charles,  and  who   's  ripe  for  fight 

now? 
Give  a  rouse:  here   's,  in  hell's  despite 

now, 
King  Charles! 

III.    boot  and  saddle 

Boot,  saddle,  to  horse  and  away! 
Rescue  my  castle  before  the  hot  day 
Brightens  to  blue  from  its  silvery  gray. 
Cho. — ^Boot,  saddle,  to  horse  and  away! 

Ride  past  the  suburbs,  asleep  as  you  'd  say ; 
Many's  the  friend  there,  will  listen  and  pray 
"God's  luck  to  gallants  that  strike  up  the  lay — 
Cho. — Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away!" 

Forty  miles  off,  like  a  roebuck  at  bay,  - 
Flouts  Castle  Brancepeth  the  Roundheads'  ar- 
ray: 
Who   laughs,  "Good    fellows   ere  this,  by  my 
fay, 

4  Oliver's  (I.  e..  Cromwell's) 

t  The    standard    of    Charles    was    raised   there    in 
1642,  marking  the  beginning  of  the  Civil  War. 


coo 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Cho.— Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  aud  away!" 

Who!      My    wife    Gertrude;    that,   honest    and 

gay, 
Laughs  when  you  talk  of  surrendering,  ' '  Nay ! 
I've  better  counsellors;  what  counsel  they  I 
Cho.— Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away ! ' ' 

INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP 
You  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon:^ 

A  mile  or  so  away, 
On  a  little  mound.  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storming-day ; 
With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arras  locked  behind, 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow 

Oppressive  with  its  mind.  8 


Just  as  perhaps  he  mused  '  *  My  plans 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall. 
Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 

AVaver  at  yonder  wall," — 
Out  'twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until    he    reached    the    mound. 


16 


Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy: 

You  hardly  could  suspect — 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed. 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through) 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 


MY  LAST  DUCHESS* 


FERRARA 


24 


*  *  Well, ' '  cried  he,  ' '  Emperor,  by  God 's  grace 

We  've  got  you  Ratisbon! 
The  Marshal  's  in  the  market-place. 

And  you   '11  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perched  him!"     The  chief's  eye  flashed;   his 
plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire.  32 

The  chief's  eye  flashed;  but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother-eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes; 
"You're   wounded!"     "Nay,"   the   soldier's 
pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said : 
"T  'm  killed,  Sire!  "    And.  liis  chief  beside. 

Smiling  the  boy  fell  dead.  <0 

6  In  Itxvarta:  Htormed  by  Napoleon  In  1809. 


That's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall, 

Looking  as  if  she  were  alive.    I  call 

That    piece    a    wonder,    now:      Fra    Pandolf's 

hands 
Worked  busily  a  day,  and  there  she  stands. 
Will  't  please  you  sit  and  look  at  her?   I  said 
"Fra  Pandolf"  by  design,  for  never  read 
Strangers  like  you  that  pictured  countenance. 
The  depth  and  passion  of  its  earnest  glance, 
But  to  myself  they  turned  (since  none  puts  by 
The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  you,  but  I)       ^0 
And   seemed   as   they   would    ask   me,   if   they 

durst. 
How  such  a  glance  came  there;  so,  not  the  first 
Are  you  to  turn  and  ask  thus.     Sir,  't  was  not 
Her  husband's  presence  only,  called  that  spot 
Of  joy  into  the  Duchess'  cheek:  perhaps 
Fra  Pandolf  chanced  to  say,  ' '  Her  mantle  laps 
Over  my  lady 's  wrist  too  much, "  or  "  Paint 
Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  the  faint 
Half-flush  that  dies  along  her  throat : ' '   such 

stuff 
Was  courtesy,  she  thought,  and  cause  enough  20 
For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.    She  had 
A  heart — how  shall  I  say  ? — too  soon  made  glad. 
Too  easily  impressed:  she  liked  whate'er 
She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  everywhere. 
Sir,   't  was  all  one!     My  favour  at  her  breast. 
The  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the  West, 
The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious  fool 
Broke  in  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white  mule 
■^he  rode  with  round  the  terrace — all  and  each 
Would    draw    from    her    alike    the    approving 

speech,  ^^ 

Or  blush,  at  least.     She  thanked  men,— good! 

but  thanked 
Somehow — I  know  not  how — as  if  she  ranked 
My  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-years-old  name 
With  anybody's  gift.     Who    'd  stoop  to  blame 
This  sort  of  trifling?     Even  had  you  skill 
In  speech — (which  I  have  not)— to  make  your 

will 
Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  say,  "Just  this 
Or  that  in  you  disgusts  me ;  here  you  miss, 
Or  there  exceed  the  mark '  '—and  if  she  let 
Herself  be  lessoned  so,  nor  plainly  set  40 

*A  Duke  of  Forrnrn  stands  bofore  a  .PO'"*''*'*^*'' 
his  deceased  Duchrss.  talking  coolly  with  t  ic 
envoy  of  a  Count  whose  daughter  he  seeks 
to  niairv.  The  poem  is  a  study  in  the  heart- 
less Jealousy  of  supreme  selfishness.  ine 
nature  of  the  commands  (line  4r>)  which  such 
a  man  might  give,  living  at  the  time  of  the 
Italian  Uenulsaance,  may  be  left  to  the  imagi- 
nation, us  drowning  leaves  it.  I  he  artists 
mentioned  (lines  '.i.  .^0)  are  Imagluary.  On 
thf  monologue  form,  see  ICtijj.  Lit.,  p.  -wi. 


KOKKRT  BROWN  I  Nf; 


601 


Her  wits  to  yours,  forsooth,  and  made  excuse, 
— E'eu   then   wouhl    be   some   stooping;    and    I 

choose 
Never  to  stoop.    Oh  sir,  she  smiled,  no  doubt, 
Whene'er  I  passed  her;  but  who  passed  without 
Much  the  same  smile  ?     This  grew ;  I  gave  com- 
mands ; 
Then  all  smiles   stopped   together.     There  she 

stands 
As  if  alive.     Will    't  please  you  rise?     W^e    '11 

meet 
The  company  below,  then.    I  repeat, 
The  Count  your  master's  known  munificence 
Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pretence  50 

Of  mine  for  dowry  will  be  disallowed; 
Though  his  fair  daughter's  self,  as  I  avowed 
At  starting,  is  my  object.     Nay,  we   '11  go 
Together  down,  sir.     Notice  Neptune,  though, 
Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity, 
Which  Claus  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze  for 
me! 

IN  A  GONDOLA* 

He  sings 

I  send  my  heart  up  to  thee,  all  my  heart 

In  this  my  singing. 
For  the  stars  help  me,  and  the  sea  bears  part ; 

The  very  night  is  clinging 
Closer  to  Venice '  streets  to  leave  one  space 

Above  me,  whence  thy  face 
May  light  my  joyous  heart  to  thee  its  dwelling 
place. 

She  speaks 

Ray  after  me,  and  try  to  say 

Aiy  very  words,  as  if  each  word 

(,'ame  from  you  of  your  own  accord,  10 

In  your  own  voice,  in  your  own  way: 

* '  This  woman 's  heart  and  soul  and  brain 

Are  mine  as  much  as  this  gold  chain 

She  bids  me  wear;  which"  (say  again) 

* '  I  choose  to  make  by  cherishing 

A  precious  thing,  or  choose  to  fling 

Over  the  boat-side,  ring  by  ring." 

And  yet  once  more  say     ...     no  word  more ! 

Since  words  are  only  words.     Give  o'er! 

Unless  you  call  me,  all  the  same,  20 

Familiarly  by  my  pet  name. 

Which  if  the  Three  should  hear  you  call, 

*  Written  for  aj)icture,  "The  Serenade,"  by  Daniel 
Maclise.  The  Cliaracters  are  imaginary.  So 
also  are  tiie  pictures  mentionpd  in  iines  183- 
202,  tliough  the  painters  are  well  known. 
Ilnste-thee-Luke  was  a  nickname  for  the 
Neapolitan,  I.uca  Giordano.  Casteifranro  Is 
Giorgione.  Tizian  we  know  best  as  Titian, 
and  his  "Sor"  (Sir)  would  bo  the  portrait  of 
an  Italian  gontlcman. 


And  me  re])ly  to,  would  proclaim 

At  once  our  secret  to  tlieni  all. 

Ask  of  me,  too,  command  me,  blame, — 

Do,  break  down  the  partition-wall 

'Twixt  us,  the  daylight  world  beholds 

Curtained  in  dusk  and  splendid  folds! 

What's  left  but — all  of  me  to  take? 

I  am  the  Three   's:  prevent  them,  slake  30 

Your  thirst!     'T  is  said,  the  Arab  sage, 

In  practising  with  gems,  can  loose 

Their  subtle  spirit  in  his  cruce 

And  leave  but  ashes:  so,  sweet  mage, 

Leave  them  my  ashes  when  thy  use 

Sucks  out  my  soul,  thy  heritage! 

He  sings 

Past  we  glide,  and  past,  and  past ! 

What's  that  poor  Agnese  doing 
Where  they  make  the  shutters  fast? 

Gray  Zanobi  's  just  a-wooing  40 

To  his  couch  the  purchased  bride: 

Past  we  glide! 

Past  we  glide,  and  past,  and  past! 

Why's  the  PucCi  Palace  flaring 
Like  a  beacon  to  the  blast? 

Guests  by  hundreds,  not  one  caring 
If  the  dear  host's  neck  were  wried: 

Past  we  glide! 

She  sings 

The  moth's  kiss,  first! 

Kiss  me  as  if  you  made  believe  50 

You  were  not  sure,  this  eve, 

How  my  face,  your  flower,  had  pursed 

Its  petals  up ;  so,  hero  and  there 

You  brush  it,  till  I  grow  aware 

Who  wants  me,  and  wide  ope  I  burst. 

The  bee's  kiss,  now! 

Kiss  me  as  if  you  entered  gay 

My  heart  at  some  noonday, 

A  bud  that  dares  not  disallow 

The  claim,  so  all  is  rendered  up,  60 

And  passively  its  shattered  cup 

Over  your  head  to  sleep  I  bow. 

He  sings 

What  are  we  two? 

I  am  a  Jew, 

And  carry  thee,  farther  than  friends  can  pursue. 

To  a  feast  of  our  tribe; 

Where  they  need  thee  to  bribe 

The   devil  that  blasts  them  unless  he  imbibe 

Thy     .     .     .     Scatter  the  vision  forever!     An<l 

now. 
As  of  old,  T  am  T,  thon  art  thou!  70 


602 


THE  VICTOBIAN  AGE 


Say  again,  what  we  are? 

The  sprite  of  a  star, 

1  lure  thee  above  where  the  destinies  bar 

My  plumes  their  full  play 

Till  a  ruddier  ray 

Than  my  pale  one  announce  there  is  withering 

away 
Some     .     .     .     Scatter  the  vision  forever!    And 

now, 
As  of  old,  I  am  I,  thou  art  thou! 

Se  muses 

Oh,  which  were  best,  to  roam  or  rest? 

The  land's  lap  or  the  water's  breast?  80 

To  sleep  on  yellow  millet-sheaves. 

Or  swim  in  lucid  shallows  just 

Eluding  water-lily  leaves, 

An  inch  from  Death's  black  fingers,  thrust 

To  lock  you,  whom  release  he  must ; 

Which  life  were  best  on  Summer  eves? 

Se  speaks,  mtmng 

Lie  back;  could  thought  of  mine  improve  you? 

From  this  shoulder  let  there  spring 

A   wing;   from   this,  another  wing; 

Wings,  not  legs  and  feet,  shall  move  you!     90 

Snow-white  must  they  spring,  to  blend 

With  your  flesh,  but  I  intend 

They  shall  deepen  to  the  end. 

Broader,  into  burning  gold. 

Till  both  wings  crescent-wise  enfold 

Your  perfect  self,  from  'neath  your  feet 

To  o'er  your  head,  where,  lo,  they  meet 

As  if  a  million  sword-blades  hurled 

Defiance  from  you  to  the  world! 

Rescue  me  thou,  the  only  real!  100 

And  scare  away  this  mad  ideal 
That  came,  nor  motions  to  depart! 
Thanks!    Now,  stay  ever  as  thou  art! 

Still  he  muses 

What  if  the  Three  should  catch  at  last 
Thy  serenader?     While  there    's  cast 
Paul's  cloak  about  my  head,  and  fast 
Oian  pinions  me.  Himself  has  past 
His  stylet  through  my  back;   I   reel; 
And     .     .     .     is  it  thou  I  feel? 

They  trail  me,  these  three  godless  knaves,     HO 
Past  every  church  that  saints  and  saves. 
Nor  stop  till,  where  the  cold  sea  raves 
By  Lido's'   wet  accursed  graves. 
They  scoop  mine,  roll  me  to  its  brink, 
And     ...     on  thy  hreast  I  sink! 

1  A  lontc  sandy  bar  lying  off  Vonlco.     There  Is  a 
.IcwInIi   (t'nu'lcry   tliorp. 


She  replies,  musing 

Dip  your  arm  o'er  the  boat-side,  elbow-deep, 
As  1  do:  thus:  were  death  so  unlike  sleep, 
Caught  this  way?    Death  's  to  fear  from  flame 

or  steel. 
Or  poison  doubtless;  but  from  water — feel! 
Go    find    the    bottom!      Would    you    stay    me? 

There!  120 

Now  pluck  a  great  blade  of  that  ribbon-grass 
To  plait  in  where  the  foolish  jewel  was, 
I  flung  away:  since  you  have  praised  my  hair, 
'T  is  proper  to  be  choice  in  what  I  wear. 

He  speals 

Row  home?  must  we  row  home?    Too  surely 

Know  I  where  its  front  's  demurely 

Over  the  Giudecca^  piled; 

Window  just  with  window  mating, 

Door  on  door  exactly  waiting. 

All   's  the  set  face  of  a  child:  130 

But  behind  it,  where  's  a  trace 

Of  the  staidness  and  reserve. 

And  formal  lines  without  a  curve, 

In  the  same  child's  playing-faee? 

No  two  windows  look  one  way 

O'er  the  small  sea-water  thread 

Below  them.     Ah,  the  autumn  day 

I,  passing,  saw  you  overhead! 

First,  out  a  cloud  of  curtain  blew. 

Then  a  sweet  cry,  and  last  came  you —  140 

To  catch  your  lorys  that  must  needs 

Escape  just  then,  of  all  times  then. 

To  peck  a  tall  plant's  fleecy  seeds. 

And  make  me  happiest  of  men. 

I  scarce  could  breathe  to  see  you  reach 

So  far  back  o'er  the  balcony 

To  catch  him  ere  he  climbed  too  high 

Above  you  in  the  Smyrna  peach. 

That  quick  the  round  smooth  cord  of  gold, 

This  coiled  hair  on  your  head,  unrolled,         150 

Fell  down  you  like  a  gorgeous  snake 

The  Roman  girls  were  wont,  of  old. 

When  Rome  there  was,  for  coolness'  sake 

To  let  lie  curling  o'er  their  bosoms. 

Dear  lory,  may  his  beak  retain 

Ever  its  delicate  rose  stain 

As  if  the  wounded  lotus-blossoms 

Had  marked  their  thief  to  know  again! 

Stay  longer  yet,  for  others'  sake 

Than  mine!    What  should  your  chamber  do? 

— With  all  its  rarities  that  ache  161 

In  silence  while  day  lasts,  but  wake 

At  night-time  and  their  life  renew, 

Suspended  Just  to  pleasure  you 

Who  brought  against  their  will  together 

2  A  Venetian  ranal.  »  A  kind  nf  pnrrot. 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


603 


These  obiects,  and,  while  day  lasts,  weave 

Around  them  such  a  magic  tether 

That  dumb  they  look:  your  harp,  believe, 

With  all  the  sensitive  tight  strings 

Which  dare  not  speak,  now  to  itself  170 

Breathes  slumberously,  as  if  some  elf 

Went  in  and  out  the  chords,*  his  wings 

Make  murmur  wheresoe'er  they  graze, 

As  an  angel  may,  between  the  maze 

Of  midnight  palace-pillars,  on 

And  on,  to  sow  God's  plagues,  have  gone 

Through    guilty    glorious   Babylon. 

And  while  such  murmurs  flow,  the  nymph 

Bends  o  'er  the  harp-top  from  her  shell 

As  the  dry  limpet  for  the  lymph  180 

Come  with  a  tune  he  knows  so  well. 

And  how  your  statues'  hearts  must  swell! 

And  how  your  pictures  must  descend 

To  see  each  other,  friend  with  friend! 

Oh,  could  you  take  them  by  surprise, 

You  'd  find  Schidone  's  eager  Duke 

Doing  the  quaintest  courtesies 

To  that  prim  saint  by  Haste-thee-Luke ! 

And,  deeper  into  her  rock  den. 

Bold  Castelf  ranco  's   Magdalen  190 

You'd  find  retreated  from  the  ken 

Of  that  robed  counsel-keeping  Ser — 

As  if  the  Tizian  thinks  of  her, 

And  is  not,  rather,  gravely  bent 

On  seeing  for  himself  what  toys 

Are  these,*  his  progeny  invent. 

What  litter  now  the  board  employs 

Whereon  he  signed  a  document 

That  got  him  murdered!     Each  enjoys 

Its  night  so  well,  you  cannot  break  200 

The  sport  up,  so,  indeed  must  make 

More  stay  with  me,  for  others'  sake. 

She  speaks 

To-morrow,  if  a   harp-string,  say. 
Is  used  to  tie  the  jasmine  back 
That  overfloods  my  room  with  sweets, 
Contrive  your  Zorzi  somehow  meets 
My  Zanze!     If  the  ribbon's  black. 
The  Three  are  watching:  keep  away! 

Your  gondola — let  Zorzi  wreathe 

A  mesh  of  water-weeds  about  210 

Its  prow,  as  if  he  unaware 

Had  struck  some  quay  or  bridge-foot  stair! 

That  I  may  throw  a  paper  out 

As  you  and  he  go  underneath. 

There's   Zanze 's   vigilant  taper;    safe  are  we. 
Only  one  minute  more  to-night  with  me? 

*  Supply   "which"   before   "his". 


Resume  your  past  self  of  a  month  ago! 
Be  you  the  bashful  gallant,  I  will  be 
The  lady  with  the  colder  breast  than  snow. 
Now  bow  you,  as  becomes,  nor  touch  my  hand 
More  than  I  touch  yours  when  I  steo  to  land, 
And  say,  "All  thanks,  Siora!  "—      "  222 

Heart  to  heart 
And  lips  to  lips!  Yet  once  more,  ere  we  part, 
Clasp  me  and  make  me  thine,  as  mine  thou  art! 
[He  is  surprised,  and  stabbed.] 
It  was  ordained  to  be  so,  sweet! — and  best 
Comes  now,  beneath  thine  eyes,  upon  thy  breast. 
Still  kiss  me!  Care  not  for  the  cowards!  Care 
Only  to  put  aside  thy  beauteous  hair 
My  blood  will  hurt!  The  Three,  I  do  not  scorn 
To  death,  because  they  never  lived:  but  I  230 
Have  lived  indeed,  and  so — (yet  one  more  kiss) 
— can  die! 

THE    PIED   PIPER   OF   HAMELIN* 
A  child's  story 

I 

Hamelin  Town    's  in  Brunswick, 
By  famous  Hanover  city; 

The  river  Weser,  deep  and  wide. 

Washes  its  wall  on  the  southern  side; 

A  pleasanter  spot  you  never  spied; 
But,  when  begins  my  ditty, 

Almost  five  hundred  years  ago. 

To  see  the  townsfolk  suffer  so 
From  vermin,  was  a  pity. 

n 

Rats!  10 

They  fought  the  dogs  and  killed  the  cats. 

And  bit  the  babies  in  the  cradles. 
And  ate  the  cheeses  out  of  the  vats. 

And   licked   the   soup   from  the  cooks'   own 
ladles, 
Split  open  the  kegs  of  salted  sprats. 
Made  nests  inside  men's  Sunday  hats. 
And  even  spoiled  the  women's  chats 

By  drowning  their  speaking 

With  shrieking  and  squeaking 
In  fifty  different  sharps  and  flats.  20 

111 
At  last  the  people  in  a  body 

To  the  Town  Hall  came  flocking: 

*  This  poem  was  written  by  Browning  to  amuse 
the  little  son  of  the  actor,  William  Macready, 
and  furnish  him  a  subject  for  drawings.  The 
legend  Is  an  old  one.  John  Fiske  is  dispcsed 
to  identify  it  with  various  myths :  "Goethe's 
Erlking  is  none  other  than  the  Piper  of 
Hamelin.  And  the  piper,  in  turn,  is  the 
classic  Hermes  or  Orpheus.  .  .  .  His 
wonderful  pipe  is  the  horn  of  Oberon,  the 
lyre  of  Apollo  (who,  like  the  piper,  was  a 
rat-killer),  the  harp  stolen  by  Jack  when  be 
climbed  the  bean-stalk  to  the  ogre's  castle." 


C04 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


"  'T   is   clear, ' '   cried  tliey,   ' '  our    Mayor 's  a 
noddy ; 
And  as  for  our  Corporation — shocking 
To  think  we  buy  gowns  lined  with  ermine 
For  dolts  that  can't  or  won't  determine 
What   's  best  to  rid  us  of  our  vermin! 
You  hope,  because  you  're  old  and  obese. 
To  find  in  the  furry  civic  robe  easef 
Rouse  up,  sirs!    Give  your  brains  a  racking     30 
To  find  the  remedy  we   're  lacking, 
Or,  sure  as  fate,  we   '11  send  you  packing!" 
At  this  the  Mayor  and  Corporation 
Quaked  with  a  mighty  consternation. 

IV 
An  hour  they  sat  in  council; 

At  length  the  Mayor  broke  silence: 
"For  a  guilderi  I  'd  my  ermine  gown  sell, 

I  wish  I  were  a  mile  hence! 
It   's  easy  to  bid  one  rack  one's  brain — 
I    'm  sure  my  poor  head  aches  again,  40 

I   've  scratched  it  so,  and  all  in  vain. 
Oh  for  a  trap,  a  trap,  a  trap !  ' ' 
Just  as  he  said  this,  what  should  hap 
At  the  chamber-door  but  a  gentle  tap? 
' '  Bless  us, ' '  cried  the  Mayor,  ' '  what 's  that  ? ' ' 
(With  the  Corporation  as  he  sat, 
Looking  little  though  wondrous  fat; 
Xor  brighter  was  his  eye,  nor  moister 
Than  a  too-long-opened  oyster, 
Save  when  at  noon  his  paunch  grew  mutinous 
For  a  plate  of  turtle  green  and  glutinous)     51 
"Only  a  scraping  of  shoes  on  the  mat? 
Anything  like  the  sound  of  a  rat 
Makes  my  heart  go  pit-a-pat ! ' ' 

V 
' '  Come  in ! ' ' — the  Mayor  cried,  looking  bigger : 
And  in  did  come  the  strangest  figure! 
His  queer  long  coat  from  heel  to  head 
Was  half  of  yellow  and  half  of  red. 
And  he  himself  was  tall  and  thin. 
With  sharp  blue  eyes,  each  like  a  pin,  60 

And  light  loose  hair,  yet  swarthy  skin. 
No  tuft  on  cheek  nor  beard  on  chin. 
But  lips  where  smiles  went  out  and  in; 
There  was  no  guessing  his  kith  and  kin : 
And  nobody  could  enough  admire 
The  tall  man  and  his  quaint  attire. 
Quoth  one:     "It  's  as  my  great-grandsire. 
Starting  up  at  the  Trump  of  Doom 's  tone, 
Had  walked  this  way  from  his  painted  tomb- 
stone !  " 

VI 

He  advanced  to  the  council-table:  70 

And,  "Please  yotir  honours,"  said  he,  "I    'm 
able, 

1  A  Dutch  roln.  worth  forty  opnts. 


By  means  of  a  secret  charm,  to  draw 
All  creatures  living  beneath  the  sun, 
That  creep  or  swim  or  fly  or  run, 
After  me  so  as  you  never  saw! 
And  I  chiefly  use  my  charm 
On  creatures  that  do  people  harm. 
The  mole  and  toad  and  newt  and  viper; 
And  people  call  me  the  Pied  Piper. ' ' 
(And  here  they  noticed  round  his  neck  80 

A  scarf  of  red  and  yellow  stripe. 
To  match  with  his  coat  of  the  self-same  check; 
And  at  the  scarf's  end  hung  a  pipe; 
And  his  fingers,  they  noticed,  were  ever  stray- 
ing 
As  if  impatient  to  be  playing 
Upon  this  pipe,  as  low  it  dangled 
Over  his  vesture  so  old-fangled.) 
"Yet,"  said  he,  "poor  piper  as  I  am, 
In  Tartary  I  freed  the  Cham, 
Last  June,  from  his  huge  swarms  of  gnats;     9o 
1  cased  in  Asia  the  Nizam 
Of  a  monstrous  brood  of  vampire-bats: 
And  as  for  what  your  brain  bewilders. 
If  I  can  rid  your  town  of  rats 
Will  you  give  me  a  thousand  guilders?" 
"One?  fifty  thousand!" — was  the  exclamation 
Of  the  astonished  Mayor  and  Corporation. 


100   I 


VII 

Into  the  street  the  Piper  stept, 

Smiling  first  a  little  smile. 
As  if  he  knew  what  magic  slept 

In  Ids  quiet  pipe  the  while; 
Then,  like  a  musical  adept, 
To  blow  the  pipe  his  lips  he  wrinkled. 
And  green  and  blue  his  sharp  eyes  twinkled. 
Like  a  candle-flame  where  salt  is  sprinkled; 
And  ere  three  shrill  notes  the  pipe  uttered, 
You  heard  as  if  an  army  muttered; 
And  the  muttering  grew  to  a  grumbling; 
And    the    grumbling   grew   to    a    mighty    rum- 
bling; 
And  out  of  the  houses  the  rats  came  tumbling. 
Great  rats,  small  rats,  lean  rats,  brawny  rats,    HI 
Brown  rats,  black  rats,  gray  rats,  tawny  rats, 
Grave  old  plodders,  gay  young  friskers, 

Fathers,  mothers,  uncles,  cousins, 
Cocking  tails  and  pricking  whiskers, 

Families  by  tens  and  dozens, 
Brothers,  sisters,  husbands,  wives — 
Followed  the  Piper  for  their  lives. 
From  street  to  streot  he  piped  advancing. 
And  step  for  step  they  followed  dancing.      120 
Until  they  came  to  the  river  Weser, 
Wherein  all  plunged  and  perished! 
]— Save  one  who,  stout  as  Julius  Ca?sar, 
Swam  across  and  lived  to  carry 


ROBERT  BROW M  NO 


005 


(As  he,  the  manuscript  he  eherishedi) 

To  Rat-land  home  his  coninientarj- : 

Which  was.  "At  the  first   shrill  notes  of  the 

pipe, 
I  heard  a  sound  as  of  scraping  tripe, 
And  putting  apples,  wondrous  ripe, 
Into  a  cider-press's  gripe:  130 

And  a  moving  away  of  pickle-tub-boards. 
And  a  leaving  ajar  of  conserve-cupboards, 
And  a  drawing  the  corks  of  train-oil-flasks, 
And  a  breaking  the  hoops  of  butter-casks: 
And  it  seemed  as  if  a  voice 
(Sweeter  far  than  by  harp  or  by  psaltery 
Is  breathed)  called  out,  'Oh  rats,  rejoice! 
The  world  is  grown  to  one  vast  dry-saltery! 
So  munch  on,  crunch  on,  take  your  nuncheon,^ 
Breakfast,  supper,   dinner,  luncheon!'  140 

And  just  as  a  bulky  sugar  puncheon, 
All  ready  staved,  like  a  great  sun  shone 
Glorious  scarce  an  inch  before  me, 
Just  as  methought  it  said,  '  Come,  bore  me  I ' 
— 1  found  the  Weser  rolling  o'er  me." 


You  should  have  heard  the  Hamelin  people 
Ringing  the  bells  till  they  rocked  the  steeple. 
"Go,"  cried  the  Mayor,  "and  get  long  poles. 
Poke  out  the  nests  and  block  up  the  holes! 
Consult  with  carpenters  and  builders,  150 

And  leave  in  our  town  not  even  a  trace 
Of  the  rats !  ' ' — when,  suddenly,  up  the  face 
Of  the  Piper  perked  in  the  market-place. 
With   a,    "First,    if   you   please,   my   thousand 
guilders ! ' ' 

IX 

A  thousand  guilders!     The  Mayor  looked  blue; 

So  did  the  Corporation  too. 

For  council  dinners  made  rare  havoc 

W^ith  Claret,   Moselle,  Vin-de-Grave,  Hock; 

And  half  the  money  would  replenish 

Their  cellar's  biggest  butt  with  Rhenish.       160 

To  pay  this  sum  to  a  wandering  fellow 

With  a  gypsy  coat  of  red  an«l  yellow! 

"Beside,"   quoth   the   Mayor   with   a  knowing 

wink 
"Our  business  was  done  at  the  river's  brink; 
We  saw  with  our  eyes  the  vermin  sink. 
And  what    's  dead  can't  come  to  Ufe,  I  think. 
So,  friend,  we  're  not  the  folks  to  shrink 
From   the   duty  of   giving  you   something   for 

drink, 
And  a  matter  of  money  to  put  in  your  poke; 
But  as  for  the  guilders,  what  we  spoke         170 
Of  them,  as  you  very  well  know,  was  in  joke. 

1  This  happened  In  Egypt,  according  to  riutarch, 

wlio  tolls  the  story. 

2  Ahor.t  tho  same  as  "luncheon". 


Beside,  our  losses  have  made  us   thrifty. 
A  thousand  guilders !     Come,  take  fifty ! ' ' 


The  Piper's  face  fell,  and  he  cried, 

' '  Xo  trifling !     I   can 't  wait,  beside ! 

I   've  promised  to  visit  by  dinner  time 

Bagdad,  and  accept  the  prime 

Of  the  Head-Cook's  pottage,  all  he   's  rich  in. 

For  having  left,  in  the  Caliph's  kitchen. 

Of  a  nest  of  scorpions  no  survivor:  1S'> 

With  him  I  proved  no  bargain-driver. 

With  you,  don't  think  I'll  bate  a  stiver! 

And  folks  who  put  uie  in  a  passion 

May  find  me  pipe  after  another  fashion. ' ' 


"How?"  cried  the  Mayor,  "d'je  think  I  brook 

Being  worse  treated  than  a  Cook? 

Insulted  by  a  lazy  ribald 

With  idle  pipe  and  vesture  piebald! 

You  threaten  us,  fellow?     Do  your  worst. 

Blow  your  pipe  there  till  you  burst!"  190 

xn 

Once  more  he  stept  into  the  street, 
And  to  his  lips  again 

Laid  his  long  pipe  of  smooth  straight  cane; 
And  ere  he  blew  three  notes  (such  sweet 

Soft  notes  as  yet  musician 's  cunning 
Never  gave  the  enraptured  air) 

There  was  a  rustling  that  seemed  like  a  bust- 
ling 

Of  merry  crowds  justling  at  pitching  and  hust- 
ling; 

Small  feet  were  pattering,  wooden  shoes  clatter- 
ing, 

Little  hands  clapping  and  little  tongues  chat- 
tering, 200 

And,  like  fowls  in  a  farm-yard  when  barley  is 
scattering. 

Out  came  the  children  running. 

All  the  little  boys  and  girls, 

With  rosy  cheeks  and  flaxen  curls, 

And  sparkling  eyes  and  teeth  like  pearls, 

Tripping  and  skipping,  ran  merrily  after 

The  wonderful  music  with  shouting  and  laugh- 
ter. 

XIII 

The  Mayor  was  dumb,  and  the  Council  stood 
As  if  they  were  changed  into  blocks  of  wood. 
Unable  to  move  a  step,  or  cry  210 

To  the  children  merrily  skipping  by, 
— Could  only  follow  with  the  eye 
That  joyous  crowd  at  the  Piper's  back. 
But  how  the  Mayor  was  on  the  rack. 
And  the  wretched  Council's  bosoms  beat, 


606 


THE  VICTOBIAX  AGE 


As  the  Piper  turned  from  the  High  Street 

To  where  the  Weser  rolled  its  waters 

Kight  in  the  way  of  their  sons  and  daughters! 

However,  he  turned  from  South  to  West, 

And  to  Koppelberg  Hill  his  steps  addressed,  220 

And  after  him  the  children  pressed; 

Great  was  the  joy  in  every  breast. 

*  *  He  never  can  cross  that  mighty  top ! 
He  's  forced  to  let  the  piping  drop, 
And  we  shall  see  our  children  stop ! ' ' 
When,  lo,  as  they  reached  the  mountain-side, 
A  wondrous  portal  opened  wide. 

As  if  a  cavern  was  suddenly  hollowed; 
And  the  Piper  advanced  and  the  children  fol- 
lowed, 
And  when  all  were  in  to  the  very  last,  230 

The  door  in  the  mountain-side  shut  fast. 
Did  I  say  all!    No!     One  was  lame, 
And  could  not  dance  the  whole  of  the  way; 
And  in  after  years  if  you  would  blame 
His  sadness,  he  was  used  to  say, — 

*  *  It 's    dull   in   our    town   since   my   playmates 

left! 
I  can't  forget  that  I'm  bereft 
Of  all  the  pleasant  sights  they  see. 
Which  the  Piper  also  promised  me. 
For  he  led  us,  he  said,  to  a  joyous  land,        240 
Joining  the  town  and  just  at  hand. 
Where  waters  gushed  and  fruit-trees  grew 
And  flowers  put  forth  a  fairer  hue, 
And  everything  was  strange  and  new; 
The  sparrows  were  brighter  than  peacocks  here, 
And  their  dogs  outran  our  fallow  deer, 
And  honey-bees  had  lost  their  stings, 
And  horses  were  born  with  eagles'  wings; 
And  just  as  I  became  assured 
My  lame  foot  would  be  speedily  cured,  250 

The  music  stopped  and  I  stood  still. 
And  found  myself  outside  the  hill. 
Left  alone  against  my  will. 
To  go  now  limping  as  before. 
And  never  hear  of  that  country  more!" 

XIV 

Alas,  alas  for  Hamelin! 

There  came  into  many  a  burgher's  pate 

A  text  which  says  that  heaven 's  gate 

Opes  to  the  rich  at  as  easy  rate 
As  the  needle's  eye  takes  a  camel  in!  260 

The  Mayor  sent  East,  West,  North  and  South, 
To  offer  the  Pi};er,  by  wonl  of  mouth, 

Wherever  it  was  men  's  lot  to  find  him, 
Silver  and  gold  to  his  heart's  content. 
If  he'd  only  return  the  way  he  went, 

.\nd  bring  the  children  behind  him. 
But  when  they  saw   't  was  a  lost  endeavour. 
And  Piper  and  dancers  were  gone  forever. 


They  made  a  decree  that  lawyers  never 

Should  think  their  records  dated  duly  270 

If,  after  the  day  of  the  month  and  year. 
These  words  did  not  as  well  appear, 
"And  so  long  after  what  happened  here 

On  the  Twenty-second  of  July, 
Thirteen  hundred  and  seventy-six:" 
And  the  better  in  memory  to  fix 
The  place  of  the  children's  last  retreat. 
They  called  it,  the  Pied  Piper's  Street — 
Where  any  one  playing  on  pipe  or  tabour 
Was  sure  for  the  future  to  lose  his  labour.     280 
Nor  suflfered  they  hostelry  or  tavern 

To  shock  witii  mirth  a  street  so  solemn; 
But  opposite  the  place  of  the  cavern 

They  wrote  the  story  on  a  column. 
And  on  the  great  church-window  painted 
The  same,  to  make  the  world  acquainted 
How  their  children  were  stolen  away. 
And  there  it  stands  to  this  very  day. 
And  I  must  not  omit  to  say 
That  in  Transylvania  there  's  a  tribe  290 

Of  alien  people  who  ascribe 
The  outlandish  ways  and  dress 
On  which  their  neighbours  lay  such  stress, 
To  their  fathers  and  mothers  having  risen 
Out  of  some  subterraneous  prison 
Into  which  they  were  trepanned" 
Long  time  ago  in  a  mighty  band 
Out  of  Hamelin  town  in  Brunswick  land. 
But  how  or  why,  they  don  't  understand. 


So,  Willy,  let  me  and  you  be  wipers  300 

Of  scores  out  with  all  men — especially  pipers! 
And,  whether  they  pipe  us  free  from   rats  or 

from  mice. 
If  we've  promised  them  aught,  let  us  keep  our 

promise  I 

HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD  NEWS 
FEOM  GHENT  TO  AIX* 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he;  I 

I    galloped,    Dirck    galloped,    we    galloped    all 

three ; 
"Good  speed!"  cried  the  watch,  as  the  gate- 
bolts  undrew; 
' '  Speed !  ' '    echoed    the    wall    to    us    galloping        i 
through ;  I 

Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest, 
.\nd  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 


3  ensnared 

*  This  poom  has  no  historical  foundation.  It  sup- 
posts  comparison  wirli  l.o'iKfcllow's  Paul  He- 
irre'M  Itidi'.  which  was  written  later,  (ihent 
(//  hard)  is  In  Bolgium,  and  Alx-la-Chapelle 
in   rniHsia.  about  ninety  miles  distant. 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


607 


Not  a  word  to  each  other;  we  kept  the  great 

pace 
Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never  changing 

our  place; 
I    turned   in    my   saddle   and   made    its   girths 

tight, 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup,  and  set  the  pique* 

right,  10 

Rebuekled  the  cheek-strap,  chained  slacker  the 

bit, 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit. 

'T  was  moonset  at  starting;  but  while  we  drew 

near 
Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew  and  twilight  dawned 

clear ; 
At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see; 
At  Diiflfeld,    't  was  morning  as  plain  as  could 

be; 
And  from  Mecheln  church-steeple  we  heard  the 

half-chime, 
So    Joris    broke    silence    with,    "Yet    there    is 

time!" 

At  Aershot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sun. 
And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every 

one,  20 

To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past. 
And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland  at  last. 
With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 
The    haze,    as    some    bluff    river    headland    its 

spray : 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp  ear 

bent  back 
For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on  his 

track; 
And    one    eye's    black   intelligence, — ever    that 

glance 
O'er   its   white  edge   at   me,   his   own   master, 

askance ! 
And    the   thick   heavy   spume-flakes   which   aye 

and  anon  29 

His  fierce  lips  shook  upwards  in  galloping  on. 

By  Hasselt,  Dirck  groaned ;  and  cried  Joris, 
"Stay,  spur! 

Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault's  not  in 
her. 

We'll  remember  at  Aix" — for  one  heard  the 
quick  wheeze 

Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck  and  stag- 
gering knees. 

And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank, 

As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and 
sank. 

4  peak    pommel 


So,  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 
Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the  sky; 
The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh, 
'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle  bright  stubble 

like  chaflf;  40 

Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire  sprang  white, 
And  "Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "for  Aix  is  in 

sight!" 

' '  How  they  '11  greet  us !  ' ' — and  all  in  a  moment 

his  roan 
Rolled    neck    and    croup    over,    lay    dead    as    a 

stone; 
And   there  was  my  Roland   to   bear  the  whole 

weight 
Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from 

her   fate. 
With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the 

brim, 
And    with   circles   of   red   for   his  eye-sockets' 

rim. 

Then  T  cast  loose  my  buffcoat,  each  holster 
let   fall. 

Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and 
all,  50 

Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear, 

tailed  my  Roland  his  pet-name,  my  horse  with- 
out peer; 

Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang,  any 
noise,  bad  or  good. 

Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and 
stood. 

And  all  I  remember  is — friends  flocking  round 

As  I  sat  with  his  head  'twixt  my  knees  on  the 
ground ; 

And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of 
mine. 

As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last  measure 
of  wine. 

Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  con- 
sent) 

Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good 
news  from  Ghent.  60 

THE   LOST   LEADER* 

Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us. 
Just  for  a  riband  to  stick  in  his  coat — 

Found  the  one  gift  of  which  fortune  bereft  us, 

Lost  all  the  others  she  lets  us  devote; 

♦  This  poem  was  suggested  by  Wordsworth's 
change  from  very  radical  views  to  conserva- 
tism and  Toryism.  Browning  later  apologized 
for  its  great  injustice  to  Wordsworth  :  it  was 
the  effusion  of  "hasty  youth."  and  was.  more- 
over, not  Intended  as  an  exact  characteriza- 
tion. Compare  Browning's  poem,  ^yhy  I  am  a 
Liberal,  below.  Whittier's  poem,  Jchahod,  on 
the  defection  of  Daniel  Webster,  is  written 
in  a  similar  strain. 


608 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


They,    witb    the   gold    to    give,    doled    him    out 
silver, 
So  much  was  theirs  who  so  little  allowed: 
How  all  our  copper  had  gonei  for  his  service! 
Rags — were  they  purple,^  his  heart  had  been 
proud ! 
We  that  had  loved  him  so,  followed  him,  hon- 
oured him. 
Lived  in  his  mild  and  magnificent  eye,        10 
Learned   his   great   language,   caught  his  clear 
accents, 
Made  him  our  pattern  to  live  and  to  die! 
Shakespeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us, 
Burns,    Shelley,    were   with    us, — they    watch 
from  their  graves! 
He  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and  the  freemen, 
— He  alone  sinks  to  the  rear  and  the  slaves! 
We   shall   march   prospering, — not   through   his 
presence ; 
Songs  may  inspirit   us, — not   from  his  lyre; 
Deeds  will  be  done, — while  he  boasts  his  quies- 
cence, 
Still    bidding    crouch    whom    the    rest    bade 
aspire :  20 

Blot  out  his  name,  then,  record  one  lost  soul 
more, 
One  task  more  declined,  one  more  footpath 
untrod, 
One     more     devils '-triumph     and     sorrow     for 
angels, 
One  wrong  more  to  man,  one  more  insult  to 
God! 
Life's  night  begins:  let  him  never  come  back 
to  us! 
There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation  and  pain. 
Forced  praise  on  our  part — the  glimmer  of  twi- 
light, 
Never  glad  confident  morning  again! 
Best  fight  on  well,3  for  we  taught  him — strike 
gallantly, 
Menace  our  heart  ere  we  master  his  own;     30 
Then   let   him   receive  the   new   knowledge   and 
wait  us, 
Pardoned  in  heaven,  the  first  by  the  throne! 

HOME-THOUGHTS,    FROM   ABROAD 

Oh,  to  be  in  England 

Now  that  April's  there, 

And  whoever  wakes  in  England 

Sees,  some  morning,  unaware, 

That    the    lowest    boughs    and    the    brushwood 

sheaf 
Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf, 

1  would  have  Kone  (gladlv) 

2  bad  tlicy  hoea  royal  robes  (spoken  In  sarcaBm) 

3  I.  c,  aKainnt  us 


While  tlie  chaftinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough 
In  England — now! 

And  after  April,  when  May  follows. 
And   the  whitethroat  builds,   and   all   tlie  swal- 
lows !  10 
Hark,    where    my    blossomed    pear-tree    in    the 

hedge 
Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover 
Blossoms    and    dewdrops — at    the   bent    spray 's 

edge — 
That 's   the   wise   thrush ;     he   sings   each   song 

twice  over. 
Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 
The  first  fine  careless  rapture! 
And   tliough   the   fields   look  rough   with   hoary 

dew, 
All  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew 
The  buttercups,  the  little  children  's  dower  19 

— Far   brighter   than  this  gaudy   melon-flower! 

HOME-THOUGHTS.  FROM  THE  SEA 

Nobly,  nobly  Cape  Saint  Vincent  to  the  North- 
west died  away;* 
Sunset  ran,  one  glorious  blood-red,  reeking  into 

Cadiz  Bay; 
Bluish    'mid   the   burning   water,    full   in   face 

Trafalgar  lay; 
In    the    dimmest    Northeast    distance    dawned 

Gibraltar  grand  and  gray; 
"Here  and   here  did   England   help  me:     how 

can  I  help  England?" — say, 
Whoso  turns   as   I,   this  evening,   turn  to   God 

to  praise  and  pray, 
j  While  Jove's  planet   rises  yonder,  silent   over 

Africa. 

THE  BOY  AND  THE  ANGEL* 

Morning,  evening,  noon  and  night, 
"Praise  God!"  sang   Theocrite. 

Then  to  his  poor  trade  he  turned, 
Whereby   the    daily   meal   was   earned. 

Hard  he  laboured,  long  and  well; 
O  'er  his  work  the  boy 's  curls  fell. 

But  ever,  at  each  period, 

He  stopped  and  sang,  ' '  Praise  God ! ' ' 

*  The  scene  is  that  of  Nelson's  great  victorj-. 

•  This  legend  Is  a  pure  Invention,  In  the  media? vnl 

spirit.  Tbc  moral  is  the  same  as  that  of  the 
'"Now  Year's  Ilvmn"  from  I'ippa  Pnsxrs  above. 
Or,  in  the  words  of  Kmerson. 

"There  is  no  great  nnd  no  smnll 
To  the  Soul  that  maketb  all." 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


609 


Then  back  again  his  curls  he  threw, 
And  cheerful  turned   to  work  anew. 


With  his  holy  vestments  dight,*" 
10    Stood  the  new  Pope,  Theocrite: 


Said  Blaise,  the  listening  monk.  "Well  done; 
I  doubt  not  thou  art  heard,  my  son: 

"As  well  as  if  thy  voice  to-day 

W'ere  praising  God,  the  Pope's  great  way. 

"This  Easter  Day,  the  Pope  at  Rome 
Praises  God  from  Peter's  dome." 

Said  Theocrite,  "Would  God  that  I 

Might  praise   him  that  great  way.   and   die!" 


20 


Night  passed,  day  shone, 
And  Theocrite  was  gone. 

With  God  a  day  endures  alway, 
A  thousand  years  are  but  a  day. 

God  said  in  heaven,  "Nor  day  nor  night 
Now  brings  the  voice  of  my  delight." 

Then  Gabriel,  like  a  rainbow's  birth. 
Spread  his  wings  and  sank  to  earth ; 

Entered,  in  flesh,  the  empty  cell, 

Lived  there,  and  played  the  craftsman  well; 

And   morning,   evening,   noon   and   night, 
Praised  God  in  place  of  Theocrite.  30 

And  from  a  boy,  to  youth  he  grew: 
The  man  put  off  the  stripling's  hue: 

The  man  matured  and  fell  away 
Into  the  season  of  decay: 

And  ever  o'er  the  trade  he  bent. 
And  ever  lived  on  earth  content. 

(He  did  God's  will;  to  him,  all  one 
If  on  the  earth  or  in  the  sun.) 

God  said  "A  praise  is  in  mine  ear; 

There  is  no  doubt  in  it,  no  fear:  40 

"So  sing  old  worlds,  and  so 

New  worlds  that  fi'om  my  footstool  go. 

"Clearer  loves  sound  other  ways: 
I  miss  my  little  human  praise." 

Then  forth  sprang  Gabriel's  wings,  off  fell 
The  flesh  disguise,  remained  the  cell. 

'Twas  Easter  Day:    he  flew  to  Rome, 
And  paused  above  St.  Peter's  dome. 


In  the  tiring-room  close  by 
The  great  outer  gallery, 


50 


And  all  his  past  career 
Came  back  upon  him  clear, 

Since  when,  a  boy,  he  plied  his  trade, 
Till   on  his   life  the  sickness  weighed; 

And  in  his  cell,  when  death  drew  near, 
An  angel  in  a  dream  brought  cheer: 

And  rising  from  the  sickness  drear. 

He  grew  a  priest,  and  now  stood  here.  *0 

To  the  East  with  praise  he  turned, 
And  on  his  sight  the  angel  burned. 

'  *  I   bore  thee  from  thy  craftsman 's  cell. 
And  set  thee  here;    I  did  not  well. 

' '  Vainly  I  left  my  angel-sphere, 
Vain  was  thy  dream  of  many  a  year. 

' '  Thy  voice 's  praise  seemed  weak ;  it  dropped — 
Creation's   chorus   stopped! 

"Go  back  and  praise  again 

The  early  way,  while  I  remain.  70 

' '  With  that  weak  voice  of  our  disdain, 
Take  up  creation 's  pausing  strain. 

' '  Back  to  the  cell  and  poor  employ : 
Resume  the  craftsman  and  the  boy !  ' ' 

Theocrite  grew  old  at  home; 

A  new  Pope  dwelt  in  Peter's  dome. 

One  vanished  as  the  other  died: 
They  sought  God  side  by  side. 

SAUL* 

I 

Said  Abner.i  "At  last  thou  art  come!      Ere  I 

tell,  ere  thou   speak, 
Kii-s  my  cheek,  wish  me  well!  "     Then  I  wished 

it,  and  did  kiss  his  cheek. 
•>  arrayed 


I  The  captain  of  Sauls  host.  David  is  tlie  speak- 
er throughout. 

*  In  T  Samuel,  xvi.  14-2."..  David,  the  shepherd 
boy.  is  summoned  to  play  on  his  harp  and 
drive  away  the  evil  spirit  which  troubles 
Saul.  Browning  has  availed  himself  of  the 
theme  to  set  forth,  in  majestic  anapests.  the 
range  and  power  of  music  in  its  various 
kinds  :  thenee  passing  to  a  view  of  the  bound- 
lessness of  spiritual  influence,  and  rising  in 
the  end  to  a  vision  of  the  ultimate  oneness 
of  human  sympathy  and  love  with  divine. 
A.  ,1.  George  writes :  "The  severity,  sweet- 
ness, and  lieauty  of  the  closing  scene  where 
David  returns  to  his  simple  task  of  tending 
his  flocks,  when  all  nature  is  alive  with  the 
new  impulse  and  pronounces  the  benediction 
on  his  efforts,  is  not  surpassed  by  anything 
in   our   literature." 


610 


THE  VICTOBIAN  AGE 


And  he:     "Since  the  King,  O  my  friend,  for 

thy  countenance  sent, 
Neither  drunken  nor  eaten  have  we;    nor  until 

from  his  tent 
Thou    return    with    the    joyful    assurance    the 

King  liveth  yet, 
Shall  our   lip   with   the   honey   be   bright,  with 

the  water  be  wet, 
For  out  of  the  black  mid-tent's  silence,  a  space 

of  three  days. 
Not  a  sound  hath  escaped  to  thy  servants,  of 

prayer  nor  of  praise. 
To  betoken  that  Saul  and  the  Spirit  have  ended 

their  strife. 
And   that,   faint   in   his   triumph,   the  monarch 

sinks  back  upon  life.  10 


"Yet  now  my  heart  leaps,  O  beloved!     God's 

child  with  his  dew 
On  thy  gracious  gold  hair,  and  those  lilies  still 

living  and  blue 
Just   broken   to   twine   round   thy   harp-strings, 

as  if  no  wild  heat 
Were  now  raging  to  torture  the  desert ! ' ' 

m 

Then    I,    as    was    meet, 
Knelt   down   to    the   God    of   my   fathers,   and 

rose  on  ray  feet. 
And  ran  o  'er  the  sand  burnt  to  powder.     The 

tent  was  unlooped; 
I    pulled    up    the    spear    that    obstructed,    and 

under  I  stooped; 
Hands  and  knees  on  the  slippery  grass-patch, 

all  withered  and  gone. 
That  extends  to  the  second  enclosure,  I  groped 

my  way  on 
Till  I  felt  where  the  foldskirts  fly  open.     Then 

once  more  I  prayed,  20 

And    opened    the    foldskirts    and    entered,    and 

was  not  afraid 
But    spoke,    "Here    is    David,    thy    servant!" 

And  no  voice  replied. 
At  the  first   1   saw   naught  but  the  blackness: 

but  soon   I  descried 
A  something  more  black  than  the  blackness — 

the  vast,  the  upright 
Main  prop   which   sustains   the  pavilion:     and 

slow  into  sight 
Grew  a  figure  against  it,  gigantic  and  blackest 

of  all. 
Then  a  sunbeam,  that  burst  through  the  tent- 
roof,  showed  Saul. 

IV 

He  stood  as  erect  as  that  tent-prop,  both  arms 
stretched  out  wide 


On  the  great  cross-support  in  the  centre,  that 

goes  to  each  side; 
He  relaxed   not  a  muscle,   but  hung  there  as, 

caught  in  his  pangs  30 

And  waiting  his   change,  the  king-serpent   all 

heavily  hangs. 
Far    away    from    his    kind,    in    the    pine,    till 

deliverance  come 
With  the  spring-tinie,2 — so  agonized  Saul,  drear 

and  stark,  blind  and  dumb. 


Then  I  tuned  my  harp, — took  off  the  lilies  we 

twine  round  its  chords 
Lest  they  snap    'neath  the  stress  of  the  noon- 
tide— those  sunbeams  like  swords! 
And  I  first  played  the  tune  all  our  sheep  know, 

as,  one  after  one. 
So  docile  they  come  to  the  pen-door  till  folding 

be  done. 
They  are  white  and  untorn  by  the  bushes,  for 

lo,  they  have  fed 
Where  the  long  grasses  stifle  the  water  within 

the  stream's  bed; 
And  now  one  after  one  seeks  its  lodging,  as 

star  follows  star  40 

Into  eve  and  the  blue  far  above  us, — so  blue 

and  so  far! 

VI 
— Then  the  tune  for  which  quails  on  the  corn- 
land  will  each  leave  his  mate 
To  fly  after  the  player;    then,  what  makes  the 

crickets  elate 
Till  for  boldness  they  fight  one  another;    and 

then,  what  has  weight 
To  set  the  quick  jerboa'J  a-musing  outside  his 

sand  house — 
There  are  none  such  as  he  for  a  wonder,  half 

bird  and  half  mouse! 
God  made  all  the  creatures  and  gave  them  our 

love  and  our  fear, 
To  give  sign,  we  and  they  are  his  children,  one 

family  here.  'U'  >i    - 

VII 

Then  I  played  the  help-tune  of  our  reapers, 
their  wine-song,  when  hand 

Grasps  at  hand,  eye  lights  eye  in  good  friend- 
ship, and  great  hearts  expand  50 

And  grow  one  in  the  sense  of  this  world's  life. 
— And  then,  the  last  song 

When  the  dead  man  is  praised  on  his  journey 
— "Bear,  bear  him  along. 

With  his  few  faults  shut  up  like  dead  flowerets! 
Are  balm  seeds  not  here 

2  Through  tbp  slonghinK  of  his  old  skin. 
8  A  rodent  with  Iodk  hind  legs,  with  which  it  can 
spring  like  a  bird. 


BOBERT  BROWNING 


611 


To  console  usf     The  land  has  none  left  such  j 

as  he  on  the  bier.  i 

Oh,  would  we  might  keep  thee,  my  brother!  " — 

Aud   then,  the  glad  chaunt 
Of  the  marriage, — first  go  the  young  maidens, 

next,  she  whom  we  vaunt 
As    the    beauty,    the   pride   of    our    dwelling. — 

And  then,   the   grand  march 
Wherein   man   runs  to   man  to   assist  him   and 

buttress   an   arch 
Naught  can  break;    who  shall  harm  them,  our 

friends f     Then,  the  chorus  intoned 
As   the   Levites   go   up   to   the   altar   in   glory 

enthroned.  *^ 

But  I  stopped  here:    for  here  in  the  darkness 

Saul  groaned. 

VIII 

And  I  paused,  held  my  breath  in  such  silence, 
and  listened  apart: 

And    the    tent    shook,    for    mighty    Saul    shud- 
dered:   and  sparkles  'gan  dart 

From  the  jewels  that  woke  in  his  turban,  at 
once,  with  a  start. 

All  its  lordly  male-sapphires,*  and  rubies  cour- 
ageous at  heart. 

So   the  head:     but   the  body   still  moved   not, 
still  hung  there  erect. 

And  I  bent  once  again  to  my  playing,  pursued 
it  unchecked, 

As   I   sang: — 

•  IX 

**0h,  our  manhood's   prime  vigour!      No 
spirit  feels  waste, 

Not    a   muscle   is   stopped   in   its   playing   nor 
sinew  unbraced. 

Oh,  the  wild  joys  of  living!    the  leaping  from 
rock  up  to  rock,  70 

The    strong   rending   of   boughs    from    the   fir- 
tree,  the  cool  silver  shock 

Of  the  plunge  in  a  pool 's  living  water,  the  hunt 
of  the  bear, 

And  the  sultriness  showing  the  lion  is  couched 
in  his  lair. 

And   the   meal,    the   rich    dates   yellowed    over 
with  gold  dust  divine, 

And   the    locust-flesh^    steeped    in    the    pitcher, 
the  full  draught  of  wine. 

And  the  sleep  in  the  dried  river-channel  where 
bulrushes  tell 

That  the  water  was  wont  to   go  warbling   so 
softly  and  well. 

How  good  is  man's  life,  the  mere  living!    how 
fit  to  employ 

4  Sapphires  of  superior  hardness  and  brilliancy. 

5  The  meat  of  John  the  Baptist  in  the  wilderness. 

See   page   41,  and  the   note   on   Wyclif's  mis- 
translation. 


All  the  heart  and  the  soul  and  the  senses  for- 
ever in  joy! 

Hast  thou  loved  the  white  locks  of  thy  father, 
whose  swiord  thou  didst  guard  SO 

When  he  trusted  thee  forth  with  the  armies, 
for  glorious  reward! 

Didst  thou  see  the  thin  hands  of  thy  mother, 
held  up  as  men  sung 

The  low  song  of  the  nearly-departed,  and  hear 
her  faint  tongue 

Joining  in  while  it  could  to  the  witness,  *  *  Let 
one  more  attest, 

1  have  lived,  seen  God's  hand  through  a  life- 
time, and  all  was  for  best  ? ' ' 

Then  they  sung  through  their  tears  in  strong 
triumph,  not  much,  but  the  rest. 

And  thy  brothers,  the  help  and  the  contest,  the 
working  whence  grew 

Such  result  as,  from  seething  grape-bundles, 
the  spirit  strained  true: 

And  the  friends  of  thy  boyhood — that  boyhood 
of  wonder  and  hope. 

Present  promise  and  wealth  of  the  future  be- 
yond the  eye 's  scope, —  90 

Till  lo,  thou  art  grown  to  a  monarch :  a  people 
is  thine; 

And  all  gifts,  which  the  world  offers  singly, 
on  one  head  combine! 

On  one  head,  all  the  beauty  and  strength,  love 
and  rage  (like  the  throe 

That,  a-work  in  the  rock,  helps  its  labour  and 
lets  the  gold  go) 

High  ambition  and  deeds  which  surpass  it, 
fame  crowning  them, — all 

Brought  to  blaze  on  the  head  of  one  creature 
—King  Saul!" 


And  lo,  with   that   leap   of   my   spirit, — heart, 

hand,  harp  and  voice. 
Each  lifting  Saul's  name  out  of  sorrow,  each 

bidding  rejoice 
Saul's  fame  in  the  light  it  was  made  for — as 

when,  dare  I  say, 
The  Lord's  army,  in  rapture  of  service,  strains 

through   its  array."  H'O 

And  upsoareth  the  cherubim-chariot — "Saul!" 

cried  I,  and  stopped. 
And  waited  the  thing  that  should  follow.   Then 

Saul,  who  hung  propped 
By  the  tent's  cross-support  in  the  centre,  was 

struck  by  his  name. 
Have  ye  seen  when  Spring's  arrowy  summons 

goes  right  to  the  aim. 
And  some  mountain,  the  last  to  withstand  her, 

that    held    (he    alone, 

8  See  Ezekiel,  x- 


6113 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


While  the  vale  laughed  in  freedom  and  flow- 
ers) on  a  broad  bust  of  stone 
A  year 's  snow  bound  about  for  a  breast-plate, 

— leaves  grasp  of  the  sheet  I 
Fold  on  fold  all  at  once  it  crowds  thunderously 

down  to  his  feet, 
And  there  fronts  you,  stark,  black,  but   alive 

yet,  your  mountain  of  old, 
With  his  rents,  the  successive  bequeathings  of 
ages  untold —  ^^^ 

Yea,  each  harm   got  in   fighting  your   battles, 

each  furrow  and  scar 
Of  his  head  thrust   'twixt  you  and  the  tempest 

—all  hail,  there  they  are! 
— Now    again    to    be    softened    with    verdure. 

again  hold  the  nest 
Of  the  dove,  tempt  the  goat  and  its  young  to 

the  green  on  his  crest 
For  their  food  in  the  ardours  of  summer.     One 

long  shudder  thrilled 
All    the   tent    till    the    very    air   tingled,    then 

sank  and  was  stilled 
At   the  King's   self   left   standing   before   me, 

released   and   aware. 
What  was  gone,  what  remained?     All  to  trav- 

verse   'twixt  hope  and  despair. 
Death  was  past,  life  not  come:     so  he  waited. 

Awhile  his  right  hand 
Held  the  brow,  helped  the  eyes  left  too  vacant 
forthwith  to  remand  120 

To  their  place  what  new  objects  shouM  enter: 

't  was  Saul  as  before. 
I  looked  up  and  dared  gaze  at  those  eyes,  nor 

was  hurt  any  more 
Than    by   slow    pallid    sunsets    in    autumn,    ye 

watch  from  the  shore. 
At  their  sad  level  gaze  o  'er  the  ocean — a  sun 's 

slow  decline 
Over    hills    which,    resolvedi    in    stern    silence, 

o'erlap  and  entwine 
Base  with  base  to  knit  strength  more  intensely: 

80,  arm  folded  arm 
O'er  the  chest  whose  slow  heavings  subsided. 

XI 

What   spell    or    what    charm. 
(For    awhile    there    was    trouble    within    me), 

what  next  should  I  urge 
To  sustain  him  where  song  had  restored  him? — 

Song  filled  to  the  verge 
His  cup  with  the  wine  of  this  life,  pressing  all 

that  it  yields  130 

Of  mere  fruitage,  the  strength  and  the  beauty: 

beyond,  on  what  fields, 
Glean   a   vintage   more   potent   anrl   perfect    to 

brighten  the  eye 

1  neparat'^'l  in  outline 


And  bring  blood  to  the  lip,  and  commend  them 

the  cup  they  put  by I 
He  saith,   "It   is   good;"  still  he  drinks  not: 

he  lets  me  praise  life, 
Gives  assent,  yet  would  die  for  his  own  part. 

xn 

Then  fancies  grew  rife 
Which    had    come    long    ago    on    the    pasture, 

when  round  me  the  sheep 
I'ed   in  silence — above,   the   one  eagle  wheeled 

slow  as  in  sleep; 
And    1    lay    in   my   hollow    and   mused    on   the 

world  that  might  lie 
'Neath   his  ken,   though   1   saw    but   the   strip 

'twixt  the  hill  and  the  sky: 
And  I  laughed — "Since  my  days  are  ordained 

to  be  passed  with  my  flocks,  i"**^ 

Let   me   people   at  least,  with  my  fancies,   the 

plains  and  the  rocks. 
Dream  the  life  I  am  never  to  mix  with,  and 

image  the  show 
Of  mankind  as  they  live  in  those   fashions   1 

hardly  shall  know! 
Schemes  of  life,  its  best  rules  and  right  uses, 

the  courage  that   gains, 
And  the  prudence  that  keeps  what  men  strive 

for."     And  now  these  old  trains 
Of  vague  thought  came  again;    I  grew  surer; 

so,  once  more  the  string 
Of   my   harp  made   response   to   my   spirit,  as 

thus — 

XIII 

"Yea,  my  King," 
I    began — "thou    dost   well    in  rejecting   mere 

comforts  that  spring 
From  the  mere  mortal  life  held  in  common  by 

man  and  by  brute: 
In  our  flesh  grows  the  branch  of  this  life,  in 

our  soul  it  bears  fruit.  150 

Thou  hast  marked  the  slow  rise  of  the  tree,— 

liow  its  stem  trembled  first 
Till  it  passed  the  kid's  lip,  the  stag's  antler; 

then  safely  outburst 
The  fan-branches  all  round;    and  thou  mindest 

when  these  too,  in  turn. 
Broke  abloom  and  the  palm-tree  seemed  jier- 

fect:    yet  more  was  to  learn, 
E'en   the   good   that   comes  in   with   the   palm- 
fruit.     Our   dates  shall   we  slight. 
When  their  juice  brings  a  cure  for  all  sorrow  9 

or  care  for  the  plight 
Of  tlie  i>alm's  self  whose  slow  growth  produced 

themf     Not  so!    stem  and  branch 
Shall  decay,  nor  be  known  in  their  i)lm'o,  while 

the  palm-wine  shall  stanch 


KOBEKT  BKOWNING 


613 


Even-  wound  of  man's  spirit  in  winter.    I  pour 

thee  such  wine, 
Leave  the  flesh  to  the  fate  it  was  fit  for!    the 

spirit  be  thine!  160 

By  the   spirit,  when  age   shall  o'ercome   thee, 

thou  still  shalt  enjoy 
More   indeed,    tiian   at    first    when    inconscious, 

the  life  of  a  boy. 
Crush  that  life,  and  behold  its  wine  running! 

Each  deed  thou  hast  done 
Dies,  revives,  goes  to  work  in  the  world!    until 

e'en  as  the  sun 
Looking  down  on  the  earth,  though  clouds  spoil 

him,  though  tempests  efface. 
Can  find   nothing  his   own   deed   produced  not, 

must  everywhere  trace 
The  results  of  his  past  summer-prime, — so,  each 

ray  of  thy  will, 
Every  flash  of  thy  passion  and  prowess,  long 

over,    shall   thrill 
Thy  whole  people,  the  countless,  with  ardour, 

till  they  too  give  forth 
A  like  cheer  to  their  sons,  who  in  turn,  fill  the 

South  and  the  North  170 

With  the  radiance  thy  deed  was  the  germ  of. 

Carouse  in  the  past! 
But  the  license  of  age  has  its  limit;    thou  diest 

at  last: 
As  the  lion  when  age  dims  his  eyeball,  the  rose 

at  her  height, 
So    with   man — so    his    power   and   his   beauty 

forever  take  flight. 
No!     Again  a  long  draught  of  my  soul-wine! 

Look  forth  o'er  the  years! 
Thou  hast  done  now  with  eyes  for  the  actual; 

begin  with  the  seer's! 
Is  Saul  dead?     In  the  depth  of  the  vale  make 

his  tomb — bid  arise 
A  gray  mountain  of  marble  heaped  four-square, 

till,  built  to  the  skies, 
Let  it  mr.rk  where  the  great  First  Kingi  slum- 
bers:   whose  fame  would  ye  knowf 
Up  above  see  the  rock 's  naked  face,  where  the 

record  shall  go  180 

In  great   characters   cut   by   the   scribe. — Such 

was  Saul,  so  he  did; 
With  the  sages  directing  the  work,  by  the  pop- 
ulace chid, — 
For  not  half,  they'll  affirm,  is  comprised  there! 

Which  fault  to  amend, 
In  the  grove   with   his  kind  grows  the  cedar, 

whereon  they  shall  spend 
(See,  in  tablets    't  is  level  before  them)   their 

praise,  and  record 
With  the  gold  of  the  graver,  Saul's  story, — the 

statesman's  great  word 

lOf  Israel, 


Side  by  side  v  ith  the  poet's  sweet  comment. 

The  river's  a-wave 
With    smooth    paper-reeds    grazing   each    other 

when  prophet-winds2  rave: 
So  the  pen  gives  unborn  generations  their  due 

and   their   part 
In  thy  being!     Then,  first  of  the  mighty,  thank 

God  that  thou  art!"  190 


And  behold  while  I  sang     .     .     .     but  O  Thou 

who  didst  grant  me  that  day. 
And    before   it    not    seldom    hast   granted   thy 

help  to   essay. 
Carry    on    and    complete    an    adventure, — my 

shield  and  my  sword 
In  that  act  where  my  soul  was  thy  servant,  thy 

word   was   my   word, — 
StiU  be  with  me,  who  then  at  the  summit  of 

human  endeavour 
And  scaling  the  highest  man's  thought  could, 

gazed  hopeless  as  ever 
On  the  new  stretch  of  heaven  above  me — till, 

mighty  to  save, 
Just  one  lift  of  thy  hand  cleared  that  distance 

— God's  throne  from  man's  grave! 
Let   me   tell   out   my   tale   to    its    ending — my 

voice  to  my  heart 
Which  can  scarce  dare  believe  in  what  manels 

last  night  I  took  part,  200 

As  this  morning  I  gather  the  fragments,  alone 

with  my  sheep, 
And   still   fear   lest   the  terrible   glory  evanish 

like  sleep! 
For   I   wake   in    the  gray   dewy   covert,   while 

Hebrons  upheaves 
The  dawn,  struggling  with  night,  on  his  shoul- 
der, and  Kidron  retrieves 
Slow  the  damage  of  yesterday's  sunshine.* 

XV 

I  say  then, — my  song 

While  I  sang  thus,  assuring  the  monarch,  and 
ever  more  strong 

Made   a   proffer   of   good   to    console   him — he 
slowly  resumed 

His    old    motions    and   habitudes   kingly.      The 
right  hand  replumed 

His  black  locks  to  their  wonted  composure,  ad- 
justed the  swathes 

Of  his  turban,  and  see — the  huge  sweat  that 
his  countenance  bathes,  210 

2  The  winds  of  prophecy :  divine  inspiration,  dfi- 
manding  to  be  recorded  on  papyrus. 

.1  The  city  which  l>ecame  for  a  time  David's  royal 
residence. 

•  The  Kidron  Is  a  nearly  dry  water-course  at  the 
foot  of  Mt.  Olivet.  In  dry  eoimtries,  small 
streams  are  always  perceptibly  fuller  at 
morning   than  at  night. 


614 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


He  wipes  oflf  with  the  robe;    and  he  girds  now 

his  loins  as  of  yore, 
And  feels  slow  for  the  armlets  of  price,  with 

the  clasp  set  before. 
He  is  Saul,  ye  remember  in  glory, — ere  error 

had  bent 
The   broad   brow   from   the  daily   communion; 

and  still,  though  much  spent 
Be  the  life  and  the  bearing  that  front  you,  the 

same  God  did  choose 
To  receive  what  a  man  may  waste,  desecrate, 

never  quite  lose. 
So  sank  he  along  by  the  tent-prop  till,  stayed 

by  the  pile 
Of   his   armour   and   war-cloak    and    garments, 

he  leaned  there  awhile, 
And  sat  out  my  singing, — one  arm  round  the 

tent-prop,  to  raise 
His  bent  head,  and  the  other  hung  slack — till 
I  touched  on  the  praise  220 

1  foresaw  from  all  men  in  all  time,  to  the  man 

patient  there; 
And    thus    ended,    the    harp    falling    forward. 

Then  first  I  was  'ware 
That  he  sat,  as  I  say,  with  my  head  just  above 

his  vast  knees 
Which  were  thrust  out  on  each  side  around  me, 

like  oak  roots  which  please 
To  encircle  a  lamb  when  it  slumbers.     I  looked 

up  to  know 
If  the  best  I  could  do  had  brought  solace;    he 

spoke  not,  but  slow 
Lifted  up  the  hand  slack  at  his  side,  till  he 

laid  it  with  care 
Soft  and  grave,  but  in  mild  settled  will,  on  my 

brow:    through  my  hair 
The   large   fingers   were   pushed,   and    he   bent 

back  my  head,  with  kind  power — 
All  my  face  back,  intent  to  peruse  it,  as  men 
do  a  flower.  230 

Thus  held  he  me  there  with  his  great  eyes  that 

scrutinized  mine — 
And  oh,  all  my  heart  how  it  loved  him!     but 

where  was  the  sign? 
I    yearned — 'Tould    I    help    thee,    my    father, 

inventing  a  bliss, 
I  would  add,  to  that  life  of  the  past,  both  the 

future  and  this; 
I  would  give  thee  new  life  altogether,  as  good, 

ages  hence, 
As  this   moment, — had   love   but   the   warrant, 
love's  heart  to  dispensel" 

XVI 

Then  the  truth  came  upon  me.     No  harp  more 
— n<»  Honjj  more!    outbroke — 


XVII 

"I  have  gone  the  whole  round  of  creation:    I 

saw  and  I  spoke: 
I,    a    work    of   God 's   hand    for    that    purpose, 

received  in  my  brain 
And  pronounced  on  the  rest  of  his  handwork — 
returned  him  again  240 

His   creation's   approval   or   censure:     I   spoke 

as  I  saw: 
I   report,  as  a  man  may  of  God  's  work — all 's 

love,  yet  all's  law. 
Now    I    lay    down    the   judgeship    he    lent    me. 

Each  faculty  tasked 
To  perceive  him,  has  gained  an  abyss,  where  a 

dewdrop  was  asked. 
Have  I  knowledge?    confounded  it  shrivels  at 

Wisdom  laid  bare. 
Have  I  forethought?    how  purblintl,  how  blank 

to  the  Infinite  Care! 
Do     I    task     any     faculty     highest,     to     image 

success  I 
I  but  open  my  eyes, — and  perfection,  no  more 

and  no  less. 
In   the   kind   I    imagined,   full-fronts  me,   and 

God  is  seen  God 
In   the  star,  in  the  stone,   in   the  flesh,   in  the. 
soul  and  the  clod.  250' 

And    thus    looking    within    and    around    me,    I 

ever  renew 
(With  that  stoop  of  the  soul  which  in  bending 

upraises  it  too) 
The    submission    of    man 's    nothing-perfect    to 

God's  all-complete. 
As  by  each  new  obeisance  in  spirit,  I  climb  to 

his  feet. 
Yet    with    all   this   abounding    experience,   this 

deity  known, 
I   shall   dare   to   discover  some   province,   some 

gift  of  my  own. 
There's    a    faculty   pleasant   to    exercise,   hard 

to  hoodwink, 
I  am  fain  to  keep  still  in  abeyance,   (I  laugh 

as  I  think) 
Lest,  insisting  to  claim  and  parade  in  it,  wot 

ye,  I  worst 
E'en   the   Giver   in   one   gift. — Behold,   I   could 
love  if  I  durst!  260 

But   I   sink   the   pretension    as   fearing  a    man 

may  o  'ertake 
God's   own   speed   in   the   one   way   of   love:     I 

abstain  for  love's  sake. 
— What,  my  soulf   see  thus  far  and  no  farther? 

when  doors  great  and  small, 
Nine-and-ninety  flew  ope  at  our  touch,  should 

the  hundredth  appal? 
In  the  least  things  have  faith,  yet  distrust  in 
the  greatest  of  all? 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


615 


Do  I  find  love  so  full  in  my  nature,  God's  ulti- 
mate gift, 

That  I  doubt  his  own  love  can  compete  with 
itt    Here,  the  parts  shift  t 

Here,  the  creature  surpass  the  Creator, — the 
end,  what  Began! 

Would  I  fain  in  my  impotent  yearning  do  all 
for  this  man. 

And  dare  doubt  He  alone  shall  not  help  him, 
who  yet  alone  can!  270 

W^ould  it  ever  have  entered  my  mind,  the  bare 
will,  much  less  power. 

To  bestow  on  this  Saul  what  I  sang  of,  the 
marvellous  dower 

Of  the  life  he  was  gifted  and  filled  with?  to 
make  such  a  soul. 

Such  a  body,  and  then  such  an  earth  for  in- 
sphering  the  whole! 

And  doth  it  not  enter  my  mind  (as  my  warm 
tears  attest) 

These  good  things  being  given,  to  go  on,  and 
give  one  more,  the  best! 

Ay,  to  save  and  redeem  and  restore  him,  main- 
tain at  the  height 

This  perfection, — succeed  with  life 's  day-spring, 
death's  minute  of  night! 

Interpose  at  the  diflBcult  minute,  snatch  Saul 
the  mistake, 

Saul  the  failure,  the  ruin  he  seems  now, — and 
bid  him  awake  280 

From  the  dream,  the  probation,  the  prelude,  to 
find  himself  set 

Clear  and  safe  in  new  light  and  new  life, — a 
new  harmony  yet 

To  be  run,  and  continued,  and  ended — who 
knows? — or  endure! 

The  man  taught  enough  by  life 's  dream,  of  the 
rest  to  make  sure; 

By  the  pain-throb,  triumphantly  winning  in- 
tensified bliss, 

And  the  next  world 's  reward  and  repose,  by 
the  struggles  in  this. 

xvin 
"I  believe  it!      'T  is  thou,  God,  that  givest, 

't  is  I  who  receive: 
In  the  first  is  the  last,  in  thy  will  is  my  power 

to  believe. 
All's  one  gift:    thou  canst  grant  it  moreover, 

as  prompt  to  my  prayer 
As  I  breathe  out  this  breath,  as  I  open  these 

arms   to  the  air.  290 

From    thy    will    stream    the    worlds,    life    and 

nature,  thy  dread  Sabaoth:» 
/  will! — the  mere  atoms  despise  me!     Why  am 

I  not  loth 

I  The  armies  of  the  Lord. 


To  look  that,  even  that  in  the  face  toof    Why 

is  it  I  dare 
Think  but  lightly  of  such  impuissance!     What 

stops  my  despair! 
This ; —  't  is  not  what  man  Does  which  exalts 

him,  but  what  man  Would  do! 
See  the  King — I  would  help  him   but  cannot, 

the  wishes  fall  through. 
Could  I  wrestle  to  raise  him  from  sorrow,  grow 

poor  to  enrich. 
To  fill  up  his  life,  starve  my  own  out,  I  would 

— knowing  which, 
I  know  that  my  service  is  perfect.     Oh,  speak 

through  me  now! 
Would    I    suffer    for    him    that    I    love!      So 

wouldst  thou — so  wilt  thou!  300 

So   shall   crown   thee  the   topmost,   ineffablest, 

uttermost  crown — 
And  thy  love   fill  infinitude  wholly,  nor  leave 

up  nor  down 
One  spot  for  the  creature  to  stand  in!     It  is  by 

no  breath, 
Turn  of  eye,  wave  of  hand,  that  salvation  joins 

issue  with  death! 
As  thy  Love  is  discovered  almighty,  almighty 

be  proved 
Thy    power,    that    exists   with    and    for   it,    of 

being  Beloved! 
He  who  did  most,  shall  bear  most ;  the  strongest 

shall  stand  the  most  weak. 
'Tis  the  weakness  in  strength,  that  I  cry  for! 

my  flesh,  that  I  seek 
In  the  Godhead !     I  seek  and  I  find  it.    O  Saul, 

it  shall  be 
A  Face  like  my  face  that  receives  thee;    a  Man 

like  to  me,  310 

Thou  shalt  love  and  be  loved  by,  forever:     a 

Hand  like  this  hand 
Shall  throw  open  the  gates  of  new  life  to  thee! 

See  the  Christ  stand!" 

XIX 

I   know  not   too   well   how   I   found   my  way 

home  in  the  night. 
There  were  witnesses,  cohorts  about  me,  to  left 

and  to  right. 
Angels,  powers,  the  unuttered,  unseen,  the  aUve, 

the  aware: 
[  repressed,  I  got  through  them  as  hardly,  as 

strugglingly  there, 
As  a   runner  beset  by  the  populace  famished 

for  news — 
Life  or  death.    The  whole  earth  was  awakened, 

hell  loosed  with  her  crews; 
And  the  stars  of  night  beat  with  emotion,  and 

tingled  and  shot 


616 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Out  in  fire  the  strong  pain  of  pent  knowledge: 
but  I  fainted  not,  320 

For  the  Hand  still  impelled  me  at  once  and 
supported,  suppressed 

All  the  tumult,  and  quenched  it  with  quiet,  and 
holy  behest. 

Till  the  rapture  was  shut  in  itself,  and  the 
earth  sank  to  rest. 

Anon  at  the  dawn,  all  that  trouble  had  with- 
ered  from  earth — 

Not  so  much,  but  I  saw  it  die  out  in  the  day's 
tender   birth ; 

In  the  gathered  intensity  brought  to  the  gray 
of  the  hills; 

In  the  shuddering  forests'  held  breath;  in  the 
sudden  wind-thrills; 

In  the  startled  wild  beasts  that  bore  off,  each 
with  eye  sidling  still 

Though  averted  with  wonder  and  dread;  in 
the  birds  stiff  and  chill 

That  rose  heavily,  as  I  approached  tliem,  made 
stupid  with  awe:  330 

E'en  the  serpent  that  slid  away  silent, — he  felt 
the  new  law. 

The  same  stared  in  the  white  humid  faces  up- 
turned by  the  flowers; 

The  same  worked  in  the  heart  of  the  cedar  and 
moved  the  vine-bowers: 

And  the  little  brooks  witnessing  murmured,  per- 
sistent and  low. 

With  their  obstinate,  all  but  hushed  voices — 
"E'en  so,  it  is  so!  ' ' 

EVELYN   HOPE 

Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead! 

Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 
That  is  her  book-shelf,  this  her  bed; 

She  plucked  that  piece  of  geranium-flower. 
Beginning  to  die  too,  in  the  glass; 

Little  has  yet  been  changed,  I  think: 
The  shutters  are  shut,  no  light  may  pass         ^ 

Save  two  long  rays  through  the  hinge's  chink. 

Sixteen  years  old  when  she  died ! 

Perhaps  she  had  scarcely  heard  my  name; 
It  was  not  her  time  to  love;  beside, 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim. 
Duties  enough  and  little  cares, 

And  now  was  quiet,  now  astir, 
Till  Oo<I  's  hand  beckoned  unawares, — 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her.        16 

Is  it  too  late  then,  Evelyn  Hopef 
What,  your  soul  was  pure  and  true, 

The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope, 
Made  you  of  spirit,  fire  and  dew — " 


And,  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old 

And  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged  so  wide, 

Each  was  naught  to  each,  must  I  be  told? 
We  were  fellow  mortals,  naught  beside?      24 

No,  indeed  I   for  God  above 

Is  great  to  grant,  as  mighty  to  make, 
And  creates  the  love  to  reward  the  love: 

I  claim  you  still,  for  my  own  love's  sake! 
Delayed  it  may  be  for  more  lives  yet, 

Through  worlds  I  shall  traverse,  not  a  few: 
Much  is  to  learn,  much  to  forget 

Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you.  32 

But  the  time  will  come, — at  last  it  will. 

When.    Evelyn    Hope,   what    meant    (I    shall 
say) 
In  the  lower  earth,  in  the  years  long  still. 

That  body  and  soul  so  pure  and  gay? 
Why  your  hair  was  amber.  I  shall  divine. 

And    your    mouth    of    your    own    geranium 's 
red — 
And  what  you  would  do  with  me.  in  fine,      39 

In  the  new  life  come  in  the  old  one's  stead. 

I  have  lived  (I  shall  say)  so  much  since  then, 

Given  up  myself  so  many  times. 
Gained  nie  the  gains  of  various  men. 

Ransacked  the  ages,  spoiled  the  climes; 
Yet  one  thing,  one,  in  my  soul 's  full  scope, 

Either  I  missed  or  itself  missed  me: 
And  I  want  and  find  you.  Evelyn  Hope! 

What  is  the  issue?  let  us  see!  48 

I  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while! 

My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  could  hold; 
There   was  place  and  to  spare   for   the   frank 
young  smile,' 
And   the   red   young  mouth,   and   the   hair's 
young  gold. 
So,  hush, — I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to  keep : 
See.  I  shut  it  inside  the  sweet  cold  hand  I 
There,  that  is  our  secret:  go  to  sleep! 

You    will    wake,   and   remember,    and   under- 
stand. 66 

ERA  LIPPO  LIPPI* 

I  AM  poor  Wother  Lippo,  by  your  leave! 
You  need  not  clap  your  torches  to  my  face. 
Zooks.  what's  to   blame?  you  think  you  see  a 
monk! 

•  This,  like  My  Last  Duchess.  Is  another  of  Brown- 
ing's dramatic  monologues.  It  portrays  nd- 
mlrably  that  period  of  the  Italian  Uonals 
sancc  "when  men  were  growing  more  keenly 
awnke  to  the  charm  of  physical  life,  and  so- 
rietv  l>egan  to  break  ihrouKli  llie  rostralnfa  to 
whiili    It    had    long    submitted.      In    painting, 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


G17 


Wluit,    't    is   past    miduight,    aii<l   you    go    tlie  i 

rounds,  i 

Antl  here  you  catch  uie  at  an  alley  "s  end 
Where  sportive  ladies  leave  their  doors  ajar  ? 
The  Carmine's  my  cloister:  hunt  it  ui). 
Do. — harry  out,  if  you  must  show  your  zeal, 
Wliatever  rat,  there,  haps  on  his  wrong  hole, 
And  nip  each  softling  of  a  wee  white  mouse,  10 
tl'eke,  weke,  that  's  crept  to  keep  him  company! 
Alia,  you  know  your  betters!    Then,  you'll  take 
Your  hand  away  that's  fiddling  on  my  throat. 
And  please  to  know  me  likewise.     Who  am  I  ? 
Why,  one,  sir,  who  is  lodging  with  a  friend 
Three   streets  oft" — he's   a  certain  .  .  .  how   d' 

ye  call? 
Master — a     .  .  .  Cosimo  of  the  Medici, 
I'   the  house  that  cap.s  the  corner.     Boh!   you 

were  best! 
Remember  and  tell  me,  the  day  you're  hanged, 
How  you   affected  such  a  gullet 's-gripe !  20 

But  you,  sir,  it  concerns  you  that  your  knaves 
Pick  up  a  manner!  nor  discredit  you: 
Zooks,  are   we  pilchards,^   that  they  sweep  the 

streets 
And   count    fair    prize   what    comes  .into    their 

net! 
He's  .Judas  to  a  tittle,  that  man  is! 
.Tust  such  a  face!     Why,  sir,  you  make  amends. 
Lord,  I'm  not  angry!     Bid  your  hang-dogs  go 
Drink  out  this  quarter-florin  to  the  health 
Of  the   munificent   House  that  harbours  me 
(And  many  more  beside,  lads!  more  beside!)  30 
And    all's    come    square    again.      I'd    like    his 

face — 
His,  elbowing  on  his  comrade  in  the  door 
With  the  pike  and  lantern, — for  the  slave  that 

holds 
John  Baptist's  head  a-dangle  by   the  hair 
With   one    hand    ("Look   you,   now,"   as   who 

should  say) 

1  mend  a  little 

2  Mediterranean  sardines. 


the  new  spirit  was  manifested  in  the  change 
from  religious  and  symbolical  subjects — haloed 
saints  and  choiring  angels — to  portraits  and 
scenes  from  human  life  and  the  world  of  na- 
ture, or  to  religious  pictures  thoroughly  hu- 
manized. The  poem 'was  suggested  by  a  pic- 
ture of  the  "Coronation  of  the  Virgin"  (de- 
scribed in  lines  347  ff.)  which  is  in  the 
Academv  of  Fine  Arts  at  Florence  ;  the  inci- 
dents of  the  life  of  Fra  Filippo  Lippi  (1406?- 
1460)  were  obtained  from  Vasari  s  Lives  of 
the  I'aintciK.  He  was  first  a  monk,  but  he 
broke  away  from  the  Carmine,  or  Carmelite 
monastery,  and  came  under  the  patronage  of 
Cosimo  de'  Medici  the  Elder,  the  great  banker, 
patron  of  art  and  litemture,  and  practical 
ruler  of  the  Florentine  Republic.  It  is  said 
that  bis  patron  once  shut  him  up  in  his 
pal  \ce  in  order  to  restrain  his  roving  propen- 
sities and  keep  him  at  work  on  some  frescoes 
he  was  painting.  The  poem  opens  with  his 
capture  on  this  escapade  by  the  watchmen. 


An<l  Ills  weapon  in  the  other,  yet  unwiped ! 
It  's  not  your  chance  to  have  a  bit  of  chalk, 
A  wood-coal  or  the  like?  or  you  should  see; 
Yes,  I  'm  the  painter,  since  you  style  me  so. 
What,  brother  Lippo 's  doings,  up  and  down,       40 
You  know  them  and  they  take  you?  like  enough! 
I  saw  the  proper  twinkle  in  your  eye — 
'Tell  you,  I  liked  your  looks  at  very  first. 
Let 's   sit   and  set   things  straight   now,  hip   to 

haunch. 
Here's  spring  come,  and  the  nights  one  makes 

up  bands 
To  roam  the  town  and  sing  out  carnival, 
And  I've  been  three  weeks  shut  within  my  mew, 
A-painting  for  the  great  man,  saints  and  saints 
And  saints  again.     1  could  not  paint  all  night — 
Ouf !  I  leaned  out  of  window  for  fresh  air.      50 
There  came  a  hurry  of  feet  and  little  feet, 
A  sweep  of  lute  strings,  laughs,  and  whifts  of 

song,— 
Floiier  o '  the  broom, 
Take  away  love,  and  our  earth  is  a  tomh  ! 
Flower  o'  the  quince, 

I  let  Lisa  go,  and  what  good  in  life  since? 
Flower  o'  the  thyme — and  so  on.     Round  they 

went.3 
Scarce  had  they  turned  the  corner  when  a  titter 
Like   the   skipping  of   rabbits  by  moonlight, — 

three  slim  shapes. 
And  a  face  that  looked  up  .  .  .  zooks,  sir,  flesh 

and  blood,  60 

That 's  all  I  'm  made  of !     Into  shreds  it  went, 
(,'urtain  and  counterpane  and  coverlet, 
All  the  bed-furniture — a  dozen  knots, 
There  was  a  ladder!    Down  I  let  myself, 
Hands  and  feet,  scrambling  somehow,  and  so 

dropped. 
And  after  them.     I  came  up  with  the  fun 
Hard    by    Saint    Laurence,*    hail    fellow,    well 

met, — 
Flower  o'  the  rose,  ^ 

If  I've  been  merry,  what  matter  who  Jcnows? 
And  so  as  I  was  stealing  back  again  70 

To  get  to  bed  and  have  a  bit  of  sleep 
Ere  I  rise  up  to-morrow  and  go  work 
On  Jerome''  knocking  at  his  poor  old  breast 
With  his  great  round  stone  to  subdue  the  flesh, 
You  snap  me  of  the  sudden.     Ah,  I  see! 
Though  your  eye  twinkles  still,  you  shake  your 

head — 
Mine's  shaved — a  monk,  you  say — the  sting's  in 

that! 
If  Master  Cosimo  announced  himself, 
Mura's  the  word  naturally;   but  a  monk! 
Come,  what  am  I  a  beast  for?  tell  us,  now!     so 


3  I.  e.,  took  up  the  song  in  turn. 

4  The  Chjirch  of  San  Lorenzo. 

.1  St.  .Terome,  one  of  the  early  church  fathers. 


618 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


I  was  a  babj  when  mj  mother  died 

And  father  died  and  left  me  in  the  street. 

I  starved  there,  God  knows  how,  a  year  or  two 

On  fig-skins,  melon-parings,  rintls  and  shucks, 

Refuse  and  rubbish.     One  fine  frosty  day. 

My  stomach  being  empty  as  your  hat. 

The  wind  doubled  me  up  and  down  I  went. 

Old  Aunt  Lapaccia  trussed  me  with  one  hand, 

(Its  fellow  was  a  stinger  as  I  knew) 

And  so  along  the  wall,  over  the  bridge,  90 

By  the  straight  cut  to  the  convent.    Six  words 

there, 
While   I  stood   munching  my  first   bread  that 

month  : 
"So,  boy,  you're  minded,"  quoth  the  good  fat 

father, 
Wiping  his  own  mouth,  't  was  refection-time, — 
"To  quit  this  very  miserable  world? 
Will    you    renounce"  .  .  .  "the    mouthful    of 

bread?"  thought  I; 
By  no  means!     Brief,  they  made  a  monk  of  me; 
I  did  renounce  the  world,  its  pride  and  greed. 
Palace,  farm,  villa,  shop,  and  banking-house. 
Trash,  such  as  these  poor  devils  of  Medici     100 
Have  given  their  hearts  to — all  at  eight  years 

old. 
Well,  sir,  I  found  in  time,  you  may  be  sure, 
'T  was  not  for  nothing — the  good  bellyful, 
The  warm   serge   and  the  rope  that   goe«  all 

round. 
And  day-long  blessed  idleness  beside! 
"Let's  see  what  the  urchin's  fit   for" — that 

came  next. 
Not  overmuch  their  way,  I  must  confess. 
Such  a  to-do!     They  tried  me  with  their  books; 
Lord,   they'd   have   taught   me  Latin   in   pure 

waste ! 
Flower  o'  the  clove,  HO 

All  the  Latin  I  construe  is  "amo,"  I  love! 
But,  mind  you,  when  a  boy  starves  in  the  streets 
Eight  years  together,  as  my  fortune  was, 
Watching  folk's  faces  to  know  who  will  fling 
The  bit  of  half-stripped  grape-bunch  he  desires, 
And  who  will  curse  or  kick  him  for  his  pains, — 
Which  gentleman  processional*  and  fine. 
Holding  a  candle  to  the  Sacrament, 
Will  wink  and  let  him  lift  a  plate  and  catch 
The  droppings  of  the  wax  to  sell  again,  120 

Or  holla  for  the  Eighth  and  have  him  whipped, — 
How  say  It — nay,  which  dog  bites,  which  lets 

drop 
His  bone  from  the  heap  of  offal  in  the  street, — 
Why,  soul  and  sense  of  him  grow  sharp  alike, 
He  learns  the  look  of  things,  and  none  the  less 
For  admonition  from  the  hunger-pinch. 

a  taking  part  In  a  rollKlouB  procosslon   (an  at  one 

of  ttip  sncrampntK) 
7  Thi»  city  maitlsfratpn. 


I  had  a  store  of  such  remarks,  be  sure. 
Which,  after  I  found  leisure,  turned  to  use. 
I  drew  men's  faces  on  my  copy-books,  129 

Scrawled  them  within  the  antiplionary  'ss  marge. 
Joined  legs  and  arms  to  the  long  music-notes, 
Found  eyes  and  nose  and  chin  for  A's  and  B's, 
And  made  a  string  of  pictures  of  the  world 
Betwixt  the  ins  and  outs  of  verb  and  noun. 
On  the  wall,  the  bench,  the  door.     The  monks 

looked  black. 
"Nay,"  quoth  the  Prior,  "turn  him  out,  d  'ye 


In  no  wise.    Lose  a  crow  and  catch  a  lark. 
What  if  at  last  we  get  our  man  of  parts. 
We  Carmelites,  like  those  Camaldolese» 
And  Preaching  Friars,!"  to  do  our  church  up 

fine  140 

And  put  the  front  on  it  that  ought  to  be !  " 
And  hereupon  he  bade  me  daub  away. 
Thank  you!  my  head  being  crammed,  the  walls 

a  blank, 
Never  was  such  prompt   disemburdening. 
First,  every  sort  of  monk,  the  black  and  white, n 
I  drew  them,  fat  and  lean :  then,  folk  at  church, 
From  good  old  gossips  waiting  to  confess 
Their  cribsia  of  barrel-droppings,  candle-ends, — 
To  the  breathless  fellow  at  the  altar-foot. 
Fresh  from  his  murder,  safe  and  sitting  there 
With  the  little  children  round  him  in  a  row  151 
Of  admiration,  half  for  his  beard  and  half 
For  that  white  anger  of  his  victim's  son 
Shaking  a  fist  at  him  with  one  fierce  arm, 
Signing    himself    with    the    other    because    of 

Christ 
(Whose  sad  face  on  the  cross  .sees  only  this 
After  the  passion  of  a  thousand  years) 
Till  some  poor  girl,  her  apron  o'er  her  head, 
(Which  the  intense  eyes  looked  through)  came 

at  eve 
On  tiptoe,  said  a  word,  dropped  in  a  loaf,     160 
Her  pair  of  earrings  and  a  bunch  of  flowers 
(The  brute  took  growling),  prayed,  and  so  was 

gone. 

I  painted  all,  then  cried  "  'T  is  ask  and  have; 
Choose,  for  more 's  ready  I ' ' — laid  the  ladder 

flat. 
And  showed  my  covered  bit  of  cloister-wall. 
The  monks  closed  in  a  circle  and  praised  loud 
Till  checked,  taught  what  to  see  and  not  to  see, 
Being  simple  bodies, — "That's  the  very  man! 
Look  at  the  boy  who  stoops  to  pat  the  dog! 
That  woman's  like  the  Prior's  niece  who  comes 

«  A  book  of  antlphons,  or  responsive  songs. 

9  A    monastic   order    founded    by    St.    Unmiiald    at 

Camaldoll,  near  Florence. 

10  DomlnicaDH. 

II  The  Dominicans  wore  black  robes,  the  rarmelltea 

white. 
12  pilfevinKs 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


G19 


To  care  about  his  asthma:  it's  the  life!  "      171 
But   there   my   triumph 's  straw-fire   flared   and 

funked ; 
Their  betters  took  their  turn  to  see  and  say : 
The  Prior  and  the  learned  pulled  a  face 
And    stopped    all    that    in    no    time.      "How? 

what's  here? 
Quite  from  the  mark  of  painting,  bless  us  all! 
Paces,  arms,  legs,  and  bodies  like  the  true 
As  nuieh  as  pea  and  pea !  it 's  devil  's-game  I 
Your  business  is  not  to  catch  men  with  show. 
With  homage  to  the  perishable  clay,  180 

But  lift  tliem  over  it,  ignore  it  all, 
Make  them  forget  there's  such  a  thing  as  flesh. 
Your  business  is  to  paint  the  souls  of  men — 
Man 's  soul,  and  it 's  a  fire,  smoke  .  .  .  no,  it 's 

not  .  .  . 
It 's  vapour  done  up  like  a  new-born  babe — 
(In   that   shape   when   you    die   it    leaves   your 

mouthis) 
It 's  .  .  .  well,   what   matters  talking,    it 's    the 

soul! 
Give  us  no  more  of  body  than  shows  soul! 
Here's  Giotto,!-*  with  his  Saint  a-praising  God, 
That  sets  us  praising, — why  not  stop  with  him? 
Why    put    all    thoughts    of   praise   out    of    our 

head  191 

With  wonder  at  lines,  colours,  and  what  not? 
Paint  the  soul,  never  mind  the  legs  and  arms! 
Rub  all  out,  try  at  it  a  second  time. 
Oh,     that     white     smallish     female     with     the 

breasts, 
She's  just   my  niece  .  .  .  Herodias,i"'   I  would 

say, — 
Who    went    and    danced   and   got    men 's   heads 

cut  oflf! 
Have  it  all  out!"    Now,  is  this  sense,  I  a.sk? 
A  fine  way  to  paint  soul,  by  painting  body 
So  ill,  the  eye  can't  stop  there,  must  go  fur- 
ther 200 
And  can't   fare  worse!     Thus,  yellow  does  for 

white 
W^hen  M  hat  you  put  for  yellow 's  simply  black, 
And  any  sort  of  meaning  looks  intense 
When  all  beside  itself  means  and  looks  naught. 
Why  can  't  a  painter  lift  each  foot  in  turn. 
Left  foot  and  right  foot,  go  a  double  step, 
Make  his  flesh  liker  and  his  soul  more  like. 
Both  in  their  order!    Take  the  prettiest  face, 
The  Prior's  niece  .    .    .  patron-saint — is  it  so 

pretty 

13  Frequently  represented  so  in  early  paintings, 
o.  g.,  in  the  "Triumph  of  Death,"  ascribed  to 
Orcagna,  in  the  Campo  Santo  of  Pisa. 

M  Somatimes  called  "the  father  of  modern  Italian 
art"  ;  he  floMrishod  at  the  beginning  of  the 
14th  century. 

i">It  was  not  Herodias,  but  her  daughter,  Salome, 
who  danced  before  Herod  and  obtained  the 
head  of  John  the  Baptist.      See  Mntthew,  14. 


You  can't  discover  if  it  means  hope,  fear,    210 
Sorrow  or  joy?  won't  beauty  go  with  these! 
Suppose  I've  made  her  eyes  all  right  and  blue, 
Can't  I  take  breath  and  try  to  add  life's  flash, 
And  then  add   soul  and  heighten  them  three- 
fold? 
Or  say  there's  beauty  with  no  soul  at  all — 
(I  never  saw  it — put  the  case  the  same — ) 
If  you  get  simple  beauty  and  naught  else, 
You  get  about  the  best  thing  God  invents: 
That 's  somewhat :   and  you  '11  find  the  soul  you 

have  missed, 
Within  yourself,  when  you  return  him  thanks. 
"Rub  all  out!  "   Well,  well,  there's  my  life,  in 

short,  221 

And  so  the  thing  has  gone  on  ever  since. 
I  'm    grown    a    man    no     doubt,    I  've    broken 

bounds: 
You  should  not  take  a  fellow  eight  years  old 
And  make  him  swear  to  never  kiss  the  girls. 
I  'm  my  own  master,  paint  now  as  I  please — 
Having  a  friend,  you  see,  in  the  Corner-house! 
Lord,  it's  fast  holding  by  the  rings  in  front — 
Those  great  rings  serve  more  purposes  than  just 
To  plant  a  flag  in,  or  tie  up  a  horse!  230 

And  yet  the  old  schooling  sticks,  the  old  grave 

eyes 
Are  peeping  o'er  my  shoulder  as  I  work. 
The  heads  shake  still — "It's  art's  decline,  my 

son! 
You're  not  of  the  true  painters,  great  and  old; 
Brother  Angelico'sis  the  man,  you'll  find; 
Brother  Lorenzoi^   stands  his  single  peer: 
Fag  on  at  flesh,  you'll  never  make  the  third!  " 
Flower  o'   the  pine, 
Yoii    Iceep    your   mistr  .  .  .  manners,   and   I'll 

stich  to  mine! 
I  'm   not   the  third,   then :    bless   us,   they   must 

know !  240 

Don't  you  think  they're  the  likeliest  to  know, 
They  with  their  Latin?  So,  I  swallow  my  rage. 
Clench   my  teeth,   suck   my   lips   in   tight,   and 

paint 
To   please  them — sometimes   do   and  sometimes 

don 't ; 
For,  doing  most,  there 's  pretty  sure  to  come 
A  turn,  some  warm  eve  finds  me  at  my  saints — 
A  laugh,  a  cry,  the  business  of  the  world — 
(Flower  o'  the  peach. 

Death  for  ns  all,  and  his  own  life  for  each!) 
And    my    whole    soul    revolves,    the    cup    runs 


over. 


250 


The   world   and   life's   too   big  to   pass   for   a 

dream, 
And  I  do  these  wild  things  in  sheer  despite, 

18  Fra  Angellco  (l.?87-1415),  who  painted  In  the 
•?arlier  manner ;  famous  for  his  paintings  of 
angels.     Cp.  what  Busliin  says,  p.  684. 

17  Lor.^nzo  Monaco,  another  contemporary  painter. 


G20 


THE  vu:toi{Ja.\  acie 


And  play  tli©  fooleries  you  catch  me  at, 
In  pure  rage!    Tlie  old  mill-horse,  out  at  grass 
After  liard  years,  throws  up  his  stiff  lieels  so, 
Although   the   miller    does  not   preach   to    him 
The  only  good  of  grass  is  to  make  chaff. 
What    would    men    have?     Do    they   like    grass 

or  no — 
May  they  or  may  n't  they?  all  I  want's  the 

thing 
Settled  forever  one  way.     As  it  is,  260 

You   tell  too   many  lies  and  hurt  yourself; 
You  don't  like  what  you  only  like  too  much. 
You  do  like  what,  if  given  you  at  your  word, 
You  find  abundantly  detestable. 
For  me,  I  think  I  speak  as  I  was  taught ; 
I  always  see  the  garden  and  God  there 
A-making  man's  wife:   and,  my  lesson  learned. 
The  value  and  significance  of  flesh, 
I  can't  unlearn  ten  minutes  afterwards. 

You  understand  me:  I'm  a  beast,  I  know.  270 
But  see,  now — why,  I  see  as  certainly 
As  that  the  morning-star    's  about  to  shine. 
What  will  hap  some  day.     We've  a  youngster 

here 
Comes  to  our  convent,  studies  what  I  do, 
Slouches  and  stares  and  let.s  no  atom  drop: 
His    name    is    Guidiis — he    '11    not    mind    the 

monks — 
They  call  him  Hulking  Tom,  he  lets  them  talk — 
He  picks  my  practice  up — he  '11  paint  apace. 
J  hope  so — though  I  never  live  so  long, 
T     know     what 's     sure     to    follow.       You     be 

judge!  280 

You  speak  no  Latin  more  than  I,  belike; 
However,  you    're   my  man,  you    've  seen  the 

world 
—The  beauty  and  the  wonder  and  the  power. 
The  .shapes  of  things,  tneir  colours,  lights  and 

shades, 
Changes,  surprises, — and  God  made  it  all! 
— For  what?     Do  you  feel  thankful,  ay  or  no. 
For  this  fair  town's  face,  yonder  river 's  line, 
The    mountain    round    it    and    the    sky    above. 
Much   more  the   figures  of  man,  woman,  child, 
These  are  the  frame  to?  What's  it  all  about ?290 
To   be   passed   over,  despised?   or   dwelt   upon. 
Wondered  at?  oh,  this  last  of  course! — ^you  say. 
But   why  not   do  as  well  as  say, — paint  these 
Just   as  they  are,   careless   what   ertmes  of  it? 
Go<l  's  works — paint  any  one,  and  count  it  crime 
To  lot  a  truth  slip.    Don't  object,  ''His  works 
Are  here  already;  nature  is  complete: ; 
Suppose  yon  reproduce  her — ( which  you,  can 't) 


isTommaso  Gnid!,  better  known  an  Masaocio  (i.  e. 
TommasHrclo.  ••Careless  Tom"),  the  cmnt 
pioneer  of  tho  RonafHgance  period,  ann  the 
nnster  of  Flllppo  I.lppl.  not  the  pnpll. 


There's    no    advantage!    you    nnu^t    beat    her, 

then. ' ' 
For,  don't  you  mark?  we're  made  so  that  we 

love  300 

First  when  we  see  them  painted,  things  we  have 


Perhaps  a  hundred  times  nor  cared  to  see; 
And  so  they  are  better,  painted — better  to  us. 
Which  is  the  same  thing.     Art  was  given   for 

that ; 
God  uses  us  to  help  each  other  so, 
Lending    our    minds   out.      Have    you    noticed, 

now, 
Your  cullion's  hanging  face?    A  bit  of  chalk. 
And  trust  me  but  you  should,  though!      How 

much  more. 
If  I  drew  higher  things  with  the  same  truth ! 
That  were  to  take  the  Prior's  pulpit-place,     310 
Interpret  God  to  all  of  you !     Oh,  oh. 
It  makes  me   mad   to   see  what  men   shall   do 
And  we  in  our  graves!     This  world    's  no  blot 

for  us. 
Nor    blank;    it    means    intensely,    and    means 

good : 
To  find  its  meaning  is  my  meat  and  drink. 
"Ay,  but  you  don't  so  instigate  to  prayer!" 
Strikes  in  the  Prior :    ' '  w  hen  your  meaning   'a 

plain 
It   does  not   say  to   folk — remember   matins, 
Or,  mind  you  fast  next  Friday !  ' '  Why,  for  this, 
What  need  of  art  at  all?  A  skull  and  bones,  320 
Two  bits  of  stick  nailed  crosswise,  or,  what's 

best, 
A  bell  to  chime  the  hour  with,  does  as  well. 
I  painted  a  Saint  Laurenceis  six  months  since 
At  Prato,20  splashed  the  fresco  in  fine  style: 
"How  looks  my  painting,  now  the  scaffold    's 

down?" 
I    ask    a    brother:    "Hugely,"    he    returns — 
"Already   not    one   phiz   of   your   three   slaves 
Who  turn  the  Deacon  off  his  toasted  side,   . 
But    's  scratched  and   prodded  to  our  heart's 

content. 
The  pious  people  have  so  eased  their  own  330 
With  coming  to  say  prayers  there  in  a  rage: 
We  get  on  fast  to  see  the  bricks  beneath. 
Expect  another  job  this  time  next  year. 
For  pity  and  religion  grow  i'  the  crowd — 
Your  painting  serves  its  purpose!  "    Hang  tho 

fools ! 

— That  is — you  '11  not  mistake  an  idle  word 
8poke  in  a  huff  by  a  poor  monk,  God  wot. 
Tasting  the  air   this  spicy   night    which   turns 


in  A  Christian  martyr  of  the  3d  centnr.r  who  was 

roasted  alive  on  a  gridiron,  or  Iron  chair. 
20  A   town  nenr  l<^lorenee. 


ROREBT  BROWXING 


031 


The    unaccustomed    head    like    Chiauti-'i    wind 
Oh,    the    church    knows!    don't    misreport    me, 

now! 
It   *s  natural  a  poor  monk  out  of  bounds 
Should   have  his  apt   word   to   excuse  himself: 
And  harken  how  I  plot  to  make  amends. 
I    have  bethought   me:    I   shall  paint  a  piece 
.    .   .  There  's  for  you! 22     Give  me  six  months. 

then  go,  see 
Something  in   Sant'   Ambrogio 's ! 23    Bless  the 

nuns! 
They  want  a  cast  0'  my  office.24  I  shall  paint 
God    in    the    midst,    Madonna    and    her    babe, 
Ringed  by  a  bowery,  flowery  angel-brood, 
Lilies  and  vestments  and  white  faces,  sweet  350 
As  puff  on  puff  of  grated  orris-root 
When  ladies  crowd  to   Church   at   mid-summer. 
And  then  i'  the   front,   of  course   a  saint   or 

two — 
Saint  John,2'>  because  he  saves  the  Florentines. 
Saint   Ambrose,   who   puts   down   in   black   and 

white 
The   convent 's   friends   and   gives  them   a  long 

day. 
And  Job,  I  must  have  him  there  past  mistake, 
The  man  of  Uz  (and  Us  without  the  z. 
Painters    who    need    his    patience).      Well,    all 

these 
Secured  at  their  devotion,  up  shall  come       360 
Out   of  a  corner  when  you  least  expect. 
As    one   by   a   dark   stair    into   a   great   light, 
Music  and  talking,  who  but  Lippo!     I! — 
Mazed,    motionless,    and    moonstruck — I'm    the 

man! 
Back  I  shrink — ^what  is  this  I  see  and  hear? 
I,  caught  up  with  my  monk's-things  by  mistake. 
My  old  serge  gown  and  rope  that  goes  all  round. 
I,  in  this  presence,  this  pure  company! 
Where  's  a  hole,  where  's  a  corner  for  escape? 
Then  steps  a  sweet  angelic  slip  of  a  thing  370 
Forward,    puts    out    a    soft    palm — ' '  Not    so 

fast ! ' ' 
■ — Addresses  the  celestial  presence,  "nay^ 
He  made  you  and  devised  you,  after  all. 
Though  he   's  none  of  you!     Could  Saint  .Toh:, 

there  draw — 
His    camel-hair2c   jnake   up    a    painting-brush  ? 
We  come  to  brother  Lippo  for  all  that, 
Iste  perfeeit  opus!"-''  So,  all  smile — 
I  shuffle  sideways  with  my  blushing  face 
Under  the  cover  of  a  hundred  wings 

21  A  famous  vineyard  rcjrion  near  Florence. 
i>2  (Jiving  them  money. 

23  St.  Ambrose's,  a  Florentine  convent. 

24  A  stroke  of  my  skill. 

2r.  The  patron  saint  of  Florence. 

2«  S<»e  page  41   (Mattheir,  Hi,  4). 

ii7  In  prrfecit  npun  ("This  is  he  wl»o  made  it")  is 
the  inscription  on  a  scroll  in  the  painting  de- 
s(ril>ert,  indicating  the  portrait  of  I.ippl. 


Thrown    like   a  spread  of   kirtles   wlien   you're 

gay  ^      380 

And  play  hot  cockles,  all  the  doors  being  shut, 
Till,  wholly  unexpected,  in  there  pops 
The  hothead  husband!    Thus  I  scuttle  off 
To  some  safe  bench  behind,  not  letting  go 
The  palm  of  her,  the  little  lily  thing 
That  sjjoke  the  good  word  for  me  in  the  nick, 
Like   the   Prior's   niece    .     .     .    Saint   Lucy,    1 

would  say. 
And  so  all's  saved  for  me,  and  for  the  church 
A  pretty  picture  gained.   Go,  six  months  hence! 
Your    hand,    sir,    and    good-by:    no    lights,    no 

lights!  "  3fl0 

The  street    's  hushed,  and  I  know  my  own  way 

back, 
Don't  fear  me!     There    's  the  gray  beginning. 

ZookB ! 

UP   AT   A  VILLA— DOWN   IN    THE   CITY 

(as    DrSTINCmSHED    BY    AN    ITALIAN    PERSON    OF 

quality) 

Had  I  but  plenty  of  money,  money  enough  and 

to  spare. 
The  house  for  me,  no  doubt,  were  a  house  in 

the  city-square; 
Ah,  such  a  life,  such  a  life,  as  one  leads  at  the 

window  there! 

Something  to  see.  by  Bacchus,  something  to 
hear,  at  least! 

There,  the  whole  day  long,  one's  life  is  a  per- 
fect feast; 

While  up  at  a  villa  one  lives.  I  maintain  it,  no 
more  than  a  beast. 

Well  now,  look  at  our  villa !  stuck  like  the 
horn  of  a  bull 

Just  on  a  mountain-edge  as  bare  as  the  crea- 
ture's skull, 

Save  a  mere  shag  of  a  bush  with  hardly  a  leaf 
to  pull! 

— I  scratch  my  own,  sometimes,  to  see  if  the 
hair's  turned  wool.  10 

But  the  city,  oh  the  city — the  square  with  the 
houses !     Why, 

They  are  stone-faced,  white  as  a  curd,  tiiere's 
something  to  take  the  eye! 

Houses  in  four  straight  lines,  not  a  single  front 
awry; 

You  watch  who  crosses  and  gossips,  who  saun- 
ters, who  hurries  by; 

Green  blinds,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  draw 
when  the  sun  gets  high ; 

And  the  shops  with  fanciful  signs  which  are 
painted  properly. 


622 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


What  of  a  villa?     Though  winter  be   over  in 

March  by  rights, 
*Tis   May   perhaps    ere    the    snow    shall    have 

withered  well  off  the  heights: 
You've  the  brown  ploughed  land  before,  where 

the  oxen  steam  and  wheeze, 
And  the  hills  over-smoked  behind  by  the  faint 

gray  olive-trees.  20 

Is  it  better  in  May,  I  ask  you?  You've  sum- 
mer all  at  once; 

In  a  day  he  leaps  complete  with  a  few  strong 
April  suns. 

'Mid  the  sharp  short  emerald  wheat,  scarce 
risen  three  fingers  well, 

The  wild  tulip,  at  end  of  its  tube,  blows  out 
its  great  red  bell 

Like  a  thin  clear  bubble  of  blood,  for  the 
children  to  pick  and  sell. 

Is    it    ever    hot    in    the    square?      There  's    a 

fountain  to  spout  and  splash! 
In  the  shade  it  sings  and  springs:    in  the  shin'> 

such  foambows  flash 
On    the    horses    with    curling    fish-tails,    that 

prance  and  paddle  and  pash 
Bound  the  lady  atop  in  her  conch — fifty  gazers 

do  not  abash, 
Though  all  that  she  wears  is  some  weeds  round 

her  waist  in  a  sort  of  sash.  30 

All  the  year  long  at  the  villa,  nothing  to  see 

though  you  linger. 
Except   yon   cypress    that    points   like    death's 

lean  lifted  forefinger. 
Some  think  fireflies  pretty,  when  they  mix  i'  the 

corn  and  mingle. 
Or  thrid  the  stinking  hemp  till  the  stalks  of  it 

seem  a-tingle. 
Late  August  or  early  September,  the  stunning 

cicala  is  shrill, 
And  the  bees  keep  their  tiresome  whine  round 

the  resinous  firs  on  the  hill. 
Enough  of  the  seasons, — I  spare  you  the  months 

of  the  fever  and  chill. 

Ere  you  open  your  eyes  in  the  city,  the  blessed 
church-bells  begin: 

No  sooner  the  bells  leave  off  than  the  diligence 
rattles  in : 

You  get  the  pick  of  the  news,  and  it  costs  you 
never  a  pin.  40 

By  and  by  there's  the  travelling  doctor  gives 
pills,  lets  blood,  draws  teeth: 

Or  the  Puldnelloi-trumpet  breaks  up  the  mar- 
ket beneath. 

At  the  post-office  such  a  scene-picture — the  new 
play,  piping  hot! 

1  Kn^llxh  "Punch"  f  Punch  and  Judy  nhow). 


And   a  notice  how,   only   this  morning,   three 

liberal  thieves  were  shot.2 
Above  it,  behold  the  Arclibishop  's  most  fatherly 

of  rebukes. 
And  beneath,  with  his  crown  and  his  lion,  some 

little  new  law  of  the  Duke's! 
Or  a  sonnet  with  flowery  marge,  to  the  Eev- 

erend  Don  So-and-so, 
Who     is     Dante,     Boccaccio,     Petrarca,     Saint 

Jerome,  and  Cicero. 
"And  moreover,"   (the  sonnet  goes  rhyming,) 

"the  skirts  of  Saint  Paul  has  reached, 
Having    preached    us    those    six    Lent-lectures 

more  unctuous  than  ever  he  preache<l. ' '  50 
Noon  strikes, — here  sweeps  the  procession!    our 

Lady  borne  smiling  and  smart 
With    a    pink    gauze    gown    all    spangles,    and 

seven  swords  stuck  in  her  heart! 
Bang -whang-whang    goes    the    drum,    tootle-te- 

tootle  the  fife; 
No  keeping  one's  haunches  still:    it's  the  great- 
est pleasure  in  life. 

But    bless  you,    it  's    dear — it  's   dear!     fowls, 

wine,  at  double  the  rate. 
They  have  clapped  a  new  tax  upon  salt,  and 

what  oil  pays  passing  the  gate 
It's   a   horror  to   think  of.     And   so,  the  villa 

for  me,  not  the  city! 

Beggars  can  scarcely  be  choosers:    but  still — 

ah,  the  pity,  the  pity! 
Look,   two   and   two   go   the   priests,   then   tlie 

monks  with  cowls  and  sandals. 
And    the    penitents    dressed    in    white    shirts, 

a-holding  the  yellow  candles;  60 

One,  he  carries  a  flag  up  straight,  and  another 

a  cross  with  handles. 
And  the  Duke 's  guard  brings  up  the  rear,  for 

the  better  prevention  of  scandals: 
Bang -whang -whang    goes    the    drum,    tootle-te- 

tootle  the  fife. 
Oh,  a  day  in  the  city-square,  there  ia  no  such 

pleasure  in  life! 

MEMORABILIA* 

Ah,  did  you  once  see  Shelley  plain. 
And  did  he  stop  and  speak  to  you, 

And  did  you  speak  to  him  again? 
How  strange  it  seems  and  new! 

2  Thoro  is  subtle  Irony  In  making  this  aonllPRS 
civilian  l>etray  his  childiBh  contempt  for  the 
lilM>ral  or  republican  party. 

♦  Once,  in  a  bookstore.  Browning  overheard  some 
one  mention  the  fact  that  he  had  once  seen 
Shelley.  Browning  was  a  youthful  admirer 
of  Shelley,  having  received  from  certain  vol- 
umes of  him  and  Keats — a  chance-found 
"eagle-feather."  as  it  were. — some  of  his 
earliest  inspiration.  On  Keats,  .see  the  next 
po«>m. 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


623 


But  you  were  living  before  that, 

And  also  you  are  living  after; 
And   the   memory   I   started   at — 

^ly  starting  moves  your  laughter  I 

I  crossed  a  moor,  with  a  name  of  its  own 
And  a  certain  use  in  the  world  no  douht. 

Yet  a  hand 's  breadth  of  it  shines  alone 
'Mid  the  blank  miles  round  about: 

For  there  I  picked  up  on  the  heather 
And  there  I  put  inside  my  breast 

A  moulted  feather,  an  eagle- feather! 
Well,  I  forget  the  rest. 

POPULARITY 

Stand  still,  true  poet  that  you  are!  t 
I  know  you;    let  me  try  and  draw  you. 

Some  night  you'll  fail  us;  when  afar 
You  rise,  remember  one  man  saw  you, 

Knew  you,  and  named  a  star! 

My  star,  God's  glow-worm!     Why  extend 
That  loving  hand  of  his  which  leads  you, 

Yet  locks  you  safe  from  end  to  end 

Of  this  dark  world,  unless  he  needs  you. 

Just  saves  your  light  to  spend?  10 

His  clenched  hand  shall  unclose  at  last, 
1  know,  and  let  out  all  the  beauty: 

My  poet  holds  the  future  fast, 
Accepts  the  coming  ages'  duty, 

Their  present  for  this  past. 

That  day  the  earth's  feast-master's  brow 
Shall  clear,  to  God  the  chalice  raising; 

' '  Others  give  best  at  first,  but  thou 
Forever  set'st  our  table  praising, 

Keep  'st  the  good  wine  till  now !  "  20 

Meantime,  Til  draw  you  as  you  stand, 
With  few  or  none  to  watch  and  wonder: 

I  '11  say — a  fisher,  on  the  sand 
By  Tyre  the  old,  with  ocean-plunder, 

A  netful,  brought  to  land. 

Who  has  not  heard  how  Tyrian  shells 
Enclosed  the  blue,  that  dye  of  dyes 

t  This  poet  Is  not  necessarily  Keats,  but  Keats 
is  a  type  of  the  great  man  who,  missiag 
popularity  in  his  own  life,  dies  obscurely — 
lilce  the  ancient  ol)scurf  discoverer  of  the 
murex.  the  fish  whose  precious  purple  dyes 
made  the  fortune  of  many  a  mere  trader  or 
artis.in  who  came  after  him.  (Without  In- 
Uraatin;:;  for  a  moment  that  Tennyson  was  a 
mere  artisan,  it  may  he  freely  actcnowledged 
that  much  of  his  popularity.  In  which  at  this 
time.  1855,  he  quite  exceeded  Browning,  was 
due  to  qualities  which  he  derived  from  Keats.) 


Whereof  one  drop  worked  miracles. 
And  coloured  like  Astarte'st  eyes 
Raw  silk  the  merchant  sells? 


30 


And  each  bystander  of  them  all 
Could  criticise,  and  quote  tradition 

How  depths  of  blue  sublimed  some  palls 

— To  get  which,  pricked  a  king's  ambition; 

Worth  sceptre,  crown  and  ball.s 

Yet  there  's  the  dye,  in  that  rough  mesh. 
The  sea  has  only  just  o 'er-whispered ! 

Live  whelks,  each  lip's   beard   dripping  fresh. 
As  if  they  still  the  water's  lisp  heard 

Through  foam  the  rock-weeds  thresh.  40 

Enough  to  furnish  Solomon 

Such   hangings  for  his  cedar-house. 

That,  when  gold-robed  he  took  the  throne 
In  that  abyss  of  blue,  the  Spouse* 

Might  swear  his  presence  shone. 

Most  like  the  centre-spike  of  gold 

Which  burns  deep  in  the  bluebell's  womb 

What  time,  with  ardours  manifold. 
The  bee  goes  singing  to  her  groom. 

Drunken  and  overbold.  60 

Mere  eonchs!    not  fit  for  warp  or  woof! 

Till  cunning  come  to  pound  and  squeeze 
And  clarify, — refine  to  proof 

The  liquor  filtered  by  degrees. 
While  the  world  stands  aloof. 

And  there's  the  extract,  flasked  and  fine. 

And  priced  and  salable  at  last! 
And  Hobbs,  Nobbs,  Stokes  and  Nokea  combine 

To  paint  the  future  from  the  past, 
Put  blue  into  their  line.»  60 

Hobbs  hints  blue, — straight  he  turtle  eats: 
Nobbs  prints  blue, — claret  crowns  his  cup: 

Xokes  outdares  Stokes  in  azure  feats, — 
Both  gorge.    Who  fished  the  murex  upf 

What  porridge  had  John  Keats? 

THE  PATRIOT* 

AX  OLD  .STORY. 

It  was  roses,  roses,  all  the  way. 

With  myrtle  mixed  in  my  path  like  mad : 
The  house-roofs  seemed  to  heave  and  sway. 

The  church-spires  flamed,  such  flags  they  had, 
A  year  ago  on  this  very  day. 

1  The   Syrian  Aphrodite. 

2  coronation    robe 

8  The    trolden    orb   borne   with    the   sceptre   as   em- 
blem  of  sovereignty. 

4  The  Soiiij  of  HoloiHOH.  v,  i. 

5  I.  e.,  aspire  to  the  aristocracy. 

•  The  poem  is  purely  dramatic,  not  historical. 


r.34 


THE  VICTOEIAN  AGE 


The  air  broke  into  a  mist  with  bells, 

The   oM    walls    rocked    with    the    crowd    and 
cries. 
Had  I  said,  "Good  folk,  mere  noise  repels — 

But  give  me  your  sun  from  yonder  skies ! ' ' 

They    had    answered,    "And    afterward,    what 

else!"  10 

Alack,  it  was  I  who  leaped  at  the  sun 
To  give  it  my  loving  friends  to  keep! 

Naught  man  could  do,  have  I  left  undone: 
And  you  see  my  harvest,  what  I  reap 

This  very  day,  now  a  year  is  run. 

There's  nobody  on  the  house-tops  now — 
Just  a  palsied  few  at  the  windows  set; 

For  the  best  of  the  sight  is,  all  allow, 
At  the  Shambles'  Gate — or,  better  yet. 

By  the  very  scaffold 's  foot,  I  trow.  20 

I  go  in  the  rain,  and,  more  than  needs, 
A  rope  cuts  both  my  wrists  behind ; 

And  1  think,  by  the  feel,  my  forehead  bleeds. 
For  they  fling,  whoever  has  a  mind. 

Stones  at  me  for  my  year 's  misdeeds. 

Thus  I  entered,  and  thus  I  go! 

In  triumphs,  people  have  dropped  down  dead. 
"Paid  by  the  world,  what  dost  thou  owe 

Me?" — God  might  question;    now  instead, 
'T  is  God  shall  repay:    I  am  safer  so.  30 

"CHILDE  BOLAND  TO  THE  DABK 
TOWER  CAME"* 

My  first  thought  was,  he  lied  in  every  word, 
That  hoary  cripple,  with  malicious  eye 
Askance  to  watch  the  working  of  his  lie 
On  mine,  and  mouth  scarce  able  to  afford 
Suppression  of  the  glee,  that  pursed  and  scored 
Its  edge,  at  one  more  victim  gained  thereby. 

What  else  should  he  be  set  for,  with  his  staff? 
What,  save  to  waylay  with  his  lies,  ensnare 
All    travellers    who    might    find    him    poste<l 
there, 
And  ask  the  road?     I  guessed  what  skull-like 
laugh  10 

Would     break,    what    crutch     'gin    write    my 
epitaph 
For  pastime  in  the  dusty  thoroughfare, 

•  Thp  titio   Is  a   llnp  of  Edgnr's  sonpr.   Kinp  Lear, 
III.    Iv.    187.     "Chlldo"   Is  an   old   titlo   for  a 
youth   of  noble  birth.     Them  has  boon   much 
diKciiHsion     over     the    qupstlon     whether     the  j 
knif^ht'H  pilgrimage,  which   Ih  hero   so   vividly  i 
and  yet  ho  m.vRtically  portrAyed.  is  allegorical  j 
or   not.      DoiibtlesH    there   18   no   elaborate    nl-  I 
legory    in    It.    though    there    may    well    he    a  | 
moral-    Komething   like  conxtancy   to  an  ideal,  i 
Ttrownlng  admitted.  ! 


If  at  his  counsel  I  should  turn  aside 

Into  that  ominous  tract  which,  all  agree. 
Hides  the  Dark  Tower.     Yet  acquiescingly 
1  did  turn  as  he  pointed:    neither  pride 
Nor  hope  rekindling  at  the  end  descried, 
So  much  as  gladness  that  some  end  might  be. 

For,  what  with  my  whole  world-wide  wandering, 

What    with    my    search    drawn    out    through 

years,  my  hope  20 

Dwindled  into  a  ghost  not  fit  to  cope 

With     that    obstreperous    joy     success    would 

bring,— 
I  hardly  tried  now  to  rebuke  the  spring 

My  heart  made,  finding  failure  in  its  scope. 

As  when  a  sick  man  very  near  to  death 

Seems  dead  indeed,  and  feels  begin  and  end 

The  tears,  and  takes  the  farewell  of  each  friend, 

And  hears  one  bid  the  other  go,  draw  breath 

Freelier  outside,  ("since  all  is  o'er,"  he  saith. 

"And    the    blow    fallen    no    grieving    can 

amend;")  30 

While  some  discuss  if  near  the  other  graves 
Be  room  enough  for  this,  and  when  a  day 
Suits  best  for  carrying  the  corpse  away, 

With    care    about    the    banners,    scarves    and 
staves : 

And  still  the  man  hears  all,  and  only  craves 
He  may  not  shame  such  tender  love  and  stay. 

Thus,  I  had  so  long  suffered  in  this  quest, 
Heard  failure  prophesied  so  oft,  been  writ 
So  many  times  among  * '  The  Band ' ' — to  wit 
The  knights  who  to  the  Dark   Tower's  search 
addressed  40 

Their  steps — that  just  to  fail  as  they,  seemed 
best. 
And  all  the  doubt  was  now — should  I  be  fit? 

So,  quiet  as  despair,  I  turned  from  him. 
That  hateful  cripple,  out  of  his  highway 
Ihto  the  path  he  pointed.     All  the  day 
Had  been  a  dreary  one  at  best,  and  dim 
Was  settling  to  its  close,  yet  shot  one  grim 
Red  leer  to  see  the  plain  catch  its  estray.  ;  ;' 

For  mark!    no  sooner  was  I  fairly  found 
Pledged  to  the  plain,  after  a  pace  or  two,    60 
Than,  pausing  t6  throw  backward  a  last  view 

O'er  the  safe  road,    'twas  gone;     gray  plain 
all  round : 

Nothing  but  plain  to  the  horizon's  bound. 
I  might  go  on;    naught  else  remained  to  do. 

So,  on  T  went.     T  think  I  never  saw 

Such  starved  ignoble  nature;   nothing  throve: 
Fftr  flowers — as  well  expect  a  cedar  grove! 


ROBERl   BROWNING 


625 


But  cockle,  spurge,  according  to  their  law 
Might  propagate  their  kind,  with  none  to  awe, 
You'd   think:     a  burr   had   been   a   treasure 
trove.  60 

No!    penury,  inertness  and  grimace, 

Jn  some  strange  sort,  were  the  land's  portion. 

"See 
Or  shut  your  eyes,"  said  Nature  peevishly, 
"It  nothing  skills :i  I  cannot  help  my  case: 
'T  is  the  Last  Judgment 's  fire  must  cure  this 
place, 
Calcine  its  clods  and  set  my  prisoners  free. ' ' 

If  there  pushed  any  ragged  thistle-stalk 
Above  its  mates,  the  head  was  chopped;    the 

bents2 

Were  jealous  else.     What  made  those  holes 

and  rents 

In  the  dock's  harsh  swarth  leaves,  bruised  as 

to  balk  70 

All  hope  of  greenness!    'tis  a  brute  must  walk 

Pashing  their  life  out,  with  a  brute  "s  intents. 

As  for  the  grass,  it  grew  as  scant  as  hair 

In  leprosy;    thin  dry  blades  pricked  the  mud 
Which   underneath   looked   kneaded   up    with 
blood. 
One  stiff  blind  horse,  his  every  bone  a-stare. 
Stood  stupefied,  however  he  came  there: 

Thrust  out  past  service  from  the  devil's  stud! 

Alive?   he  might  be  dead  for  aught  I  know, 
With    that    red    gaunt    and    coUopeds    neck 
a-strain,  80 

And  shut  eyes  underneath  the  rusty  mane; 

Seldom  went  such  grotesqueness  with  such  woe; 

I  never  saw  a  brute  I  hated  so; 

He  must  be  wicked  to  deserve  such  pain. 

I  shut  my  eyes  and  turned  them  on  my  heart. 

As  a  man  calls  for  wine  before  he  fights. 

I  asked  one  draught  of  earlier,  happier  sights, 
Ere  fitly  I  could  hope  to  play  my  part. 
Think  first,  fight  afterwards — the  soldier's  art: 

One  taste  of  the  old  time  sets  all  to  rights. 

Not  it !    I  fancied  Cuthbert  's  reddening  face  91 
Beneath  its  garniture  of  curly  gold. 
Dear  fellow,  till  I  almost  felt  him  fold 
An  arm  in  mine  to  fix  me  to  the  place, 
That  way  he  used.     Alas,  one  night's  disgrace! 
Out  went  my  heart 's  new  fire  and  left  it  cold. 

Giles  then,  the  soul  of  honour — there  he  stands 
Frank  as  ten  years  ago  when  knighted  first. 


1  avails  nothing 
3  ridged 


2  grass  stalk^^ 


What  honest  man  should  dare   (he  said)    he 
durst. 
Good — but  the  scene  shifts — faugh !    what  hang- 
man hands  100 
Pin  to  his  breast  a  parchment?    His  own  bands 
Read  it.     Poor  traitor,  spit  upon  and  curst! 

Better  this  present  than  a  past  like  that; 

Back  therefore  to  my  darkening  path  again! 

No  sound,  no  sight  as  far  as  eye  could  strain. 
Will  the  night  send  a  howlet  or  a  bat? 
I  asked:    when  something  on  the  dismal  flat 

Came  to  arrest  my  thoughts  and  change  their 
train. 

A  sudden  little  river  crossed  my  path 

As  unexpected  as  a  serpent  comes.  HO 

No  sluggish  tide  congenial  to  the  glooms; 

This,  as  it  frothed  by,  might  have  been  a  bath 

For  the  fiend  's  glowing  hoof — to  see  the  wrath 

Of  its  black  eddy  bespate*  with  flakes  and 

spumes. 

So  petty,  yet  so  spiteful!     All  along, 

Low  scrubby  alders  kneeled  down  over  it; 

Drenched  willows  flung  them  headlong  in  a  fit 

Of  mute  despair,  a  suicidal  throng: 

The  river  which  had  done  them  all  the  wrong, 

Whate  'er   that    was,    rolled   by,   deterred   no 

whit.  120 

Which,    while    I    forded, — good    saints,    how    I 
feared 
To  set  my  foot  upon  a  dead  man 's  cheek. 
Each  step,  or  feel  the  spear  I  thrust  to  seek 

For  hollows,  tangled  in  his  hair  or  beard! 

— It  may  have  been  a  water-rat  I  speared. 
But,  ugh,  it  sounded  like  a  baby's  shriek. 

Glad  was  T  when  I  reached  the  other  bank. 

Now  for  a  better  country.    Vain  presage! 

Who  were  the  strugglers,  what  war  did  they 
wage, 
Whose  savage  trample  thus  could  pad  the  dank 
Soil  to  a  plash?     Toads  in  a  poisoned  tank,    131 

Or  wild-cats  in  a  red-hot  iron  cage — 

The   fight    must   so  have   seemed   in    that    fell 
cirque. 
What  penned  them  there,  with  all  the  plain  to 

choose  ? 
No  footprint  leading  to  that  horrid  mews, 
None  out  of  it.     Mad  brewage  set  to  work 
Their  brains,   no  doubt,  like  galley-slaves  the 
Turk 

•  That  is,  bespit,  bespattered :  from  the  archaic 
bespete.  The  rather  unusual  diction  employed 
throughout  the  poem  helps  to  hoighten  Its 
grotesque  character. 


626 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Pits  for  his  pastime,  Christians  against  Jews. 

And  more  than  that — a  furlong  on— why,  tlwre ! 

What    bad    use    was    that    engine    for,    that 
wheel,  140 

Or  brake,  not  wheel — that  harrow  fit  to  reel 
Men's  bodies  out  like  silk?   with  all  the  air 
Of  Tophet'si  tool,  on  earth  left  unaware. 

Or  brought  to  sharpen  its  rusty  teeth  of  steel. 

Then  came  a  bit  of  stubbed  ground,  once  a 
wood, 
Next  a  marsh,  it  would  seem,  and  now  mere 

earth 
Desperate  and   done  with:    (so  a  fool  finds 
mirth. 
Makes  a  thing  and  then  mars  it,  till  his  mood 
Changes  and  off  he  goes!)  within  a  rood — 
Bog,  clay  and  rubble,  sand  and  stark  black 
dearth.  160 

Now  blotches  rankling,  coloured  gay  and  grim, 
Now    patches    where    some    leanness    of    the 

soil 's 
Broke  into  moss  or  substances  like  boils; 
Then  came  some  palsied  oak,  a  cleft  in  him 
Like  a  distorted  mouth  that  splits  its  rim 
Gaping  at  death,  and  dies  while  it  recoils. 

And  just  as  far  as  ever  from  the  end! 

Naught    in    the    distance    but    the    evening, 

naught 
To    point    my    footstep    further!      At    the 
thought, 
A  great  black  bird,  Apollyon  's2  bosom-friend. 
Sailed   past,   nor   beat  his   wide  wing  dragon- 
penneds  161 

That  brushed  my  cap — ^perchance  the  guide  I 
sought. 

For,  looking  up,  aware  I  somehow  grew, 
'Spite  of  the  dusk,  the  plain  had  given  place 
All  round  to  mountains — with  such  name  to 
grace 
Mere  ugly  heights  and  heaps  now  stolen  in  view. 
How    thus    they    had    surprised    me, — solve    it, 
you! 
How  to  get  from  them  was  no  clearer  case. 

Yet  half  T  seemed  to  recognize  some  trick 
Of    mischief    happened    to    me,    God    knows 
when —  170 

In  a  bad  dream  perhaps.    Here  ended,  then, 
Progress  this  way.     When,  in  the  very  nick 
Of  giving  up,  one  time  more,  came  a  click 
As  when  a  trap  shuts — you  're  inside  the  den ! 

1  boll's  -J  Satan's 

3  with  pinluuij  like  u  dragon's 


Burningly  it  came  on  me  all  at  once. 

This  was  the  place!    tJiose  two  hills  on  the 

right, 
Crouched  like  two  bulls  lucked  horu  in  horn 
in  fight; 
While  to  the  left,  a  tall  scalped  mountain   .   .   . 

Dunce, 
Dotard,  a-dozing  at  the  very  nonce,* 
After  a  life  spent  training  for  the  sight!     180 

What  in  the  midst  lay  but  the  Tower  itself! 

The  round  squat  turret,  blind  as  the  fool's 
heart, 

Built  of  brown  stone,  without  a  counterpart 
In  the  whole  world.  The  tempest 's  mocking  elf 
Points  to  the  shipman  thus  the  unseen  shelf 

He  strikes  on,  only  when  the  timbers  start. 

Not  see?   because  of  night  perhaps? — why,  day 
Came  back  again  for  that!    before  it  left 
The  dying  sunset  kindled  through  a  cleft: 
The  hills,  like  giants  at  a  hunting,  lay,       190 
Chin  upon  hand,  to  see  the  game  at  bay, — 
' '  Now    stab    and    end    the    creature — to   the 
heft!" 

Not  hear?  when  noise  was  everywhere!  it  tolled 
Increasing  like  a  bell.    Names  in  my  ears. 
Of  all  the  lost  adventurers  my  peers, — 
How  such  a  one  was  strong,  and  such  was  bold. 
And  such  was  fortunate,  yet  each  of  old 
Lost,  lost!    one  moment  knelled  the  woe  of 
years. 

There  they  stood,  ranged  along  the  hillsides, 
met 
To  view  the  last  of  me,  a  living  frame      200 
For  one  more  picture!  in  a  sheet  of  flame 
I  saw  them  and  I  knew  them  all.     And  yet 
Dauntless  the  slug-horn^  to  my  lips  I  set. 
And    blew:      "Childe   Roland   to    the   Dark 
Tower  came." 

BABBI  BEN  EZRA* 

Grow  old  along  with  me! 

The  best  is  yet  to  be, 

The  last  of  life,  for  wliich  the  first  was  made: 

Our  times  are  in  his  hand 

4  critical  moment 

0  Not  properly  the  name  of  a  horn,  If  the  word 
Is  a  corruption  of  "slogan."  It  was  fliiis 
misused  by  Chatterton  fretinently.  and  Brown- 
ing may  have  obtained  it  from  that  source. 

*  There  was  a  certain  Rabbi.  Ben  Ezra  (or  Aben- 
ezra,  or  Ibn  Ezra),  who  was  a  great  sdiolar 
and  theologian  of  the  twelfth  century,  lie 
was  born  at  Toledo  and  traveled  widely, 
dwelling  at  Rome,  I^ndon.  Palestine,  and  else- 
where. Browning  here  mnkes  him  the  mouth- 
piece of  a  noblt  philosophy. 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


627 


Who  saith,  "A  whole  I  planned, 
Youth  shows  but  half:    trust  God:    see  all,  nor 
be  afraid ! ' ' 

Not  that,  amassing  flowers, 
Youth  sighed,  ' '  Which  rose  make  ours. 
Which  lily  leave  and  then  as  best  recall  ? ' ' 
Not  that,  admiring  stars,  10 

It  yearned,  ' '  Nor  Jove,  nor  Mars ; 
Mine    be    some    figured    flame    which    blends, 
transcends  them  all!  " 

Not  for  such  hopes  and  fearst 

Annulling  youth's  brief  years. 

Do  I  remonstrate:    folly  wide  the  mark! 

Rather  I  prize  the  doubtt 

Low  kinds  exist  without. 

Finished  and  finite  clods,  untroubled  by  a  spark. 

Poor  vaunt  of  life  indeed, 

Were  man  but  formed  to  feed  20 

On  joy.  to  solely  seek  and  find  and  feast: 
Such  feasting  ended,  then 
As  sure  an  end  to  men: 

Irks  carei  the  erop-full  bird!    Frets  doubt  the 
maw-crammed  beast  t 

Rejoice  we  are  allied 
To  that  which  doth  provide 
And  not  partake,  effect  and  not  receive! 
A  spark  disturbs  our  clod; 
Nearer  we  hold  of  God 

Who  gives,  than  of  his  tribes  that  take,  I  must 
believe.  30 

Then,  welcome   each  rebuff 
That  turns  earth 's  smoothness  rough. 
Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand  but  go! 
Be  our  joys  three-parts  pain! 
Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain; 
Learn,    nor    account    the  pang;     dare,    never 
grudge  the  throe! 

For  thence, — a  paradox 
Which  comforts  while  it  mocks, — 
Shall  life  succeed  in  that  it  seems  to  fail: 
What  I  aspired  to  be,  40 

And  was  not,  comforts  me: 
A  brute  I  might  have  been,  but  would  not  sink 
i'  the  scale. 

What  is  he  but  a  brute 
Whose  flesh  has  soul  to  suit, 

1  Subject  of  "irks." 

1 1,  e.,  such  as  those  just  mentioned,  which  seem 

to  make  youth  ineffectual. 
t  Supply    "that."      This    is    exactly    the    thought 

which  Tennyson  had  already  expressed  in  In 

.Vcmorfam,  XXVII. 


Whose   spirit   works  lest   arms  and   legs  want 

play? 
To  man,  propose  this  test — 
Thy  body  at  its  best, 
How  far  can  that  project  thy  soul  on  its  lone 

wayt 

Yet  gifts  should  prove  their  use: 
I  own  the  Past  profuse  50 

Of  power  each  side,  perfection  every  turn: 
Eyes,  ears  took  in  their  dole, 
Brain  treasured  up  the  whole; 
Should  not  the  heart  beat  once  * '  How  good  to 
live  and  learn"? 

Not  once  beat  "Praise  be  thine! 
I  see  the  whole  design, 

I,  who  saw  power,  see  now  Love  perfect  too; 
Perfect   I  call  thy  plan: 
Thanks  that  I  was  a  man! 
Maker,   remake,   complete, — I   trust   what   thou 
Shalt  do!"  60 

For  pleasant  is  this  flesh; 
Our  soul,  in  its  rose-mesh 

Pulled  ever  to  the  earth,  still  yearns  for  rest : 
Would  we  some  prize  might  hold 
To  match  those  manifold 

Possessions  of  the  brute, — gain  most,  as  we  did 
best! 

Let  us  not  always  say, 

' '  Spite  of  this  flesh  to-day 

I  strove,  made  head,  gained  ground  upon  the 

whole!" 
As  the  bird  wings  and  sings,  70 

Let  us  cry,  "All  good  things 
Are  ours,  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more,  now,  than 

flesh  helps  soul ! ' ' 

Therefore  I  summon  age 
To  grant  youth  's  heritage. 

Life's  struggle  having  so  far  reached  its  term:- 
Thence  shall  I  pass,  approved 
A  man,  for  aye  removed 

From  the  developed  brute;   a  God  though  in  the 
germ. 

And  I  shall  thereupon 

Take  rest,  ere  I  be  gone  80 

Once  more  on  my  adventure  brave  and  new: 

Fearless  and  unperplexed. 

When  I  wage  battle  next, 

What  weapons  to  select,  what  armour  to  indue.i 

Youth  ended,  I  shall  try 
My  gain  or  loss  thereby; 

1  put  on 


G28 


THE  VICTOKIAN  AGE 


Leave  the  fire  ashes,  what  survives  is  gold : 
And  I  shall  weigh  the  same, 
Give  life  its  praise  or  blame: 
Young,  all  lay  in  dispute;  I  shall  know,  being 
old.  90 

For  note,  when  evening  shuts, 
A  certain  moment  cuts 
The  deed  off,  calls  the  glory  from  the  gray: 
A  whisper  from  the  west 
Shoots — "Add  this  to  the  rest, 
Take  it  and  try  its  worth:    here  dies  another 
day. ' ' 

So,  still  within  this  life. 
Though  lifted  o'er  its  strife, 
Let  me  discern,  compare,  pronounce  at  last, 
' '  This  rage  was  right  i '  the  main,  100 

That  acquiescence  vain: 

The  Future  I  may  face  now  1  have  proved  the 
Past." 

For  more  is  not  reserved 
To  man,  with  soul  just  nerved 
To  act  to-morrow  what  he  learns  to-day: 
Here,  work  enough  to  watch 
The  Master  work,  and  catch 
Hints  of  the  proper  craft,  tricks  of  the  tool's 
true  play. 

As  it  was  better,  youth 

Should  strive,  through  acts  uncouth,  110 

Toward   making,  than  repose  On  aught   found 

made: 
So,  better,  age,  exempt 
From  strife,  should  know,  than  tempt 
Further.     Thou  waitedst  age:    wait  death  nor 

be  afraid! 

Enough  now,  if  the  Sight 

And  Good  and  Infinite 

Be  named  here,  as  thou  callest  thy  hand  thine 

own. 
With  knowledge  absolute, 
Subject  to  no  dispute  'tr* '>*• 

From   fools  that  crowded   youth,  noV  let  thee 

feel  alone.  120 

Be  there,  for  once  and  all. 
Severed  great  minds  from  small, 
Announced  to  each  his  station  in  the  Past! 
Was  1,2  the  world  arraigned, 
Were  tbey,2  my  soul  disdained, 
Right  f     Let  age  speak  the  truth  and  give  us 
peace  nt  lastf 

■i  Knpply  "whom." 


Kow,  who  shall  arbitrate! 
Ten  men  love  what  I  hate. 
Shun  what  1  follow,  slight  what  I  receive; 
Ten,  who  in  ears  and  eyes  130 

Match  me;    we  all  surmise, 
They  this  thing,  and  I  that :    whom  shall  my 
soul  believe? 

Not  on  the  vulgar  mass 

Called  "work"  must  sentence  pass," 

Things   done,   that   took  the  eye  and   had  the 

price; 
O'er  which,  from  level  stand. 
The  low  world  laid  its  hand. 
Found  straightway  to  its  niiiul,  eoukl  value  in 

a  trice: 

But  all,  the  world  's  coarse  thumb 
And  finger  failed  to  plumb,  110 

So  passed  in  making  up  the  main  account; 
All  instincts  immature. 
All  purposes  unsure. 

That  weighed  not  as  his  work,  yet  swelled  the 
man's  amount: 

Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed 

Into  a  narrow  act. 

Fancies     that     broke     through     language     and 

escaped ; 
All  I  could  never  be, 
All,  men  ignored  in  me. 
This,   1   was   worth    to   God,   whose   wheel   the 

pitcher  shaped.  150 

Ay,  note  that  Potter's  wheel, 

Tljat  metaphor!    and  feel 

Why    time    spins    fast,    why    passive    lies    our 

clay, — 
Thou,  to  whom  fools  propound, 
When  the  wine  makes  its  round, 
"Since  life  fleets,  all  is  change;    the  Past  gone, 

seize  to-day !  '  '* 

Fool!     All  that  is,  at  all, 

Lasts  ever,  past  recall; 

Earth   changes,    but    thy    soul   and   God    stand 

sure: 
What  entered  into  thee,  ISO 

That  was.  is,  and  shall  be: 
Time's  wlieel  runs  back  or  stops:    Potter  and 

clay  endure. 

Ho  fixed  thee    'mid  this  dance 
Of  plastic^  circumstance, 

3  shaping 

•  Both  the  figure  and  the  philosophy  hero  obvious- 
ly Huggcst  Omar  Khayyam,  though  both  are 
very  much  older. 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


G-^9 


This  Present,  thou,  forsooth,  would  fain  arrest: 
Machinery  just  meant 
To  give  thy  soul  its  bent, 

Try    thee    and     turn     thee     forth,    sufficiently 
impressed.* 

What  though  the  earlier  grooves. 
Which  ran  the  laughing  loves  170 

Around  thy  base,  no  longer  pause  and  press? 
What  though,  about  thy  rim, 
Skull-things  in   order   grim 
Grow    out,   in    graver   mood,   obey   the   sterner 
stress? 

Look  not  thou  down  but  up! 

To  uses  of  a  cup. 

The  festal  board,  lamp's  flash  and  t'"umpet  *s 

peal. 
The  new  wine's  foaming  flow, 
The  Master's  lips  aglow! 
Thou,   lieaven's   consummate   cup,   what   needst 

thou  with  earth's  wheel!  180 

But  1  need,  now  as  then. 
Thee,  God,  who  niouldcst  men; 
And  since,  not  even  while  the  whirl  was  worst, 
Did  I — to  the  wheel  of  life 
With  shapes  and  colours  rife. 
Bound  dizzily — ^mistake  my  end,  to  slake  thy 
thirst : 

So,  take  and  use  thy  work: 

Amend  what  flaws  may  lurk. 

What  strain  o'   the  stuff,  what  warpings  past 

the  aim! 
My  times  be  in  thy  hand!  190 

Perfect  the  cup  as  planned! 
Let  age  approve  of  youth,  and  death  complete 

the  same! 

PROSPICE* 

Fear  death? — to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat. 

The  mist  in  my  face. 
When  the  snows  begin,   and  the   blasts  denote 

I  am  nearing  the  place, 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the  storm, 

The  post  of  the  foe; 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a   visible 
form, 

Yet  the  strong  man  must  go: 
For    the    journey    is    done    and    the    summit 
attained, 

And  the  barriers  fall,  10 

4  moulded  and  figured 

♦This    poem    was   vxritteu    in  1861.    shortly  after] 

Mrs.     Browninjr's     death.  The    title    moans  i 

"Look  forward."  I 


Though  a  battle's  to  fight  ere  the  guerdon  be 
gained, 
The  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so — one  fight  more. 

The  best  and  the  last! 
I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my  eyes,  and 
forbore. 
And  bade  me  creep  past. 
No !    let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like  my 
peers 
The  heroes  of  old, 
Bear   the   brunt,   in  a   minute   pay   glad   life's 
arrears 
Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold.  -0 

For   sudden    the   worst   turns   the   best    to   the 
brave. 
The  black  minute's  at  end. 
And   the   elements'   rage,   the   fiend-voices   thai, 
rave, 
Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend, 
Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace  out  of 
pain. 
Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
O   thou   soul  of  my  soul!      I  shall  clasp  thee 
again, 
And  with  God  be  the  rest! 

HERVE  RIELf 
I 
On  the  sea  and  at  the  Hogue,  sixteen  hundred 
ninety-two. 
Did   the    English    fight    the   French, — woe    to 
France ! 
And,     the    thirty-first     of    May,     helter-skelter 

through  the  blue, 
Like  a  crowd  of  frightened  porpoiscsi  a  .shoal 
of  sharks  pursue. 
Came  crowding  ship   on   ship   to   Saint   Malo 
on  the  Ranee, 
With  the  English  fleet  in  view. 


'T  was  the  squadron  that  escaped,  with  the  vic- 
tor in  full  chase; 
First  and  foremost  of  the  drove,  in  his  great 
ship,  Damfreville; 

Close  on  him  fled,  great  and  small, 

Twenty-two  good  ships  in  all ;  10 

And  they  signalled  to  the  place 

"Help  the  winners  of  a  race! 

I  Supply  "which." 

t  The  victory  of  La  Hogue  was  won  off  the  north 
coast  of  Normandy  by  the  British  and  Dutch 
Allies  against  Louis  XIV.  Ilervo  Riol,  a  Bre- 
ton .sailor  from  the  village  of  Croisic,  saved 
many  of  the  fleeing  French  vessels  hv  pilot- 
ing them  through  the  shallows  at  the"  mouth 
of  the  liver  Ranee  to  the  roadstead  at  St. 
Malo. 


630 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Get  us   guidance,   give  us  harbour,   take  us 
quick — or,  quicker  still, 
Here  's  the  English  can  and  will ! ' ' 

III 
Then  the  pilots  of  the  place  put  out  brisk  aud 
leapt  on  board; 
"Why  what  hope  or  chance  have  ships  like 
these  to  pass?"  laughed  they: 
"Bocks    to    starboard,    rocks   to    port,    all   the 

passage  scarred  and  scored. 
Shall   the   'Formidable'   here   with   her   twelve 
and  eighty  guns 
Think  to  make  the  river-mouth  by  the  single 
narrow  way. 
Trust  to  enter  where   't  is  ticklish  for  a  craft 
of  twenty  tons,  20 

And  with  flow  at  full  beside  f 
Now,   't  is  slackest  ebb  of  tide. 

Reach  the  mooring?    Rather  say, 
While  rock  stands  or  water  runs. 
Not  a  ship  will  leave  the  bay ! ' ' 

IV 

Then  was  called  a  council  straight. 

Brief  and  bitter  the  debate: 

"Here's  the  English  at  our  heels;  would  you 

have  them  take  in  tow 
All  that's  left  us  of  the  fleet,  linked  together 

stern  and  bow, 
For  a  prize  to  Plymouth  Sound?  30 

Better  run  the  ships  aground !  ' ' 

(Ended  Damfreville  his  speech). 
' '  Not  a  minute  more  to  wait ! 
Let  the  Captains  all  and  each 
Shove  ashore,  then  blow  up,  burn  the  vessels 
on  the  beach! 
France  must  undergo  her  fate. 

V 

"Give  the  word!"     But  no  such  word 

Was  ever  spoke  or  heard: 

For  up  stood,  for  out  stepped,  for  in  struck 

amid  all  these 
— A  Captain?    A   Lieutenant?    A   Mate — first, 

second,  third?  40 

No  such  man  of  mark,  and  meet 
With  his  betters  to  compete! 
But  a  simple  Breton  sailor  pressed  by  Tourville 

for  the  fleet, 
A  poor  coasting  pilot  he,  Herv6  Riel  the  Croi- 

sickese. 

VI 

And  "What  mockery  or  malice  have  we  here?" 
cries  Herv6  Riel: 
"Are  you  mad,  you  Malouins?  Are  you  cow- 
ards, foola,  or  rogues? 

Talk  to  me  of  rocks  and  shoals,  me  who  took 
the  soundings'  tell 


On  my  fingers  every  bank,  every  shallow,  every 

swell, 
'Twixt  the  offing  here  and  Grfeve  where  the 

river  disembogues? 
Are  you  bought  by  English  gold?     Is  it  love 

the  lying's  for?  »<> 

Morn  and  eve,  night  and  day, 
Have  I  piloted  your  bay. 
Entered  free  and  anchored  fast  at  the  foot  of 

Solidor. 
Burn  the  fleet  and  ruin  France?     That  were 

worse  than  fifty  Hoguesl  ; 

Sirs,  they  know  1  speak  the  truth !     Sirs,  believe  ) 

me  there's  a  way! 
Only  let  me  lead  the  line. 

Have  the  biggest  ship  to  steer,  | 

Get  this  'Formidable'  clear,  ] 

Make  the  others  follow  mine. 
And  I  lead  them,  most  and  least,  by  a  passage 

I  know  well,  ^^ 

Right  to  Solidor  past  Gr^ve, 
And  there  lay  them  safe  and  sound: 
And  if  one  ship  misbehave, 
— Keel  so  much  as  grate  the  ground. 
Why    I've    nothing    but    my    life, — here's    my 

head ! ' '  cries  Herv6  Biel.  | 

VII 

Not  a  minute  more  to  wait. 

"Steer  us  in,  then,  small  and  great! 

Take    the    helm,    lead    the    line,    save    the 
squadron !  ' '  cried  its  chief.  i 

Captains,  give  the  sailor  place!  * 

He  is  Admiral,  in  brief.  '^ 

Still  the  north-wind,  by  God's  grace! 
See  the  noble  fellow's  face  j 

As  the  big  ship,  with  a  bound. 
Clears  the  entry  like  a  hound. 
Keeps  the  passage  as  its  inch  of  way  were  the 
wide  sea's  profound!  | 

See,  safe  through  shoal  and  rock, 

How  they  follow  in  a  flock. 
Not  a  ship   that  misbehaves,  not  a  keel  that 
grates  the  ground,  | 

Not  a  spar  that  comes  to  grief  1 
The  peril,  see,  is  past,  *<' 

All  are  harboured  to  the  last. 
And  just  as   Herv6  Riel   hollas  "Anchor!"—  | 
sure  as  fate,  | 

Up  the  English  come — too  late!  | 

VIII 

So,  the  storm  subsides  to  calm: 
They  see  the  green  trees  wave 
On  the  heights  o'erlooking  Grfeve. 

Hearts  that  bled  are  stanched  with  balm. 

"Just  our  rapture  to  enhance, 
Let  the  English  rake  the  bay, 


BOBEKT  BROWNING 


631 


Gnash  their  teeth  ami  glare  askance  90 

As  they  cannonade  away! 
'Neath  rampired  Solidor  pleasant  riding  on  the 

Ranee ! ' ' 
How  hope  succeeds  despair  on  each  Captain's 

countenance ! 
Out  burst  all  with  one  accord, 

"This  is  Paradise  for  Hell! 
Let  France,  let  France's  King 
Thank  the  man  that  did  the  thing!  " 
What  a  shout,  and  all  one  word, 

"Herve  Eiel!" 
As  he  stepped  in  front  once  more,  100 

Not  a  symptom  of  surprise 

In  the  frank  blue  Breton  eyes. 
Just  the  same  man  as  before. 


Then  said  Damfreville,  * '  My  friend, 
I  must  speak  out  at  the  end, 

Though  I  find  the  speaking  hard. 
Praise  is  deeper  than  the  lips: 
You  have  saved  the  King  his  ships. 

You  must  name  your  own  reward. 
'Faith,  our  sun  was  near  eclipse!  110 

Demand  whate'er  you  will, 
France  remains  your  debtor  still. 
Ask  to  heart's  content  and  have!  or  my  name's 
not  Damfreville." 


Then  a  beam  of  fun  outbroke 
On  the  bearded  mouth  that  spoke, 
As  the  honest  heart  laughed  through 
Those  frank  eyes  of  Breton  blue: 
"Since  I  needs  must  say  my  say. 

Since  on  board  the  duty  's  done, 

And  from  Malo  Boads  to  Croisic  Point,  what 
is  it  but  a  run? —  120 

Since   't  is  ask  and  have,  I  may — 

Since  the  others  go  ashore — 
Come!     A  good  whole  holiday! 

Leave  to  go  and  see  my  wife,  whom  I  call 
the  Belle  Aurore ! ' ' 

That    he    asked    and    that    he    got, — nothing 
more. 

XI 

Name  and  deed  alike  are  lost: 
Not  a  pillar  nor  a  post 

In  his  Croisic  keeps  alive  the  feat  as  it  be- 
fell; 
Not  a  head  in  white  and  black 
On  a  single  fishing-smack,  130 

In  memory  of  the  man  but  for  whom  had  gone 
to  wrack 
All  that  France  saved  from  the  fight  whence 
England   bore   the  bell.i 
1  bad  the  victory 


Go  to  Paris:  rank  on  rank 

Search  the  heroes  flung  pell-mell 
On  the  Louvre,'  face  aad  flank: 

You  shall  look  long  enough  ere  you  come  to 
Herve  Biel. 
So,  for  better  and  for  worse, 
Herve  Biel,  accept  my  verse! 
In  my  verse,  Herve  Biel,  do  thou  once  more 
Save    the    squadron,    honour    France,    love    thy 
wife,  the  Belle  Aurore!  140 

WANTING  IS— WHAT! 

Wanting  is — what? 

Summer  redundant, 

Blueness  abundant, 

— W^here  is  the  blot? 
Beamy  the  world,  yet  a  blank  all  the  same, 
— Framework    which    waits    for    a    picture    to 

frame : 
W'hat  of  the  leafage,  what  of  the  flower? 
Boses  embowering  with  naught  they  embower! 
Come  then,  complete  incompletion,  O  comer, 
Pant  through  the  blueness,  perfect  the  summer! 

Breathe  but  one  breath 

Bose-beauty  above. 

And  all  that  was  death 

Grows  life,  grows  love, 

Grows  love! 

WHY  I  AM  A  LIBEBAL 

"Why?"   Because  all  I  haply  can  and  do, 
All  that  I  am  now,  all  I  hope  to  be, — 
Whence  comes  it  save  from  fortune  setting  free 
Body  and  soul  the  purpose  to  pursue, 
God  traced  for  both?     If  fetters  not  a  few, 
Of  prejudice,  convention,  fall  from  me, 
These  shall  I  bid  men — each  in  his  degree 
Also  God-guided — bear,  and  gayly,  too? 

But  little  do  or  can  the  best  of  us: 

That  little  is  achieved  through  Liberty. 

Who,  then,  dares  hold,  emancipated  thus, 

His  fellow  shall  continue  bound?     Not  I, 

Who  live,  love,  labour  freely,  nor  discuss 

A  brother 's  right  to  freedom.    That  is  ' '  Why. ' ' 

EPILOGUE* 

At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep-time, 

When  you  set  your  fancies  free. 
Will  they  pass  to  where — by  death,  fools  think, 
imprisoned — 

1  An  ancient  royal  palace,  now  mainly  an  art- 
gallery,  adorned  with  the  statues  of  eminent 
Frenchmen. 

*  This  is  the  Epilogue  to  Asolando,  which  was 
published  at  London  on  the  day  when  Brown- 
ing died  at  Venice. 


632 


THE  VICTOKIAN  AGE 


Low  he  lies  who  once  so  loved  you,  wlioiu  you 
loved   so, 
— Pity  me? 

Oh  to  love  so,  be  so  loved,  yet  so  mistaken! 

What  had  I  on  earth  to  do 
With   the   slothful,   with   the  mawkish,  the   un- 
manly ? 
Like  the  aimless,  helpless,  hopeless,  did  I  drivel 
— Being — who  ? 

One   who   never  turned   liis   back   but   marched 
breast   forward. 
Never  doubted  clouds  would  break. 
Never    dreamed,    though    right    were    worsted, 

wrong  would  triumph, 
Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight  better, 
Sleep  to  wake. 

No,  at  noonday  in  the  bustle  of  man's  work- 
time 
Greet  the  unseen  with  a  cheer! 
Bid   him    forward,   breast    and    back   as   either 

should  be, 
"Strive  and   thrive!"   cry   "Speed, — fight   on, 
fare  ever 

There  as  here !  ' ' 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWN- 
'  ING  (1 809-1 8bl) 

SONNETS  FKOM  THE  POKTUGUESE* 


I  thought  once  how  Theocritus  had  sungi 

Of   the   sweet   years,   the   dear   and   wished- for 

years. 
Who  each  one  in  a  gracious  hand  appears 
To  bear  a  gift  for  mortals,  old  or  young: 
And,  as  I  mused  it  in  his  antique  tongue, 
I  saw,  in  gradual  vision  through  my  tears, 
The  sweet,  sad  years,  the  melancholy  years, 
Those  of  my  own  life,  who  by  turns  had  flung 
A  shadow-  across  me.    Straightway  I  was  'ware, 

1  Idyh,  XV,  104. 

*  Thfso  SonnctH.  forty-four  in  number,  were 
written  by  Miss  Barrt'tt  during  the  time  of 
Mr.  Browning's  courtship,  but  were  not  shown 
to  him  until  after  their  marriage  in  1846. 
The  title  under  which  they  were  published 
(1850)  was  adopted  as  a  disguise.  To  under- 
stand them  nrigbt,  it  must  be  remembered 
that  Miss  Barrett  was  in  middle  life  and 
had  long  been  nn  invalid.  See  Knij-  Lit.,  p. 
-  :{07.  F.  (i.  Keiiyon.  in  his  edition  of  Mrs. 
Browning's  IjCHpih,  writes:  "With  the  sin- 
gle exception  of  Itossettl.  no  modern  Knglish 
poet  has  written  of  love  with  such  genius. 
Hucb  beauty,  and  such  sincerity,  as  the  two 
who  gave  the  most  beautiful  example  of  it  in 
their  own  lives." 


So  weeping,  how  a  mystic  Shape  did  move 
Behind  me,  and  drew  me  backward  by  the  hair; 
And  a  voice  said  in  mastery,  while  1  strove, — 
"Guess   now   who   holds   thee?" — "Death,"    1 

said.     But,  there, 
Tlie    silver    answer    rang, — "Not    Death,    but 

Love." 

m 
Unlike  are  we,  unlike,  O  princely  Heart! 
Unlike  our  uses  and  our  destinies. 
Our  ministering  two  angels  look  surprise 
On  one  another,  as  they  strike  athwart 
Their  wings  in  passing.     Thou,  bethink  thee,  art 
A  guest  for  queens  to  social  pageantries. 
With  gages  from  a  hundred  brighter  eyes 
Than  tears  even  can  make  mine,  to  play  thy 

part 
Of  chief  musician.    What  hast  thou  to  do 
With  looking  from  the  lattice-lights  at  me, 
A  poor,  tired,  Avandering  singer,  singing  through 
The  dark,  and  leaning  up  a  cypress  tree? 
The   chrism-    is   on   thine   heatl, — on   mine,   the 

dew, — 
And  Death  must  dig  the  level  where  these  agree. 

rv 
Thou  hast  thy  calling  to  some  palace-floor. 
Most  gracious  singer  of  high  poems!   where 
I  The  dancers  will  break  footing,  from  the  care 
Of  watching  up  thy  pregnant  lips  for  more. 
And  dost  thou  lift  this  house's  latch  too  poor 
For  hand  of  thine?  and  canst  thou  think  and 

bear 
To  let  thy  music  drop  here  unaware 
In  folds  of  golden  fulness  at  my  door? 
Look  up  and  see  the  casement  broken  in. 
The  bats  and  owlets  builders  in  the  roof! 
.My  cricket  chirps  against  thy  mandolin. 
Hush,  call  no  echo  up  in  further  proof 
Of  desolation!   there's  a  voice  within 
That  weeps — as  thou  must  sing — alone,  aloof. 

XIV 

If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  nought 
Except  for  love's  sake  only.     Do  not  say 
' '  I  love  her  for  her  smile — her  look — her  w  ay 
Of  speaking  gently, — for  a  trick  of  thought 
That  falls  in  well  with  mine,  and  certes  brought 
A  sense  of  pleasant  ease  on  such  a  day ' ' — 
For  these  things  in  themselves,  Beloved,  may 
Be  changed,  or  change  for  thee, — and  love,  so 

wrought. 
May  be  unwrought  so.     Neither  love  me  for 
Thine  own  dear  pity's  wiping  my  cheeks  dry, — 
A  creature  might  forget  to  weep,  who  bore 
Thy  comfort  long,  and  lose  thy  love  thereby! 

2  The  sacred  ointment;  here  flgurntlve  for  poetic 
consecration. 


EDWARD  FITZGERALD 


C)33 


But  love  mo  for  love's  sake,  that  evermore 
Thou  may'st  love  ou.  through  love's  eternity. 

XXII 

When  our  two  souls  stand  up  erect  and  strong, 
Face  to  face,  silent,  drawing  nigh  and  nigher, 
Until  the  lengthening  wings  break  into  fire 
At  either  curvM  point,— what  bitter  wrong 
Can  the  earth  do  to  us,  that  we  should  not  long 
He     here     eontentedl       Think.       In    mounting 

higher. 
The  angels  would  press  on  us  and  aspire 
To  drop  some  golden  orb  of  perfect  song 
1  nto  our  deep,  dear  silence.    Let  us  stay 
Rather   on  earth.  Beloved. — where  the  unfit 
Tontrarious  moods  of  men  recoil  away 
And  isolate  pure  spirits,  and  permit 
A  place  to  stand  and  love  in  for  a  day, 
With  darkness  and  the  death-hour  rounding  it. 

xim 

How  do  I  love  thee?     Let  me  count  the  ways. 

I  love  thee  to  the  depth  and  breadth  and  height 

.My  soul  can  reach,  when  feeling  out  of  sight 

For  the  ends  of  Being  and  i<leal  Grace. 

I  love  thee  to  the  level  of  everyday 's 

Most  quiet  need,  by  sun  and  candle-light. 

I  love  thee  freely,  as  men  strive  for  Right ; 

I  love  thee  purely,  as  they  turn  from  Praise. 

I  love  thee  with  the  passion  put  to  use 

In    my    old-  griefs,    and    with    my    childhood's 

faith. 
I  love  thee  with  a  love  I  seemed  to  lose 
With    my    lost    saints, — I    love    thee    with    the 

breath. 
Smiles,    tears,    of    all    my    life! — and.    if    God 

choose, 
I  shall  but  love  thee  better  after  death. 


EDWARD  FITZGERALD 
(1809-1883) 

RUBAIYAT  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM* 
I 
Wake !    For  the  Sun,  who  scatter  'd  into  flight 
The  Stars  before  him  from  the  Field  of  Niglit. 
Drives  Night  along  with  them  from  Ileav  'n. 
and  strikes 
The  Sultdn's  Turret  with  a  Shaft  of  Light.f 

1  "False   Dawn."   preceding   the   real    dawn   about 

an  hour ;  "a  well  known  phenomenon  hi  the 
East."  (This  note,  and  many  that  follow, 
are  condensed  from  Fitzgerald's  notes.) 

2  The  Vernal  equinox. 

S  See    Exodun.    iv.    6.      A    strong    fijiurc    for    the 

miracle  of  spring  blossoms. 
4  "According    to    the    Persians,    the    healing   power 

of  Jesus  resided  in  his  breath." 


Before  the  phantom  of  False  morning  died,i 
Methought  a  Voice  within  the  Tavern  cried, 

* '  When  all  the  Temple  is  prepared  within. 
Why  nods  the  drowsy  Worshipper  outside  ? ' ' 

III 
And,  as  the  Cock  crew,  those  who  stood  before 
The  Tavern  shouted — ' '  Open  then  the  Door ! 
You  know  how  little  while  we  have  to  stay, 
And,  once  departed,  may  return  no  more." 

IV 

Now  the  New  Year^  reviving  old  Desires, 
The  thoughtful  Soul  to  Solitude  retires, 
Where  the  White  Hand  of   Moses  on  the 
Bough 
Puts  out,3  and  Jesus  from  the  Ground  suspires.* 

V 

Irani  indeed  is  gone  with  all  his  Rose, 
And  Jamshyd  's  Sev  'n-ring  'd  Cup  where  no  one 
knows ; 
But  still  a  Ruby  kindles  in  the  Vine, 
And  many  a  Garden  by  the  Water  blows.J 

*  Omar  Khayyam  (i.  e.,  Omar  the  Tent-maker) 
was  a  Persian  astronomer  and  poet  of  the 
12th  century,  who  dwelt  at  XalshApflr. 
Rubdiyat  is  a  Persian  word,  the  plural  of 
rubdi,  which  signifies  "a  quatrain."  These 
rubaiyat  are  therefore  short,  epigrammatic 
poems,  virtually  independent  of  each  other. 
From  among  the  numerous  quatrains  left  by 
Omar,  Edward  Fitzgerald  selected  and  free- 
ly translated  a  number,  and  printed  them  in 
1859  (see  Eng.  Lit.,  p.  300).  The  number  in 
that  edition  was  seventy-flve.  The  third  edi- 
tion (1873)  contained  one  hundred  and  one; 
the  fourth  edition,  which  is  reproduced  here, 
had  a  few  further  verbal  changes.  There  are 
two  widely  divergent  views  of  the  philosophy 
contained  in  them,  the  one  regarding  it  as 
wholly  materialistic,  raising  questions  of  the 
"Two  Worlds"  only  to  dismiss  them  and  take 
refuge  in  the  pleasures  of  sense — an  Epi- 
curean philosophy  of  "Eat,  drink,  and  be 
merry."  The  other  regards  it  as  an  example 
of  Oriental  mysticism,  employing  Wine  and 
the  like  as  poetic  symbols  of  deity.  Fitz- 
gerald held  firmly  to  the  former  view,  con- 
tent, however,  "to  believe  that,  while  the 
wine  Omar  celebrates  is  simply  the  juice  of 
the  grape,  he  bragged  more  than  he  drank  of 
it.  in  very  defiance  perhaps  of  that  spiritual 
wine  which  left  its  votaries  sunk  in  hypocrisy 
or  disgust." 

;■  The  opening  stanza  of  the  first  edition  is  con- 
siderably more  daring  in  its  imagery,  drawing 
one  of  its  figures  from  the  practice,  in  the 
desert,  of  flinging  a  stone  into  the  cup  as  a 
signal  "To  Horse  !" — 

Awake !  for  Morning  in  the  Bowl  of  Night 

lias  flung  the  Stone  that  puts  the  Stars  to  Flight: 

.\nd  I.o  !  the  Hunter  of  the  East  bas  caught 
The  Sultan's  Turret  in  a  Noose  of  Light. 

J  Tram  was  an  ancient  garden,  planted  by  King 
Shaddad.  .lamshyd  was  a  legendary  king  of 
Persia's  golden  age ;  his  seven-ringed  cup  was 
'typical  of  the  seven  heavens,  etc.,  and  was 
a  divining  cup."  Other  kings  and  heroes 
are  mentioned  in  quatrains  X  and  XVIII. 
HAtim  was  "a  well  known  type  of  oriental 
generosity."  For  ZAl  and  Rustum.  see  Ar- 
nold's poem  of  Sohiab  and  Runiunt. 


634 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


VI 
And  David's  lips  are  lockt;  but  in  divine 
High-piping    Pehlevi,^    with    "Wine!      Wine! 
Wine! 
Eed   Wine ! ' ' — the   Nightingale   cries  to   the 
Rose 
That  sallow  cheek  of  hers  to '  incarnadine. 

vn 
Come,  fill  the  Cup,  and  in  the  fire  of  Spring 
Your  Winter-garment  of  Repentance  fling: 

The  Bird  of  Time  has  but  a  little  way 
To  flutter — and  the  Bird  is  on  the  Wing. 

vin 

Whether  at  Naishapur  or  Babylon, 
Whether  the  Cup  with  sweet  or  bitter  run, 

The  Wine  of  Life  keeps  oozing  drop  by  drop. 
The  Leaves  of  Life  keep  falling  one  by  one. 

IX 

Each  Morn  a  thousand  Roses  brings,  you  say ; 
Yes,  but  where  leaves  the  Rose  of  Yesterday? 
And  this  first  Summer  month  that  brings  the 
Rose 
Shall  take  Jamshyd  and  Kaikobad  away. 


Well,  let  it  take  them!    What  have  we  to  do 
With  Kaikobad  the  Great,  or  Kaikhosru? 
Let  Zal  and  Rustum  bluster  as  they  will. 
Or  Hatim  call  to  Supper — heed  not  you. 

XI 

With  me  along  the  strip  of  Herbage  strown 
That  just  divides  the  desert  from  the  sown. 

Whore  name  of  Slave  and  Sultan  is  forgot — 
And  Peace  to  Mahmuds  on  his  golden  Throne! 

XII 

A  Book  of  Verses  underneath  the  Bough, 
A  .Tug  of  Wine,  a  Loaf  of  Bread — and  Thou 

Beside  me  singing  in  the  Wilderness — 
Oh,  Wilderness  were  Paradise  enow  I 

XIII 

Some  for  the  Glories  of  This  World;  and  some 
Sigh  for  the  Prophet 's  Paradise  to  come ; 

Ah,  take  the  Cash,  and  let  the  Credit  go, 
Nor  heed  the  rumble  of  a  distant  Drum!' 

XIV 
Look  to  the  blowing  Rose  about  us — "Lo, 
laughing,"  she  says,  "into  the  world  I  blow. 

At  on«'e  the  silken  tassel  of  my  Purse 
Tear,  and  its  Treasure  on  the  Garden  throw." 

R  An  nnclont  Iltf-rary  lan^naKP  of  Pprala. 

6  St'o  quatrain  LX. 

7  "IleaU'u  outKide  a  palace." 


XV 


And  those  who  husbanded  the  Golden  Grain, 
And  those  who  flung  it  to  the  winds  like  Rain, 

Alike  to  no  such  aureate  Earth  are  turn'd 
As,  buried  once,  Men  want  dug  up  again. 

XVI 

The  Worldly  Hope  men  set  their  Hearts  upon 
Turns  Ashes — or  it  prospers;  and  anon, 

Like  SnoAv  upon  the  Desert's  dusty  Face, 
Lighting  a  little  hour  or  two — was  gone. 

xvn 

Think,  in  this  batter 'd  Caravanserais 
Whose  Portals  are  alternate  Night  and  Day, 

How  Sultan  after  Sultan  with  his  Pomp 
Abode  his  destin  'd  Hour,  and  went  his  way. 

XVIII 

They  say  the  Lion  and  the  Lizard  keep 
The  Courts  where  Jamshyd  gloried  and  drank 
deep : » 
And  Bahram,  that   great  Hunter — the  Wild 
Ass 
Stamps   o'er   his   Head,   but   cannot   break   his 
Sleep. 

XIX 

I  sometimes  think  that  never  blows  so  red 
The  Rose  as  where  some  buried  Csesario  bled; 

That  every  Hyacinth  the  Garden  wears 
Dropt  in  her  Lap  from  some  once  lovely  Head. 

XX 

And  this  reviving  Herb  whose  tender  Green 
Fledges  the  River-Lip  on  which  we  lean — 
Ah,  lean  upon  it  lightly!  for  who  knows 
From  what  once  lovely  Lip  it  springs  unseen! 

XXI 

Ah,  my  Beloved,  fill  the  Cup  that  clears 
To-day  of  past  Regrets  and  future  Fears: 
To-morrow! — Why,  To-morrow  I  may  be 
Myself     with     Yesterday's     Sev'n     thousand 
Years.ii 

XXII 

For  some  we  loved,  the  loveliest  and  the  best 
That  from  his  Vintage  rolling  Time  hath  prest, 
Have  drunk  their  Cup  a  Round  or  two  before. 
And  one  by  one  crept  silently  to  rest. 

XXIII 
And  we  that  now  make  merry  in  the  Room 
They  left,  and  Summer  dresses  in  new  bloom, 
Ourselves    must    we    beneath    the    Couch    of 
Earth 
Descend — ourselves     to     make     a     couch — for 

whom  f 
8  Inn  0  P(>r<iopolis. 

JO  emperor 

II  "A  thousand  years  to  each  Planet" 


EDWARD  FITZGEBALD 


635 


XXIV 

Ah,  make  the  most  of  what  we  yet  may  spend, 
Before  we  too  into  the  Dust  descend; 

Dust  into  Dust,  and  under  Dust  to  lie, 
Sansi2  Wine,  sans  Song,  sans  Singer,  and — sans 
End! 

XXY 

Alike  for  those  who  for  To-DAT  prepare, 
And  those  that  after  some  To-morrow  stare, 
A    Muezzfnis    from   the   Tower   of   Darkness 

cries, 
"Fools!     your    Reward    is    neither    Here    nor 

There. ' ' 

XXVI 

Why,  all  the  Saints  and  Sages  who  discuss 'd 
Of  the  Two  Worlds  so  wisely — they  are  thrust 
Like   foolish  Prophets  forth;   their  Words  to 

Scorn 
Are  scatter 'd,  and  their  Mouths  are  stopt  with 

Dust. 

XXVII 

Myself  when  young  did  eagerly  frequent 
Doctor  and  Saint,  and  heard  great  argument 

About  it  and  about:  but  evermore 
Came  out  by  the  same  door  where  in  I  went. 

XXVIII 

With  them  the  seed  of  Wisdom  did  I  sow. 
And  with  mine  own  hand  wrought  to  make  it 
grow; 
And  this  was  all  the  Harvest  that  I  reap  'd— 
"I  came  like  Water,  and  like  Wind  I  go." 

XXIX 

Into  this  Universe,  and  Why  not  knowing 
Nor   Whence,  like  Water  willy-nilly  flowing; 

And  out  of  it,  as  Wind  along  the  Waste, 
I  know  not  Whither,  willy-nilly,  blowing. 

XXX 

What,  without  asking,  hither  hurried  Whence? 
And,  without  asking.  Whither  hurried  hence! 

Oh,  many  a  Cup  of  this  forbidden  Wine 
Must  drown  the  memory  of  that  insolence! 

XXXI 

Up   from   Earth's  Centre  through  the  Seventh 

Gate 
I  rose,  and  on  the  Throne  of  Saturni-*  sate, 

And  many  a  Knot  unravell'd  by  the  Road; 
But  not  the  Master-knot  of  Huma*  Fate. 


There    was    the    Door    to    which    I    found    no 
Key; 

12  without 

13  A  summoner  to  prayer. 

14  "Lord  of  the  Seventh  Heaven." 


There  was  the  Veil  through  which  I  might  not 

Some  little  talk  awhile  of  Me  and  Theeis 
There  was — and  then  no  more  of  Thee  and  Me. 

XXXIII 

Earth    could    not    answer;    nor    the    Seas    that 
mourn 

In  flowing  Purple,  of  their  Lord  forlorn; 
Nor   rolling   Heaven,   with   all   his  Signs   re- 
veal 'd 

And  hidden  by  the  sleeve  of  Night  and  Morn. 

XXXIV 

Then  of  the  Thee  ix  Me  who  works  behind 
The  Veil,  I  lifted  up  my  hands  to  find 

A  Lamp  amid  the  Darkness;  and  I  heard, 
As    from    Without— "The    Me    within    Thee 
blind!  " 

XXXV 

Then  to  the  Lip  of  this  poor  earthen  Urn 
I  lean'd,  the  Secret  of  my  Life  to  learn: 

And  Lip   to  Lip   it  murmur 'd — "While  you 
live, 
Drink! — for,    once    dead,    you    never    shall    re- 
turn. ' ' 

XXXVI 

I  think  the  Vessel,  that  with  fugitive 
Articulation  answer  M,  once  did  live, 

And  drink;  and  Ah!  the  passive  Lip  I  kiss'd, 
How  many  Kisses  might  it  take — and  give! 

XXXVII 

For  I  remember  stopping  by  the  way 

To  watch  a  Potter  thumping  his  wet  Clay: 

And  with  its  all-obliterated  Tongue 
It       murmur 'd— "Gently,       Brother,       gently, 
pray ! ' ' 

xxxvni 
And  has  not  such  a  Story  from  of  Old 
Down  Man's  successive  generations  roU'd 

Of  such  a  clod  of  saturated  Earth 
Cast  by  the  Maker  into  Human  mould! 

XXXIX 

And  not  a  drop  that  from  our  Cups  we  throw 
For  Earth  to  drink  of,  but  may  steal  below 

To  quench  the  fire  of  Anguish  in  some  Eye 
There  hidden— far  beneath,  and  long  ago. 

XL 
As  then  the  Tulip  for  her  morning  sup 
Of  Heav'nly  Vintage  from  the  soil  looks  up, 

Do  you  devoutly  do  the  like,  till  Heav'n 
To  Earth  invert  you— like  an  empty  Cup. 

15  "Some   dividual    Existence    or    Personality   dls- 
tinct  from  the  Whole." 


GSf) 


THE  VICTORIAX  AGE 


XLI 


Perplext  no  more  with  Human  or  Divine, 
To-morrow 's  tangle  to  the  winds  resign, 
And  lose  your  fingers  in  the  tresses  of 
The  Cypress-slender   Minister  of  Wine. 


XLn 

And  if  the  Wine  you  drink,  the  Lip  you  press. 
End  in  what  All  begins  and  ends  in — Yes; 

Think  then  you  are  To-day  what  Yesterday 
You  were — To-morrow  you  shall  not  be  less. 

XLIII 
So  when  the  Anj^el  of  the  darker  Drink 
At  last  shall  fin.l  you  by  the  river-brink, 

And,  offering  his  (up,  invite  your  Soul 
Forth    to    your    Lips    to    quaff — you    shall   not 
shrink. 

XLIV 

Why,  if  the  Soul  can  fling  the  Dust  aside, 
And  naked  on  the  Air  of  Heaven  ride. 

Were  't  not  a  Shame — were   't  not  a  Shame 
for  him 
in  this  clay  carcase  crippled  to  abide? 

XLV 
'Tis  but  a  Tent  where  takes  his  one  day 's  rest 
A  Sultan  to  the  realm  of  Death  addrest; 

The  Sultan  rises,  and  the  dark  Ferrash^ 
Strikes,  and  prepares  it  for  another  Guest. 

XLVI 
And  fear  not  lest  Existence  closing  your 
Account,  and    mine,   should   know   the   like   no 
more; 
The  Eternal  Sakf-'  from  that  Bowl  has  pourM 
Millions  of  Bubbles  like  us,  and  will  pour. 

XLVII 
When  You  and  I  behin<l  the  Veil  are  past. 
Oh,   but   the  long,   long  while   the   World   shall 
last, 
Which  of  our  Coming  and  Departure  heeds 
As  the  Sea's  self  should  heed  a  pebble-cast. 

XLvm 

A  Moment's  Halt — a  momentary  taste 
Of  Bein(;  from  the  Well  amid  the  Wast? — 

And  Lo! — the  phantom  Caravan  has  reach 'd 
The  Nothing  it  set  out  from — Oh,  make  haste  I 

xux 

Would  you  that  spangle  of  Existence  spend 
About  THE  SECRET — quick  about   it.  Friend! 

A  Hair  perhaps  divides  the.  False  and  True — 
And  upon  what,  prithee,  does  life  depend? 

1  attendant  s  wlni>-lM>arer 


A  Hair  perhaps  divides  the  False  and  True; 
Yes;  and  a  single  Alifs  were  the  clue — 

Could  you  but  find  it — to  the  Treasure-house, 
And  peradventure  to  The  Master  too; 


through     Creation 's 


LI 

Whose     secret     Presence, 

veins 
Running  Quicksilver-like  eludes  your  pains; 

Taking  all  shapes  from  Mah  to  Mahi;*  and 
They  change  and  perish  all — but  He  remains; 

Ln 
A  moment  guess 'd — then  back  behind  the  Fold 
Immerst  of  Darkness  round  the  Drama  roll'd 

Which,  for  the  Pastime  of  Eternity, 
He  doth  Himself  contrive,  enact,  behold. 

LUI 

But  if  in  vain,  down  on  the  stubborn  floor 
Of  Earth,  and  up  to  Heav  'n  's  unopening  Door. 
You  gaze  To-day,  while  You  are  You — how 
then 
To-morrow,  You  when  shall  be  You  no  more? 


Waste  not  your  Hour,  nor  in  the  vain  pursuit 
Of  This  and  That  endeavour  and  dispute; 
Better  be  jocund  with  the  fruitful  Grape 
Than  sadden  after  none,  or  bitter.  Fruit. 


You 


LV 
Friends,    with 


what    a    brave 


know,    my 
Carouse 
r  made  a  Second  ^larriage  in  my  house; 

Divorced  old  barren  Reason  from  my  Bed, 
And  took  the  Daughter  of  the  Vine  to  Spouse. 

LVI 

For  "Is"  and  "Is-xot"  though  with  Rule  and 

Line, 
And  "  Up-axd-down  "  by  Logic  I  define, 

Of  all  that  one  shouhl  care  to  fathom,  I 
Was  never  deep  in  anything  but — Wine. 

LVII 

Ah,  but  my  Computations,  People  say, 
Reduced  the  Year  to  better  reckoning!' — Xay, 

'Twas  only  striking  from  the  Calendar 
Unborn  To-morrow,  and  dead  Yesterday. 

LVIII 

And  lately,  by  the  Tavern  Door  agape, 

Came  shining  through  the  Dusk  an  Angel  Shui»e 

3  The  lettor  a.  often  represented  hy  n  slight  mark 

llko  an  apostrupho,  tho  proscnco  or  absciici'  ni 
which  could  chnnK**  the  moaninK  of  a  word. 

4  from  lisb  to  moon 

0  Omar  a«slstnd  in  rnformlng  the  calendar. 


EDWABD  FITZGERALD 


63^ 


Bearing  a  Vessel  on  his  Shoulder;  and 
He  bid  me  taste  of  it;  and  't  was — the  Grape! 


The  Grape  that  can  with  Logic  absolute 
The  Two-and-Seventy  jarring  Sects^  confute: 

The  sovereign  Alchemist  that  in  a  trice 
Life 's  leaden  metal  into  Gold  transmute : 

liX 
The  mighty  Mahmud,  Allah-breathing  Lord," 
That  all  the  misbelieving  and  black  Horde 

Of  Fears  and  Sorrows  that  infest  the  Soul 
Scatters  before  him  with  his  whirlwind  Sword. 

LXl 
Why,  be  this  Juice  the  growth  of  God,  who  dare 
Blaspheme  the  twisted  tendril  as  a  Snare? 

A  Blessing,  we  should  use  it,  should  we  not? 
And  if  a  Curse — why,  then,  Who  set  it  there? 


I  must  abjure  the  Balm  of  Life,  I  must. 
Soared  by  some  After-reckoning  ta'en  on  trust. 

Or  lured  with  Hope  of  some  Diviner  Drink, 
To  fill  the  Cup — when  crumbled  into  Dust! 

I,XIII 

Oh.  threats  of  Hell  and  Hopes  of  Paradise! 
One  thing  at  least  is  certain — This  Life  flies; 

One  thing  is  certain  and  the  rest  is  Lies; 
The  Flower  that  once  has  blown  for  ever  dies. 

uav 
Strange,  is  it  not  ?  that  of  the  myriads  who 
Before  us  pass'd  the  door  of  Darkness  through, 

Not  one  returns  to  tell  us  of  the  Road, 
Which  to  discover  we  must  travel  too. 

LXV 

The  Revelations  of  Devout  and  Learn 'd 
Who  rose  before  us,  and  as  Prophets  burn'd. 

Are  all  but  Stories,  which,  awoke  from  Sleep 
They    told    their    comrades,    and    to    Sleep    re- 
turn 'd. 

LXVI 

T  sent  my  Soul  through  the  Invisible. 
Some  letter  of  that  After-life  to  spell: 

And  by  and  by  my  Soul  return 'd  to  me, 
And    answer 'd    "I    Myself    am    Heav'n    and 
Hell:" 

LXVII 

Heav'n  but  the  Vision  of  fulfill 'd  Desire, 
And  Hell  the  Shadow  from  a  Soul  on  fire, 

« "The  seventy-two  religions  supposed  to  divide 
the  world." 

7  "Alluding  to  Sultan  Mahmfld's  conquest  of  India 
and  Its  dark  people."  By  "Allah-breathing" 
is  meant  tbat  the  Sultan  was  a  Mohamme- 
dan, or  worshiper  of  Allah. 


Cast  on  the  Darkness  into  which  Ourselves, 
So  late  emerged  from,  shall  so  soon  expire. 

LXVIII 

We  are  no  other  than  a  moving  row 

Of  Magic  Shadow-shapes  that  come  and  go 

Round  with  the  Sun-illumined  Lantern"  held 
In  Midnight  by  the  Master  of  the  Show; 

LXIX 

But  helpless  Pieces  of  the  Game  He  plays 
I'pon  this  Chequer- board  of  Xights  and  Days; 
Hither   and   thither   moves,   and   checks,   and 
slays. 
And  one  by  one  back  in  the  Closet  lays. 


The  Ball  no  question  makes  of  Ayes  and  Noes, 

But  Here  or  There  as  strikes  the  Player  goes; 

And  He  that  tos-s  'd  you  down  into  the  Field, 

He  knows  about  it  all — he  knows — HE  knows! 


The  Moving  Finger  writes;  and,  having  writ, 
!Moves  on:   nor  all  your  Piety  nor  Wit 

Shall  lure  it  back  to  cancel  half  a  Line. 
Xor  all  your  Tears  wash  out  a  Word  of  it. 

Lxxn 
And  that  inverted  Bowl  they  call  the  Sky, 
Whereunder  crawling  coop'd  we  live  and  die, 
Lift  not  your  hands  to  It  for  help — for  It 
As  impotently  moves  as  you  or  I, 

T.XXIII 
With  Earth 's  first  Clay  They  did  the  Last  Man 

knead. 
And  there  of  the  Last  Harvest  sow  'd  the  Seed : 

And  the  first  Mornii.g  of  Creation  wrote 
What  the  Last  Dawn  of  Reckoning  shall  read. 

LXXIV 

Yesterday  This  Day's  Madness  did  prepare; 
To-morrow  's  Silence,  Triumph,  or  Despair : 
Drink!   for  you  know  not  whence  you  came, 

nor  why. 
Drink!    for   you    know    not    why    you    go,    nor 

where. 

LXXV 

I  tell  you  this — When,  started  from  the  Goal, 
Over  the  flaming  shoulders  of  the  Foal 

Of  Heav'n  Parwfn  and  ^lushtarf^  they  flung, 
In  my  predestined  Plot  of  Dust  and  Soul 

liXXVI 

The  Vine  had  struck  a  fibre:  which  about 
If  clings  my  Being — let  the  Dervishio  flout; 

"  1.  e.,  the  earth 

ft  The  Pleiads  and  .Tupiter. 

i*>  A  Mohammedan  devotee. 


638 


THE  VICTOETAN  AGE 


Of  my  Base  metal  may  be  filed  a  Key, 
That  shall  unlock  the  Door  he  howls  without. 

LXXVII 
And  this  1  know :   whether  the  one  True  Light 
Kindle  to  Love,  or  Wrath-consume  me  quite, 
One  Flash  of  It  within  the  Tavern  caught 
Better  than  in  the  Temple  lost  outright. 

LXXVIII 

What!   out  of  senseless  Nothing  to  provoke 
A  conscious  Something  to  resent  the  yoke 

Of  unpermitted  Pleasure,  under  pain 
Of  Everlasting  Penalties,  if  broke! 

LXXIX 

What!  from  his  helpless  Creature  be  repaid 
Pure  Gold  for  what  he  lent  him  dross-allay 'd — 

Sue  for  a  Debt  we  never  did  contract, 
And  cannot  answer — Oh,  the  sorry  trade! 

LXXX 
Oh  Thou,  who  didst  with  pitfall  and  with  gin 
Beset  the  Road  I  was  to  wander  in. 

Thou  wilt  not  with  Predestined  Evil  round 
Enmesh,  and  then  impute  my  Fall  to  Sin! 

LXXXI 

Oh  Thou,  who  Man  of  baser  Earth  didst  make, 
And  ev'n  with  Paradise  devise  the  Snake: 

For  all  the  Sin  wherewith  the  Face  of  Man 
Is     blacken 'd — Man's     forgiveness     give — and 
take! 


LXXXII 
As  under  cover  of  departing  Day 
Slunk  hunger-stricken  Ramazanii  away. 

Once  more  within  the  Potter's  house  alone 
I  stood,  surrounded  by  the  Shapes  of  Clay. 

LXXXIII 

Shapes  of  all  Sorts  and  Sizes,  great  and  small, 
That  stood  along  the  floor  and  by  the  wall; 

And  some  loquacious  Vessels  were ;  and  some 
Listen 'd  perhaps,  but  never  talk'd  at  all. 

LXXXIV 

Said  one  among  them — "Surely  not  in  vain 
My  substance  of  the  common  Earth  was  ta  'en 

And  to  this  Figure  moulded,  to  be  broke, 
Or  trampled  back  to  shapeless  Earth  again." 

LXXXV 

Then  said  a  Second — "Ne'er  a  peevish  Boy 
Would  break  the  Bowl  from  which  he  drank  in 

joy; 

11  Thf  month  of  fnstlnK.  during;  which  no  food  Is 
inkt-n  ln'tw<'<'n  s\iiirlsc  and  nunsot. 


And  He  that  with  his  hand  the  Vessel  made 
Will  surely  not  in  after  Wrath  destroy. ' ' 

LXXXVI 

After  a  momentary  silence  spak§ 

Some  Vessel  of  a  more  ungainly  Make: 

'  *  They  sneer  at  me  for  leaning  all  awry : 
What!     did    the    Hand    then    of    the    Potter 
shake?" 

LXXXVII 

Whereat  some  one  of  the  loquacious  Lot — 
1  think  a  Sufii-  pipkin — waxing  hot — 

"All  this  of  Pot  and  Potter— Tell  me  then, 
Who  is  the  Potter,  pray,  and  who  the  Pot?" 

LXXXVIII 

"Why,"  said  another,  "Some  there  are  who 

tell 
Of  one  who  threatens  he  will  toss  to  Hell 
The    luckless    Pots   he    marr'd    in    making — 

Pish! 
He 's  a  Good  Fellow,  and  't  will  all  be  well. ' ' 

LXXXIX 

'  *  Well, ' '  murmur  'd  one,  ' '  Let  whoso  make  or 

buy. 
My  Clay  with  long  Oblivion  is  gone  dry: 
But  fill  me  with  the  old  familiar  Juice, 
Methinks  1  might  recover  by  and  by. ' ' 

XC 
So  while  the  Vessels  one  by  one  were  speaking, 
The  little  Moon^s  look'd  in  that  all  were  seek- 
ing: 
And  then  they  jogg'd  each  other,  "Brother! 
Brother ! 
Now   for  the  Porter's  shoulder-knot i-»  a-creak- 
ing!" 


,  xci 

Ah,  with  the  Grape  my  fading  Life  provide, 
And  wash  the  Body  whence  the  Life  has  died. 

And  lay  me,  shrouded  in  the  living  Leaf, 
By  some  not  unfrequented  Garden-side. 

XCII 
That  ev'n  my  buried  Ashes  such  a  snare 
Of  Vintage  shall  fling  up  into  the  Air 

As  not  a  True-believer  passing  by 
But  shall  be  overtaken  unaware. 

12  Tho  allusion  here  Is  to  a  sect  of  oriental  mystics 

who  held  a  pantheistic  doctrine. 

13  Marking    the    now    month    and    the    end   of    the 

fast. 
MA    shoulder-strap    In    which    the    Jars    of    wine 
were   sliinR. 


ARTHUR  HUGH  CT.OUOH 


fi39 


XCIII 
Indeed  the  Idols  I  have  loved  so  long 
Have    done    my    credit    in    this    World    much 
wrong : 
Have  drown 'd  my  Glory  in  a  shallow  Cup, 
And  sold  my  Reputation  for  a  Song. 


Indeed,  indeed.  Repentance  oft  before 
I  swore — but  was  I  sober  when  I  swore  f 
And  then  and  then  oame  Spring,  and  Rose-in- 
hand 
My  thread-bare  Penitence  apieces  tore. 

xcv 
And  much  as  "Wine  has  play'd  the  Infidel, 
And  robb'd  me  of  my  Robe  of  Honour — Well, 

[  wonder  often  what  the  Vintners  buy 
One  half  so  precious  as  the  stuff  they  sell. 

XCVI 
Yet   Ah,   that   Spring   should   vanish   with   the 

Rose! 
That  Youth's  sweet-scented  manuscript  should 
close! 
The  Nightingale  that  in  the  branches  sang. 
Ah    whence,    and    whither    flown    again,    who 
knows ! 

xcvii 
Would  but  the  Desert  of  the  Fountain  yield 
One  glimpse — if  dimly,  yet  indeed,  reveal'd, 

To  which  the  fainting  Traveller  might  spring. 
As  springs  the  trampled  herbage  of  the  field. 

XCVIII 

Would  but  some  winged  Angel  ere  too  late 
Arrest  the  yet  unfolded  Roll  of  Fate, 

And  make  th>i  stern  Recorder  otherwise 
Enregister,  or  quite  obliterate! 

XCIX 

Ah  Love!  could  you  and  I  with  Him  conspire 
To  grasp  this  sorry  Scheme  of  Things  Entire, 

Would  not  we  shatter  it  to  bits — and  then 
Re-mould  it  nearer  to  the  Heart's  desire! 


Yon  rising  ^loon  that  looks  for  us  again — 
How  oft  hereafter  will  she  wax  and  wane; 

How  oft  hereafter  rising  look  for  us 
Through    this    same   Garden — and    for    one    in 
vain! 

CI 

And  when  like  her.  oh  Saki.  yon  shall  pass 
Among  the  Guests  Star-scatter 'd  on  the  Grass, 
And  in  your  joyous  errand  reach  the  spot 


Where    I    made    One — turn    down    an    empty 
Glass! 

TAMAM15 

ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH 
U819-186I) 

IX  A  LECTURE-ROOM 

Away,  haunt  thou  not  me. 
Thou  vain  Philosophy! 
Little  hast  thou  bestead, 
Save  to  perplex  the  head, 
And  leave  the  spirit  dead. 
Unto  thy  broken  cisterns  wherefore  go, 
While  from  the  secret  treasure-depths  below. 
Fed  by  the  skyey  shower, 

And  clouds  that  sink  and  rest  on  hill-tops  higli. 
Wisdom  at  once,  and  Power, 
Are    welling,    bubbling    forth,    unseen,    inces- 
santly ? 
Why  labour  at  the  dull  mechanic  oar, 
When  the  fresh  breeze  is  blowing, 
And  the  strong  current  flowing. 
Right  onward  to  the  Eternal  Shore? 

QUA  CURSUM  VENTUS* 

As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 
With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side. 

Two  towers  of  sail  at  dawn  of  day 
Are  scarce  long  leagues  apart  descried; 

When  fell  the  night,  upsprung  the  breeze. 
And  all  the  darkling  hours  they  plied, 

Xor  dreamt  but  each  the  self-same  seas 
By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side,:  8 

E  'en  so,  but  why  the  tale  reveal 

Of  those,  whom  year  by  year  unchanged. 

Brief  absence  joined  anew  to  feel. 
Astounded,  soul  from  soul  estranged! 

At  dead  of  night  their  sails  were  filled, 
And  onward  each  rejoicing  steered — 

Ah,  neither  blame,  for  neither  willed. 

Or  wist,  what  first  with  dawn  appeared!      16 

To  veer,  how  vain!    On,  onward  strain. 
Brave  barks!     In  light,  in  darkness  too, 

Through  winds  and  tides  one  compass  guides — 
To  that,  and  your  own  selves,  be  true. 


«  "The  end." 

*  "As  the  wind    (dirocts)    the  courf?e."     The  poem 

is    nietaphoricai    of    the    divergence    of    men's 

I  reeds.     See  Eng.  Lit.,  p.  .315. 


640 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


But  O  blithe  breeze  I    and  O  great   seas, 
Though  ne  'er,  that  earliest  parting  past, 

On  your  wide  plain  they  join  again, 

Together  lead  them  home  at  last.  24 

One  port,  methought,  alike  they  sought, 
One  purpose  hold  where  'er  they  fare, — 

O  bounding  breeze,  O  rushing  seas! 
At  last,  at  last,  unite  them  therel 

SAY   NOT    THE   STRUGGLE   NOUGHT 
AVAILETH 

Say  not  the  struggle  nought  .iTeileth, 
The  labour  and  the  wounds  are  vain, 

The  enemy  faints  not,  nor  faileth, 

And  as  things  have  been  they  remain. 

If  hopes  were  dupes,  fears  may  be  liars; 

It  may  be,  in  yon  smoke  concealed, 
Your  comrades  chase  e'en  now  the  fliers. 

And,  but  for  you,  possess  the  field.  8 

For  while  the  tired  waves,  vainly  breaking, 
Seem  here  no  painful  inch  to  gain. 

Far  back,  through  creeks  and  inlets  making, 
Comes  silent,  flooding  in,  the  main.f 

And  not  by  eastern  windows  only, 

When  daylight  comes,  comes  in  the  light. 

In  front,  the  sun  climbs  slow,  how  slowly. 
But  westward,  look,  the  land  is  bright.  16 

ITE  DOMUM   SATUR.E,  VENIT 
HESPERUS J 

The  skies  have  sunk,  and  hid  the  upper  snow 
(Home,    Rose,    and    home,    Provence    and    La 

Paliei), 
The  rainy  clouds  are  filing  fast  below, 
And  wet  will  be  the  path,  and  wet  shall  we. 
Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie. 

All  dear,  and  where  is  he.  a  year  agone. 
Who  stepped  beside  and  cheered  us  on  and  on? 
Aly  sweetheart  wanders  far  away  from  me. 
In  foreign  land  or  on  a  foreign  sea,  9 

Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie. 

The  lightning  zigzags  shoot  across  the  sky 
(Home,    Rose,    and    home,    Provence    and    La 

PaUe), 
And  through  the  vale  the  rains  go  sweeping  by; 
Ah  me,  and  when  in  shelter  shall  we  be? 
Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie. 

1  "The  Pnle  One" — fl  nnm«>  of  ohvloiis  Rlffniflcanoe, 

like   ••IManclie"   or  "Brlndle." 
t  "Porhaps  rioiiffh's  jrrpatPHt  title  to  poetic  fame 

Is     this     ox<|iilKit<'     an<l     <'XfHilsUoly    oxprosso*! 

iinac*'  of  the  rlxltiK  tide."   -<;oorjrp  Salntsbiiry. 
t  "Oo    home,    now     that     you     have    fed.    ovenlnu 

comes." — VIrBll.  Eriog.  x.  77. 


Cold,  dreary  cold,  the  stormy  winds  feel  they 
O'er  foreign  lands  and  foreign  seas  that  stray 
(Home,    Rose,    and    home,    Provence    and    La 

Palie). 
And  doth  he  e'er,  I  wonder,  bring  to  mind 
The  pleasant  huts  and  herds  he  left  behind?    20 
And  doth  he  sometimes  in  his  slumbering  see 
The  feeiling  kine,  and  doth  he  think  of  me. 
My  sweeth^Art  wandering  wheresoe'er  it  be? 
Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie. 


Lii 


The  thunder  bellows  far  from  snow  to  snow 
(Home,    Rose,    and    home,    Provence    and 

Palie), 
And  loud  and  louder  roars  the  flood  below. 
Heigho!   but  soon  in  shelter  siiall  we  be: 
Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie. 

Or  shall  he  find  before  his  term  be  sped  30 

Some  eomelier  maid  that  he  shall  wish  to  wed? 
(Home,    Rose,    and    home,    Provence    and    La 

Palie.) 
For  weary  is  work,  and  weary  day  by  day 
To  have  your  comfort  miles  on  miles  away. 
Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie. 

Or  may  it  be  that  I  shall  find  my  mate. 

And  he  returning  see  himself  too  late? 

For  work  we  must,  and  what  we  see.  we  see. 

And  God  he  knows,  and  what  must  be,  must  be. 

When  sweethearts  wander  far  away  from  me.   40 

Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie. 

The  sky  behind  is  brightening  up  anew 
(Home,    Rose,    and    home,    Provence    and    La 

Palie), 
The  rain  is  ending,  and  our  journey  too: 
Heigho!  aha!  for  here  at  home  are  we:  — 
In,  Rose,  and  in,  Provence  and  La  Palie. 

ALL  IS  WELL 

Whate'er  you  dream,  with  doubt  possessed, 
Keej),  keep  it  snug  within  your  breast. 
And  lay  you  down  and  take  your  rest; 
Forget  in  sleep  the  doubt  and  pain, 
And  when  you  wake,  to  work  again. 
The  wind  it  blows,  the  vessel  goes, 
And  where  and  whither,  no  one  knows. 

'Twill  all  be  well :  no  need  of  care ; 

Though  how  it  will,  and  when,  and  where. 

We  cannot  see.  and  can't  declare.  10 

In  spite  of  dreams,  in  spite  of  thought, 

'Tis  not  in  vain,  and  not  for  nought, 

Tlie  winii  it  blows,  the  ship  it  goes, 

Thou''h  where  and  whither,  no  one  knows. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


641 


MATTHEW   ARNOLD 
(1822-1888) 

THE  FORSAKEN   MERMAN* 

Come,  dear  children,  let  us  away; 
Down  and  away  below! 
Now  my  brothers  call  from  the  bay, 
Now  the   great   winds  shoreward  blow, 
Now  the  salt  tides  seaward  flow; 
Now  the  wild  white  horsesi  play, 
Champ  and  chafe  and  toss  in  the  spray. 
Children  dear,  let  us  away  I 
This  way,  this  way! 

Call  her  once  before  you  go — 

Call  once  yet! 

In  a  voice  that  she  will  know: 

* '  Margaret !     Margaret !  ' ' 

Children's  voices   should  be   dear 

(Call  once  more)  to  a  mother's  ear; 

Children's  voices,  wild  with  pain — 

Surely  she  will  come  again! 

Call  her  once  and  come  away; 

This  way,  this  way! 

' '  Mother  dear,  we  cannot  stay ! 

The  wild  white  horses  foam  and  fret." 

Margaret!  Margaret! 


10 


20 


Come,  dear  children,  come  away  down; 

Call  no  more! 

One  last  look  at  the  white-walled  town. 

And  the  little  gray  church  on  the  windy  shore. 

Then  come  down! 

She  will  not  come  though  you  call  all  day; 

Come  away,  come  away ! 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday  30 

We  heard  the  sweet  bells  over  the  bay  I 

In  the  caverns  where  we  lay, 

Through  the  surf  and  through  the  swell. 

The  far-off  sound  of  a  silver  bell? 

Sand-strewn  caverns,  cool  and   deep. 

Where  the  winds  are  all  asleep; 

Wliere  the  spent  lights  quiver  and  gleam, 

Where  the  salt  weed  sways-  in  the  stream, 

Where  the  sea-beasts,  ranged  all  round. 

Feed  in  the  ooze  of  their  pasture  ground;     40 

Where  the  sea-snakes  coil  and  twine. 

Dry  their  mail  and  bask  in  the  brine; 

Where  great  whales  come  sailing  by, 

Sail  and  sail,  with  unshut  eye, 

I  The  breakers. 

*  This  poem  is  based  on  a  legend  which  is  found 

In    the    literature    of    various    nations.      See 

Eiig.  r.it..  p.  "11. 


j  Round  the  world  for  ever  and  ayef 
j  When  did  music  come  this  way? 
Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday? 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday 

(Call  yet  once)   that  she  went  away! 

Once  she  sate  with  you  and  me,  50 

On  a  red  gold  throne  in  the  heart  of  the  sea, 

And  the  joungest  sate  on  her  knee. 

She  combed  its  bright  hair,  and  she  tended  it 

well. 
When  down  swung  the  sound  of  a  far-off  bell. 
She   sighed,    she   looked   up    through   the   clear 

green  sea; 
She  said:     "I  must  go,  for  my  kinsfolk  pray 
In  the  little  gray  church  on  the  shore  to-day. 
'Twill  be  Easter-time  in  the  world — ah  me! 
And   I  lose  my  poor  soul.  Merman!    here  with 

thee." 
I    said:     "Go     up,    dear    heart,    through    the 

waves ;  60 

Say  thy  prayer,  and  come  back  to  the  kind 

sea-caves !  ' ' 
She   smiled,  she   went   up  through   the   surf  in 

the  bay. 
Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday? 

Children  dear,  were  we  long  alone f 
"The  sea  grows  stormy,  the  little  ones  moan; 
Long  prayers,"  I  said,  "in  the  world  they 

say; 
Come !  "  I  said ;  and  we  rose  through  the  surf 

in  the  bay. 
We  went  up  the  beach,  by  the  sandy  down 
Where  the  sea-stocks  bloom,  to  the  white-walled 

town ; 
Through    the    narrow-paved    streets,    where    all 

was  still,  ^0 

To  the  little  gray  church  on  the  windy  hill. 
From   the   church   came   a   murmur   of   folk   at 

their  prayers, 
But    we    stood    without    in    the    cold   blowing 

airs. 
We  climbed  on  the  graves,  on  the  stones  worn 

with  rains, 
And  we  gazed  up  the  aisle  through  the  small 

leaded  panes. 
She  sate  by  the  pillar;  we  saw  her  clear: 
"Margaret,  hist!  come  quick,  we  are  here! 
Dear  heart, ' '  I  said,  ' '  we  are  long  alone ; 
The  sea  grows  stormy,  the  little  ones  moan. ' ' 
But,  ah,  she  gave  me  never  a  look,  80 

For  her  eyes  were  sealed  to  the  holy  book! 
Loud  prays  the  priest ;  shut  stands  the  door. 
Come  away,  children,  call  no  more! 
Come  away,  come  down,  call  no  more! 

Down,  down,  down! 
Down  to  the  depths  of  the  sea! 


642 


THE  VICTOBIAN  AGE 


She  sits  at  her  wheel  in  the  huminiujj  town, 

Singing  most  joyfully. 

Hark  what  she  sings:     "O  joy,  O  joy, 

Por  the  humming  street,  and  the  child  with  its 

toy!  90 

Por  the  priest,  and  the  bell,  and  the  holy  well; 
For  the  wheel  where  I  spun, 
And  the  blessed  light  of  the  sun !  '  * 
And  so  she  sings  her  fill, 
Singing  most  joyfully. 
Till  the  spindle  drops  from  her  hand, 
And  the  whizzing  wheel  stands  still. 
She  steals  to  the  window,  and  looks  at  the 

sand, 
And  over  the  sand  at  the  sea; 
And  her  eyes  are  set  in  a  stare;  100 

And  anon  there  breaks  a  sigh, 
And  anon  there  drops  a  tear, 
From  a  sorrow-clouded  eye. 
And  a  heart  sorrow-laden, 
A  long,  long  sigh; 

For  the  cold  strange  eyes  of  a  little  Mermaiden 
And  the  gleam  of  her  golden  hair. 


Come  away,  away  children  ; 
Come  children,  come  down! 
The  hoarse  wind  blows  coldly; 
Lights  shine  in  the  town. 
She  will  start  from  her  slumber 
When  gusts  shake  the  door; 
She  will  hear  the  winds  howling, 
Will  hear  the  waves  roar. 
We  shall  see,  while  above  us 
The  waves  roar  and  whirl, 
A  ceiling  of  amber, 
A  pavement  of  pearl. 
Singing:     "Here  came  a  mortal. 
But  faithless  was  she! 
And  alone  dwell  forever 
The  kings  of  the  sea." 

But,  children,  at  midnight. 
When  soft  the  winds  blow. 
When  clear  falls  the  moonlight, 
When  spring  tides  are  low ; 
When  sweet  airs  come  seaward 
From  heaths  starred  with  broom, 
And  high  rocks  throw  mildly 
On  the  blanched  sands  a  gloom ; 
Up  the  still,  glistening  beaches, 
Up  the  creeks  we  will  hie. 
Over  banks  of  bright  seaweed 
The  ebb-tide  leaves  dry. 
We  will  gaze,  from  the  sand-hills, 
At  the  white,  sleeping  town; 
At  the  church  on  the  hillside — 
And  then  come  back  down. 


110 


120 


130 


Singing:     "  There  dwells  a  loved  one,  140., 

But  cruel  is  she! 

She  left  lonely  forever 

The  kings  of  the  sea." 

TO  A  FRIEND* 

Who  prop,  thou  ask'st,  in  these  bad  days,  my 

mind? — 
He  much,  the  old  man,  who,  clearest-souled  of 

men. 
Saw  The  Wide  Prospect,  and  the  Asian  Fen, 
And  Tmolus  hill,  and  Smyrna  bay,  though  blind. 
Much  he,  whose  friendship  I  not  long  since  won, 
That  halting  slave,  who  in  Nicopolis 
Taught  Arrian,  when  Vespasian's  brutal  son 
Cleared  Eome  of  what  most  shamed  him.     But 

be  his 
My  special  thanks,  whose  even-balanced  soul, 
From  first  youth  tested  up  to  extreme  old  age. 
Business  could  not  make  dull,  nor  passion  wild; 
Who  saw  life  steadily,  and  saw  it  whole; 
The  mellow  glory  of  the  Attic  stage. 
Singer  of  sweet  Colonus,  and  its  child. 

SHAKESPEARE 

Others  abide  our  question.     Thou  art  free. 
We  ask  and  ask — Thou  smilest  and  art  still, 
Out-topping  knowledge.     For  the  loftiest  hill. 
Who  to  the  stars  uncrowns  his  majesty, 
Planting  his  steadfast  footsteps  in  the  sea, 
Making    the   heaven   of   heavens   his    dwelling- 
place, 
Spares  but  the  cloudy  border  of  his  base 
To  the  foiled  searching  of  mortality; 
And  thou,  who  didst  the   stars  and  sunbeams 

know. 
Self-schooled,  self-scanned,  self-honoured,  self- 
secure. 
Didst  tread  on  earth  unguessed  at. — Better  so! 
All  pains  the  immortal  spirit  must  endure. 
All   weakness  which  impairs,  all   griefs  which 

bow, 
Find  their  sole  speech  in  that  victorious  brow. 

*  This  sonnet  gives  expression  to  Arnold's  steady 
rclianco,  for  mental  and  moral  support,  upon 
the  great  poets  and  phllosoph<M"s — his  con- 
stant recourse  to  "the  best  that  is  known  and 
thought  in  the  world."  The  three  "props" 
mentioned  here  are  Homer,  the  blind  bard 
whom  the  city  of  Smyrna  in  Asia  Minor 
claimed  as  her  son ;  Epictetus.  the  lamo 
philosopher  who  had  been  a  slave,  and  who. 
when  Domitian  banished  the  philosophers 
from  Rome,  went  to  Nicopolis  in  Greece  and 
taught  his  Stole  principles  to  Arrian ;  and 
Sophocles,  thp  Athenian  dramatist,  author  of 
(Edipus  at  Colonus  and  other  tragedies.  Ar- 
nold explains  the  third  line  by  pointing  out 
that  the  name  Kuropo  means  "the  wide  pros- 
pect," and  Asia  probably  means  "marshy." 
The  twelfth  line  has  passed  Into  familiar 
•juotatlon. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


643 


AUSTERITY  OF  POETRY 

That  son  of  Italy  who  tried  to  blow,i 

Ere  Dante  came,  the  trump  of  sacred  song, 

In  his  light  youth  amid  a  festal  throng 

Sat  with  his  bride  to  see  a  public  show. 

Fair  was  the  bride,  and  on  her  front  did  glow 

Youth  like  a  star;  and  what  to  youth  belong — 

Gay   raiment,   sparkling  gauds,   elation   strong. 

A  prop  gave  way!  crash  fell  a  platform!   lo, 

'Mid  struggling   sufferers,  hurt  to   death,   she 

lay! 
Shuddering,   they   drew  her   garments  off — and 

found 
A  robe  of  sackcloth  next  the  smooth,  white  skin. 
Such,  poets,   is  your   bride,   the   Muse!    young, 

gay, 
Radiant,  adorned  outside;  a  hidden  ground 
Of  thought  and  of  austerity  within. 

MEMORIAL  VERSES 

April,  1850 

Goethe  in  Weimar  sleeps,  and  Greece, 
Long  since,  saw  Byron  's  struggle  cease. 
But  one  such  death  remained  to  come; 
The  last  poetic  voice  is  dumb— 
We  stand  to-day  by  Wordsworth 's  tomb. 

When  Byron's  eyes  were  shut  in  death, 

We  bowed  our  head  and  held  our  breath. 

He  taught  us  little;  but  our  soul 

Had  felt  him  like  the  thunder's  roll. 

With  shivering  heart  the  strife  we  saw  10 

Of  passion  with  eternal  law; 

And  yet  with  reverential  awe 

We  watched  the  fount  of  fiery  life 

Which  served  for  that  Titanic  strife. 

When  Goethe's  death  was  told,  we  said: 

Sunk,  then,  is  Europe's  sagest  head. 

Physician  of  the  iron  age, 

Goethe  has  done  his  pilgrimage. 

He  took  the  suffering  human  race, 

He  read  each  wound,  each  weakness  clear ;        20 

And  struck  his  finger  on  the  place, 

And  said:     Tliou  ailest  here,  and  here! 

He  looked  on  Europe's  dying  hour 

Of  fitful  dream  and  feverish  power; 

His  eye  plunged  down  the  weltering  strife, 

The  turmoil  of  expiring  life — 

He  said:    The  end  is  everywhere, 

Art  still  has  truth,  take  refuge  there! 

1  Jacopone  da  Todi,  who  was,  says  Gaspary,  a 
"true  type  of  the  mediaeval  Christian  ascetic. '" 
According  to  the  legend,  he  was  turned  bv  the 
incident  which  Arnold  relates  from  a  life  of 
gayety  to  one  of  rigorous  self-imposed  pen- 
ances. 


And  he  was  happy,  if  to  know 

Causes  of  things,  and  far  below  30 

His  feet  to  see  the  lurid  flow 

Of  terror,  and  insane  distress, 

And  headlong  fate,  be  happiness. 

And  Wordsworth! — Ah,  pale  ghosts,  rejoice! 

For  never  has  such  soothing  voice 

Been  to  your  shadowy  world  conveyed. 

Since  erst,  at  morn,  some  wandering  shade 

Heard  the  clear  song  of  Orpheus  come 

Through  Hades,  and  the  mournful  gloom. 

Wordsworth  has  gone  from  us — and  ye,  40 

Ah,  may  ye  feel  his  voice  as  we ! 

He  too  upon  a  wintry  clime 

Had  fallen — on  this  iron  time 

Of  doubts,  disputes,  distractions,  fears. 

He  found  us  when  the  age  had  bound 

Our  souls  in  its  benumbing  round; 

He  spoke,  and  loosed  our  heart  in  tears. 

He  laid  us  as  we  lay  at  birth 

On  the  cool  flowery  lap  of  earth. 

Smiles  broke  from  us  and  we  had  ease;  50 

The  hil's  were  round  us,  and  the  breeze 

Went  o'er  the  sun-lit  fields  again; 

Our  foreheads  felt  the  wind  and  rain. 

Our  youth  returned ;   for  there  was  shed 

On  spirits  that  had  long  been  dead, 

Spirits  dried  up  and  closely  furled, 

The  freshness  of  the  early  world. 

Ah!  since  dark  days  still  bring  to  light 

Man 's  prudence  and  man  's  fiery  might, 

Time  may  restore  us  in  his  course  60 

Goethe 's  sage  mind  and  Byron 's  force ; 

But  where  will  Europe 's  latter  hour 

Again  find  Wordsworth's  healing  powerf 

Others  will  teach  us  how  to  dare. 

And  against  fear  our  breast  to  steel; 

Others  will  strengthen  us  to  bear — 

But  who,  ah!  who,  will  make  us  feel? 

The  cloud  of  mortal  destiny. 

Others  will  front  it  fearlessly — 

But  who,  like  him,  will  put  it  by?  70 

Keep  fresh  the  grass  upon  his  grave, 

0  Rotha,!  with  thy  living  wave! 
Sing  him  thy  best!  for  few  or  none 
Hears  thy  voice  right,  now  he  is  gone. 

SELF-DEPENDENCE 

Weary  of  myself,  and  sick  of  asking 

What  I  am,  and  what  I  ought  to  be, 

At  this  vessel's  prow  I  stand,  which  bears  me 

Forwards,  forwards,  o'er  the  starlit  sea. 

1  The  stream  which  flows  past  the  churchyard  of 

Grasmere  where  Wordsworth  is  burled. 


644 


THE  VICTOKIAN  AC5E 


And  a  look  of  passionate  desire 

O  'er  the  sea  and  to  ih '  stars  1  send : 

' '  Ye  who  from  my  childhood  up  have  calmed 

me, 
Calm  me,  ah,  compose  me  to  the  end!  8 

"Ah,    once    more,"    I    cried,    "ye    stars,    ye 

waters, 
On  my  heart  your  mijfhty  charm  renew; 
Still,  still  let  me.  as  I  gaze  upon  you. 
Feel  my  soul  becoming  vast  like  you!  " 

From    the    intense,    clear,    star-sown    vault    of 

heaven, 
Over  the  lit  sea  's  unquiet  way. 
In   the   rustling  night-air   came   the   answer: 
"Wouldst    thou    be    as    these    are?      Live    as 

they.  16 

"  Unaff righted  by  the  silence  round  them, 
tlndistracted  bj-  the  sights  they  see. 
These  demand  not  that  the  things  without  them 
Yield  them  love,  amusement,  sympathy. 

■  *  And  with  joy  the  stars  perform  their  shining. 
And  the  sea  its  long  moon-silvered  roll; 
For  self-poised  they  live,  nor  pine  with  noting 
All  the  fever  of  some  differing  soul.  24 

"Bounded  by  themselves,  and  unregardful 
In  what  state  God's  other  works  may  be, 
In  their  own  tasks  all  their  powers  pouring, 
These  attain  the  mighty  life  you  see." 

O  air-born  voice!  long  since,  severely  clear, 
A  cry  like  thine  in  mine  own  heart  I  hear: 
"Resolve  to  be  thyself;  and  know  that  he, 
Who  finds  himself,  loses  his  misery !  "  32 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  KENSINGTON 
GARDENS2 

In  this  lone,  open  glade  I  lie, 
Screened  by  deep  boughs  on  either  hand; 
,  And  at  its  end,  to  stay  the  eye, 
Those  black-crowned,  red-boled  pine-trees  stand! 

Birds  here  make  song,  each  bird  has  his, 

Across  the  girdling  city 's  hum. 

How  green  under  the  boughs  it  is! 

How  thick  the  tremulous  sheep-cries  come!       8 

Sometimes  a  child  will  cross  the  glade 
To  take  his  nurse  his  broken  toy; 
Sometimes  a  thrush  flit  overhead 
Deep  in  her  unknown  day 's  employ. 

Here  at  my  feet  what  wonders  pass, 
What  endless,  active  life  i.s  here! 

'.*  An  pztPDxiTc  London  park. 


What  blowing  daisies,  fragrant  grass! 

An  air-stirred  forest,  fresh  and  clear.  16 

Scarce  fresher  is  the  mountain-sod 
Where  the  tired  angler  lies,  stretched  out, 
And,  eased  of  basket  and  of  rod. 
Counts  his  day 's  spoil,  the  spotted  trout. 

In  the  huge  world,  which  roars  hard  by, 

Be  others  happy  if  they  can! 

But  in  my  helpless  cradle  I 

Was  breathed  on  by  the  rural  Pan."  24 

I,  on  men's  impious  uproar  hurled. 
Think  often,  as  I  hear  them  rave, 
That  peace  has  left  the  upper  world 
And  now  keeps  only  in  the  grave. 

Yet  here  is  peace  for  ever  new! 

When  I  who  watch  them  am  away. 

Still  all  things  in  this  glade  go  through 

The  changes  of  their  quiet   day.  32 

Then  to  their  happy  rest  they  pass! 
The  iiovkers  upclose,  the  birds  are  fed, 
The  night  comes  down  upon  the  grass, 
The  child  sleeps  warmly  in  his  bed. 

Calm  soul  of  all  things!  make  it  mine 

To  feel,  amid  the  city's  jar. 

That  there  abides  a  peace  of  thine, 

Man  did  not  make,  and  cannot  mar.  40 

The  will  to  neither  strive  nor  cry, 
The  power  to  feel  with  others  give! 
Calm,  calm  me  more!  nor  let  me  die 
Before  I  have  begun  to  live. 

REQUIESCAT* 

Strew  on  her  roses,  roses, 

And  never  a  spray  of  yew! 
In  quiet  she  reposes; 

Ah,  would  that  I  did  too! 

Her  mirth  the  world  required; 

She  bathed  it  in  smiles  of  glee. 
But  her  heart  was  tired,  tired, 

And  now  they  let  her  be. 

Her  life  was  turning,  turning, 

In  mazes  of  heat  and  sound. 
But  for  peace  her  soul  was  yearning. 

And  now  peace  laps  her  rountl. 

Her  cabined,  ample  spirit. 

It  fluttered  and  failed  for  breath. 

To-night  it  doth  inherit 
The  vasty  hall  of  death. 

s  Arnold  waR  born  at  Laleham  In  tbc  Thames  val- 
ley, and  grew  up  amid  touuiry  swnos. 
4  "May  she  rest." 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


645 


SOHKAB  AND  RUSTUM* 

And  the  first  gray  of  morning  filled  the  east, 
And  the  fog  rose  out  of  the  Oxus  stream.^ 
But  all  the  Tartar  camp  along  the  stream 
Was  hushed,  and  still  the  men  were  plunged  in 

sleep ; 
Sohrab  alone,  he  slept  not ;  all  night  long 
lie  had  lain  wakeful,  tossing  on  hit  bed; 
But  when  the  gray  dawn  stole  into  his  tent, 
He  rose,  and  clad  himself,  and  girt  his  sword, 
And   took   his   horseman's   cloak,   and    left   his 

tent. 
And  went  abroad  into  the  cold  wet  fog,  10 

Through  the  dim  camp  to  Peran-Wisa 's«  tent. 
Through  the  black  Tartar  tents  he  passed, 
which  stood 
(  lustering  like  beehives  on  the  low  flat  strand 
Of  Oxus,  where  the  summer -floods  o  'crflow 
When  the  sun  melts  the  snows  in  high  Pamere ; 
Through  the  black  tents  he  passed,  o'er  that 

low  strand. 
And  to  a  hillock  came,  a  little  back 
From  the  stream's  brink — the  spot  where  first 

a  boat. 
Crossing    the    stream    in    summer,    scrapes    the 

land. 
The  men  of  former  times  had  crowned  the  top  -0 
With  a  clay  fort ;  but  that  was  fallen,  and  now  j 
The  Tartars  built  there  Peran-Wisa 's  tent, 
A  dome  of  laths,  and  o'er  it  felts  were  spread. 
And  Sohrab  came  there,  and  went  in,  and  stood 
Upon  the  thick  piled'  carpets  in  the  tent, 
And  found  the  old  man  sleeping  on  his  bed 
Of  rugs  and  felts,  and  near  him  lay  his  arms. 
And  Peran-Wisa  heard  him,  though  the  step 
Was  dulled;   for  he  slept  light,  an  old  man's 

sleep ; 
And  he  rose  quickly  on  one  arm,  and  said: —   30 
* '  Who  art  thou  ?  for  it  is  not  yet  clear  dawn. 
Speak!  is  there  news,  or  any  night  alarm?" 

But  Sohrab  came  to  the  bedside,  and  said: — 
* '  Thou  know  'st  me,  Peran-Wisa !  it  is  I. 
The  sun  is  not  yet  risen,  and  the  foe 
Sleep;  but  I  sleep  not;  all  night  long  I  lie 

5  Now    the    Amu-Daria.    flowing   from    the   plateau 

of  Pamir,  in  central  Asia,  to  the  Aral   Sea. 

6  A  Turanian  chieftain. 

7  From   "pile" — fur,  or  hair-like  nap. 

*  Founded  on  a  story  in  the  Persian  epic,  Shah 
yameh,  or  "Book  of  Kings."  Rustum  is  the 
great  legendary  warrior- hero  of  Iran,  or  Per- 
sia. In  the  Turanian,  or  Tartar  land,  which 
is  ruled  over  by  Af  rasiab,  an  enemy  of  the  Per- 
sians, Rustum's  son  Sohrab  has  grown  up 
without  ever  having  seen  his  father ;  nor  does 
the  father  know  of  the  existence  of  his  son, 
having  l>een  tol*  that  the  child  born  to  him 
was  a  girl.  The  rest  of  the  tragic  tale  may 
be  left  to  tell  itself  in  the  simple  and  digni- 
fied lansiiair'»  whioli  Arnold,  in  professed  imi- 
tation of  the  Homeric  poems,  has  chosen. 
•      See  Enij.  Lit.,  p.  312. 


Tossing  and  wakeful,  and  I  come  to  thee. 
For  so  did  King  Afrasiab  bid  me  seek 
Thy  counsel,  and  to  heed  thee  as  thy  son, 
In  Samarcand,  before  the  army  marched;       'lO 
And  1  will  tell  thee  what  my  heart  desires. 
Thou  know'st  if,  since  from  Ader-baijan*  first 
I  came  among  the  Tartars  and  bore  arms, 
I  have  still  served  Afrasiab  well,  and  shown. 
At  my  boy's  years,  the  courage  of  a  nmn. 
This  too  thou  know'st,  that  while  I  still  bear  on 
The    conquering    Tartar    ensigns    through    the 

world, 
And  beat  the  Persians  back  on  every  field, 
1  seek  one  man,  one  man,  and  one  alone —      49 
Kustum,  my  father;  who  I  hoped  should  greet. 
Should   one   day   greet,  upon   some   well-fought 

field. 
His  not  unworthy,  not  inglorious  son. 
So  I  long  hoped,  but  him  I  never  find. 
Come  then,  hear  now,  and  grant  me  what  I  ask. 
Let  the  two  armies  rest  to-day;  but  I 
Will  challenge  forth  the  bravest  Persian  lords 
To  meet  me,  man  to  man;  if  I  prevail, 
Rustum  will  surely  hear  it;  if  I  fall — 
Old  man,  the  dead  need  no  one,  claim  no  kin. 
Dim  is  the  rumour  of  a  common  fight,  ''<> 

Where  host  meets  host,  and  many  names  are 

sunk; 
But  of  a  single  combat  fame  speaks  clear. ' ' 
He  spoke ;  and  Peran-Wisa  took  the  hand 
Of    the   young   man   in    his,    and    sighed,    and 
said : — 
"O  Sohrab,  an  unquiet  heart  is  thine! 
Canst  thou  not  rest  among  the  Tartar  chiefs, 
And  share  the  battle's  common  chance  with  us 
Who  love  thee,  but  must  press  for  ever  first. 
In  single  fight  incurring  single  risk, 
To  find  a  father  tliou  hast  never  seen?  70 

That  were  far  best,  my  son,  to  stay  with  us 
Unmurmuring;  in  our  tents,  while  it  is  war. 
And  when  't  is  truce,  then  in  Afrasiab 's  towns. 
But,  if  this  one  desire  indeed  rules  all. 
To    seek    out    Rustum — seek    him    not    through 

fight! 
Seek  him  in  peace,  and  carry  to  his  arms, 
O  Sohrab,  carry  an  unwounded  son! 
But  far  hence  seek  him,  for  he  is  not  here. 
i  For  now  it  is  not  as  when  I  was  young, 
'  When  Rustum  was  in  front  of  every  fray;     8( 
I  But  now  he  keeps  apart,  and  sits  at  home. 
I  In  Seistan,9  ^ith  Zal,  his  father  old. 
1  Whether  that  his  own  mighty  strength  at  last 
'  Feels  the  abhorred  approaches  of  old  age. 
Or  in  some  quarrel  with  the  Persian  King. 
There  go! — Thou  wilt  not?    Yet  my  heart  fore- 
bodes 

s  A   northerlv   province   of   Persia. 

»  Three  syllables,  ac-ii-tutt ;  in  eastern  Persia. 


646 


THE  VICTOBIAN  AGE 


Danger  or  death  awaits  thee  on  this  field. 
Fain  would  I  know  thee  safe  and  well,  though 

lost 
To  us!  fain  therefore  send  thee  hence,  in  peace 
To  seek  thy  father,  not  seek  single  fights  90 
In  vain; —  but  who  can  keep  the  lion's  cub 
From,  ravening,  and  who  govern  Kustum's  sou? 
Go,  I  will  grant  thee  what  thy  heart  desires. ' ' 
So  said  he,  and  dropped  Sohrab's  hand,  and 

left 
His  bed,  and  the  warm  rugs  whereon  he  lay; 
And  o'er  his  chilly  limbs  his  woollen  coat 
He  passed,  and  tied  his  sandals  on  his  feet, 
And  threw  a  white  cloak  round  him,  and  he  took 
In  his  right  hand  a  ruler 's  staff,  no  sword ; 
And  on  his  head  he  set  his  sheep-skin  cap,     100 
Black,  glossy,  curled,  the  fleece  of  Kara-Kul;io 
And  raised  the  curtain  of  his  tent,  and  called 
His  herald  to  his  side,  and  went  abroad. 

The  sun  by  this  had  risen,  and  cleared  the 

fog 
From  the  broad  Oxus  and  the  glittering  sands. 
And  from  their  tents  the  Tartar  horsemen  filed 
Into  the  open  plain;  so  Haman  bade — 
Haman,  who  next  to  Peran-Wisa  ruled 
The  host,  and  still  was  in  his  lusty  prime. 
From  their  black  tents,  long  files  of  horse,  they 

streamed ;  110 

As  when  some  gray  November  morn  the  files. 
In  marching  order  spread,  of  long-necked  cranes 
Stream  over  Casbin  and  the  southern  slopes 
Of  Elburz,  from  the  Aralian  estuaries. 
Or   some   frore"   Caspian  reed-bed,   southward 

bound 
For    the    warm     Persian     sea-board — so     they 

streamed. 
The  Tartars  of  the  Oxus,  the  King's  guard, 
First,  with  black  sheep-skin  caps  and  with  long 

spears ; 
Large   men,  large   steeds;    who   from  Bokhara 

come 
And  Khiva,  and  ferment  the  milk  of  mares.12 
Next,  the  more  temperate   Toorkmuns   of  the 

south,  121 

The  Tukas,  and  the  lances  of  Salore, 
And  those  from  Attruck  and  the  Caspian  sands; 
Light  men  and  on  light  steeds,  who  only  drink 
The  acrid  milk  of  camels,  and  their  wells. 
And   then   a  swarm   of  wandering  horse,   who 

came 
From  far,  and  a  more  doubtful  service  owned; 
The  Tartars  of  Ferghana,  from  the  banks 
Of  the  Jaxartes,  men  with  scanty  beards 
And    close-set    skull-caps;     and    those    wilder 

hordes  130 

10  A  town  In  Bokhara. 

11  Her  Par.  Lout,  Jl.  OJCt. 

^  Making  the  drink  called  kumiss. 


Who  roam  0  'er  Kipchak  and  the  northern  waste, 
Kalmucks   and    unkempt  Kuzzaks,    tribes    who 

stray 
Nearest  the  Pole,  and  wandering  Kirghizzes, 
Who  come  on  shaggy  ponies  from  Pamerc; 
These  all  filed  out  from  camp  into  the  plain. 
And  on  the  other  side  the  Persians  formed;— 
First    a    light    cloud    of    horse,    Tartars    they 

seemed, 
The  Ilyats  of  Khorassan;  and  behind. 
The  royal  troops  of  Persia,  horse  and  foot. 
Marshalled  battalions  bright  in  burnished  steel. 
But  Peran-Wisa  with  his  herald  came,  141 

Threading  the  Tartar  squadrons  to  the  front, 
And    with    his    staff    kept    back    the    foremost 

ranks. 
And  when  Ferood,  who  led  the  Persians,  saw 
That  Peran-Wisa  kept  the  Tartars  back. 
He  took  his  spear,  and  to  the  front  he  came. 
And  checked  his  ranks,  and  fixed  them  where 

they  stood. 
And  the  old  Tartar  came  upon  the  sand 
Betwixt  the  silent  hosts,  and  spake,  and  said : — 
"Ferood,    and    ye,    Persians    and    Tartars, 
hear!  150 

Let  there  be  truce  between  the  hosts  to-day. 
But  choose  a  champion  from  the  Persian  lords 
To  fight  our  champion  Sohrab,  man  to  man. ' ' 

As,  in  the  country,  on  a  morn  in  June, 
When  the  dew  glistens  on  the  pearlfid  ears, 
A  shiver  runs  through  the  deep  corn  for  joy — ■ 
So,  when  they  heard  what  Peran-Wisa  said, 
A  thrill  through  all  the  Tartar  squadron  ran 
Of  pride  and  hope  for  Sohrab,  whom  they  loved. 
But'as  a  troop  of  pedlars,  from  Cabool,      160 
Cross  underneath  the  Indian  Caucasus, 
That  vast  sky-neighbouring  mountain  of  milk 

snow ; 
Crossing  so  high,  that,  as  they  mount,  they  pass 
Long   flocks   of   travelling   birds   dead    on   tho 

snow. 
Choked  by  the  air,  and  scarce  can  they  them- 
selves 
Slake  their  parched  throats  with  sugared  mul- 
berries— 
In  single  file  they  move,  and  stop  their  breath. 
For  fear  they  should  dislodge  the  0  'erhanging 

snows — 
So  the  pale  Persians  held  their  breath  with  fear. 
And  to  Ferood  his  brother  chiefs  came  up  IVO 
To  counsel;  Gudurz  and  Zoarrah  came, 
And  Feraburz,  who  ruled  the  Persian  host 
Second,  and  was  the  uncle  of  the  King ; 
These  came  and  counselled,  and  then  Gudurz 
said : — 
'  *  Ferood,  shame  bids  us  take  their  challenge 
up, 
Yet  champion  have  we  none  to  match  this  youth. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


Gi7 


He  has  the  wild  stag's  foot,  the  lion's  heart. 
But  Kustum  came  last  night ;  aloof  he  sits 
And  sullen,  and  has  pitched  his  tents  apart. 
Him  will  I  seek,  and  carry  to  his  ear  ISO 

The   Tartar   challenge,   and   this   young   man's 

name. 
Haply  he  will  forget  his  wrath,  and  fight. i-' 
Stand  forth  the  while,  and  take  their  challenge 

up." 
So   spake   he;    and   Ferood  stood   forth   and 

cried : — 
' '  Old  man,  be  it  agreed  as  thou  hast  said ! 
Let  Sohrab  arm,  and  we  will  find  a  man. ' ' 
He    spake:     and     Peran-Wisa    turned,     and 

strode 
Back  through  the  opening  squadrons  to  his  tent. 
But  through  the  anxious  Persians  Gudurz  ran. 
And  crossed  the  camp  which  lay  behind,  and 

reached,  1^^ 

Out  on  the  sands  beyond  it,  Kustum 's  tents. 
Of  scarlet  cloth  they  were,  and  glittering  gay, 
.lust  pitched;  the  high  pavilion  in  the  midst 
Was  Eustum  's,  and  his  men  lay  camped  around. 
And  Gudurz  entered  Eustum 's  tent,  and  found 
Eustum;  his  morning  meal  was  done,  but  still 
The    table    stood    before    him,    charged    with 

food — 
A  side  of  roasted  sheep,  and  cakes  of  bread. 
And  dark  green  melons ;  and  there  Eustum  sate 
Listless,  and  held  a  falcon  on  his  wrist,         200 
And  played  with  it ;  but  Gudurz  came  and  stood  | 
Before  him;  and  he  looked,  and  saw  him  stand. 
And  with  a  cry  sprang  up  and  dropped  the  bird. 
And    greeted    Gudurz    with    both    hands,    and 

said : — 
"Welcome!    these   eyes   could  see  no   better 

sight. 
What   news?   but   sit   down   first,   and   eat   and 

drink. ' ' 
But    Gudurz    stood    in    the    tent    door,    and 

said : — 
"Not  now!  a  time  will  come  to  eat  and  drink. 
But  not  to-day;  to-day  has  other  needs. 
The  armies  are  drawn  out,  and  stand  at  gaze; 
For  from  the  Tartars  is  a  challenge  brought  -11 
To  pick  a  champion  from  the  Persian  lords 
To  fight  their  champion — and  thou  know'st  his 

name — 
Sohrab  men  call  him,  but  his  birth  is  hid, 
O  Eustum,  like  thy  might  is  this  young  man's! 
He  has  the  wild  stag's  foot,  the  lion's  heart; 
And  he  is  young,  and  Iran's  chiefs  are  old. 
Or  else  too  weak;  and  all  eyes  turn  to  thee. 
Come  down  and  help  us,  Eustum,  or  we  lose!  " 
He    spoke;    but    Bustam    answered    with    a 
smile: —  220 

OTbls  is  a  distinct  echo  of  tho  fllad. 


"Go  to!  if  Iran's  chiefs  are  old,  then  I 
Am  oluer;  if  the  young  are  weak,  the  King 
Errs  strangely;  for  the  King,  for  Kai  Khosroo, 
Himself  is  young,  and  honours  younger  men. 
And  lets  the  aged  moulder  to  their  graves. 
Eustum  he  loves  no  more,  but  loves  the  young — 
The  young  may  rise  at  Sohrab 's  vaunts,  not  I. 
For   what   care   I,   though   all   speak   Sohrab 's 

fame! 
For  Avould  that  I  myself  had  such  a  son. 
And  not  that  one  slight  helpless  girl  I  have — 
A  son  so  famed,  so  brave,  to  send  to  war,       231 
And  [  to  tarry  with  the  snow-haired  Zal,* 
My  father,  whom  the  robber  Afghans  vex. 
And  clip  his  borders  short,  and  drive  his  herds. 
And  he  has  none  to  guard  his  weak  old  age. 
There  would  I  go,  and  hang  my  armour  up. 
And  with  my  great  name  fence  that  weak  old 

man. 
And  spend  the  goodly  treasures  I  have  got. 
And  rest  my  age,  and  hear  of  Sohrab 's  fame, 
And    leave    to    death    the    hosts    of    thankless 
kings,  240 

And  with  these  slaughterous  hands  draw  sword 
no  more. " 
He  spoke  and  smiled;   and  Gudurz  made  re- 
ply:— 
' '  What  then,  O  Eustum,  will  men  say  to  this, 
When  Sohrab  dares  our  bravest  forth,  and  seeks 
Thee  most  of  all,  and  thou,  whom  most  he  seeks, 
Hidest  thy  face!     Take  heed  lest  men  should 

say: 
Like  some  old  miser,  Eustum  hoards  his  fame, 
And  shuns  to  peril  it  with  younger  men." 
And  greatly  moved,  then  Eustum   made  re- 

ply:- 

' '  O    Gudurz.    wherefore    dost    thou    say    such 

words?  250 

Thou  knowest  better  words  than  this  to  say. 
What  is  one  more,  one  less,  obscure  or  fame'l, 
Valiant  or  craven,  young  or  old,  to  me? 
Are  not  they  mortal,  am  not  I  myself? 
But   who    for   men   of   nought  would   do   great 

deeds? 
Come,   thou  shalt   see  how   Eustum   hoards   his 

fame! 
But  I  will  fight  unknown,  and  in  plain  arms; 
Let  not  men  say  of  Eustnm,  he  was  matched 
In  single  fight  with  any  mortal  man. ' ' 

He  spoke,  and  frowned ;  and  Gudurz  turned. 

and  ran  260 

Back    quickly   through    the    camp    in   fear   and 

joy- 
Fear  at  his  wrath,  but  joy  that  Eustum  came. 

*  Zal  was  born  with  white  hair,  and  on  that  ac- 
count had  been  cast  out  to  die.  but  was  fos- 
tered by  a  marvelous  bird,  the  simburg,  or  roc. 
Cp.  I.  679. 


648 


THE  VICTOKIAN  AGE 


But  Rustum  strode  to  his  tent-door,  and  called 
His  followers  in,  and  bade  them  bring  his  arms, 
And  clad  himself  in  steel ;  the  arms  he  chose 
Were  plain,  and  on  his  shield  was  no  device, 
Only  his  helm  was  rich,  inlaid  with  gold. 
And,  from  the  fluted  spine  atop,  a  plume 
Of  horsehair  waved,  a  scarlet  horsehair  plume. 
So    armed,    he    issued    forth;    and    Euksh,    his 

horse,  270 

I'oUowed  liini  like  a  faithful  hound  at  heel — 
Suksh,  whose  renown  was  noised  through  all  the 

earth. 
The  horse,  whom  Bustum  on  a  foray  once 
Did  in  Bokhara  by  the  river  find 
A  colt  beneath  its  dam,  and  drove  him  home. 
And  reared  him;  a  bright  bay,  with  lofty  crest, 
Dight  with  a  saddle-cloth  of  broidered  green 
Crusted    with    gold,   and   on    the   ground   were 

worked 
AH  beasts  of  chase,  all  beasts  which  hunters 

know.  280 

So  followed,  Eustum  left  his  tents,  and  crossed 
The  camp,  and  to  the  Persian  host  appeared. 
And  all  the  Persians  knew  him,  and  with  shouts 
Hailed;  but  the  Tartars  knew  not  who  he  was. 
And  dear  as  the  wet  diver  to  the  eyes 
Of  his  pale  wife  who  waits  and  weeps  on  shore. 
By  sandy  Bahrein,  in  the  Persian  Gulf, 
Plunging  all  day  in  the  blue  waves,  at  night, 
Having  made  up  his  tale  of  precious  pearls, 
Kejoins  her  in  their  hut  upon  the  sands — 
So  dear  to  the  pale  Persians  Kustum  came.     290 
And  Rustum  to  the  Persian  front  advanced, 
And  Sohrab  armed  in  Haman  's  tent,  and  came. 
And  as  afield  the  reapers  cut  a  swath 
Down  through  the  middle  of  a  rich  man  's  corn. 
And  on  each  side  are  squares  of  standing  corn, 
And  in  the  midst  a  stubble,  short  and  bare — 
So   on   each    side  were   squares   of   men,   with 

spears 
Bristling,  and  in  the  midst,  the  open  sand. 
And  Rustum  came  upon  the  sand,  and  cast 
His  eyes  toward  the  Tartar  tents,  and  saw      300 
Sohrab  come  forth,  and  eyed  him  as  he  came. 
As  some  rich  woman,  on  a  winter's  morn, 
Eyes    through    her    silken    curtains    the    poor 

drudge 
Who  with   numb  blackened  fingers  makes  her 

fire — 
At  cock-crow,  on  a  starlit  winter's  morn, 
When  the  frost  flowers  the  whitened  window- 
panes— 
And    wonders    how    she    liveg,    and    what    the 

thoughts 
Of  that  poor  drudge  may  be;  so  Rustum  eyed 
The  unknown  adventurous  youth,  who  from  a  fin- 
Came  seeking  Rustum,  and  defying  forth       sio 
All  the  most  valiant  chiefs;  long  he  perused 


His  spirited  air,  and  wondered  who  he  was. 
For  very  young  he  seemed,  tenderly  reared ; 
Like  some  young  cypress,  tall,  and   dark,  and'. 

straight,* 
Which  in  a  queen's  secluded  garden  throws        i 
Its  slight  dark  shadow  on  the  moonlit  turf. 
By  midnight,  to  a  bubbling  fountain's  sound — •• 
So  slender  Sohrab  seemed,  so  softly  reared. 
And  a  deep  pity  entered  Rustum  's  soul 
As  he  beheld  him  coming;  and  he  stood,       320 
And  beckoned  to  him  with  his  hand,  and  said: — 
"O  thou  young  man,   the   air   of   Heaven  is 

soft. 
And  warm,  and  pleasant;  but  the  grave  is  cold! 
Heaven's  air  is  better  than  the  cold  dead  grave. 
Behold  me!  I  am  vast,  and  clad  in  iron, 
And  tried;  and  I  have  stood  on  many  a  field 
Of  blood,  and  I  have  fought  with  many  a  foe — 
Never  was  that  field  lost,  or  that  foe  saved. 
O  Sohrab,  wherefore  wilt  thou  rush  on  death? 
Be  governed !  quit  the  Tartar  host,  and  come  330 
To  Iran,  and  be  as  my  son  to  me. 
And  fight  beneath  my  banner  till  I  die! 
There  are  no  youths  in  Iran  brave  as  thou." 

So  he  spake,  mildly;  Sohrab  heard  his  voice. 
The  mighty  voice  of  Rustum,  and  he  saw 
His  giant  figure  planted  on  the  sand, 
Sole,  like  some  single  tower,  which  a  chief         ' 
Hath  builded  on  the  waste  in  former  years 
A^^ainst  the  robbers;  and  he  saw  that  head. 
Streaked  with  its  first  gray  hairs; — hope  filled 

his  soul,  34a 

And  he  ran  forward  and  embraced  his  knees, 
And    clasped    his    hand    within    his    own,    and 

said: — 

"O,  by  thy  father's  head!  by  thine  own  soul!' 

Art  thou  not  Rustum  ?  speak !  art  thou  not  he  ? ' " 

But  Rustum  eyed  askance  the  kneeling  youth,, 

And  turned  away,  and  spake  to  his  own  soul : — 

"Ah  me,  I  muse  what  this  young  fox  may 

mean! 
False,  wily,  boastful,  are  these  Tartar  boys. 
For  if  I  now  confess  this  thing  he  asks. 
And  hide  it  not,  but  say:  li  tost  urn  is  here!      350 
He  will  not  yield  indeed,  nor  quit  our  foes, 
But  he  will  find  some  pretext  not  to  fight, 
And  praise  my  fame,  and  profl'cr  courteous  gifts, 
.\  belt  or  sword  perhaps,  and  go  his  way. 
And  on  a  feast-tide,  in  Afrasiab's  hall, 
Tn  Samarcand,  he  will  arise  and  cry: 
'  I    challenged     once,     wlien    the    two     armies 

camped 
Beside  the  Oxus,  all  the  Persian  lords 
To  cope  with  me  in  single  fight;  but  they 
Shrank,  only  Rustum  dared ;  then  he  and  I    3fi0 
(Changed  gihs,  and  went  on  equal  terms  away.' 

•  For   this   orieiitnl    ngurc,   conipnrp  the  Itubaii/dt, 
Ht.    xli. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


649 


So  will  he  speak,  perhaps,  while  men  applaud; 

Then  were  the  chiefs  of  Iran  shamed  through 

me." 

And    then    he    turned,    and    sternly    spake 

aloud: — 

"Kise!    wherefore    dost    thou    vainly    question 

thus 
Of  Kustum?   I  am  here,  whom  thou  hast  called 
By  challenge  forth;  make  good  thy  vaunt,  or 

yield ! 
Is  it  with  Eustuni  only  thou  wouldst  fight? 
Itash  boy,  men  look  on  Rustum  's  face  and  flee ! 
For  well  I  know,  that  did  great  Rustum  stand 
Before     thy     face     this     day,     and    were    re- 
vealed, 371 
There  would  be  then  no  talk  of  fighting  more. 
But  being  what  I  am,  I  tell  thee  this — 
Do  thou  record  it  in  thine  inmost  soul: 
Either  thou  shalt  renounce  thy  vaunt  and  yield, 
Or   else   thy   bones   shall   strew  this   sand,   till 

winds 
Bleach  them,   or  Oxus  with  his  summer-floods, 
Oxus  in  summer  wash  them  all  away. ' ' 

He    spoke;     and    Sohrab    answered,    on    his 
feet:— 
"Art  thou  so  fierce?    Thou  wilt  not  fright  me 
so !  380 

I  am  no  girl,  to  be  made  pale  by  words. 
Yet  this  thou  hast  said  well,  did  Rustum  stand 
Here  on  this  field,  there  were  no  fighting  then. 
But  Rustum  is  far  hence,  and  we  stand  here. 
Begin!  thou  art  more  vast,  more  dread  than  I, 
And  thou  art  proved,  I  know,  and  I  am  young — 
But    yet    success    sways    with    the    breath    of 

Heaven. 
And   though  thou  thinkest  that  thou  knowest 

sure 
Thy  victory,  yet  thou  canst  not  surely  know. 
For  we  are  all,  like  swimmers  in  the  sea,       390 
Poised  on  the  top  of  a  huge  wave  of  fate, 
Which  hangs  uncertain  to  which  side  to  fall. 
And  whether  it  Avill  heave  us  up  to  land. 
Or  whether  it  will  roll  us  out  to  sea. 
Back  out  to  sea,  to  the  deep  waves  of  death. 
We  know  not,  and  no  search  will  make  us  know ; 
Only  the  event  will  teach  us  in  its  hour." 
He    spoke,    and    Rustum    answered    not,    but 
hurled 
His  spear;    down   from  the  shoulder,  down  it 

came. 
As  on  some  partridge  in  the  corn  a  hawk,     400 
That  long  has  towered  in  the  airy  clouds, 
Drops  like  a  plummet;   Sohrab  saw  it  come, 
And  sprang  aside,  quick  as  a  flash ;   the  spear 
Hissed,  and  went  quivering  down  into  the  sand, 
Which.it  sent  flying  wide; — then  Sohrab  threw 
In  turn,  and  full  struck  Rustum 's  shield ;  sharp 
rang, 


The   iron   plates   rang    sharp,   but   turned   the 

spear. 
And  Rustum  seized  his  club,  which  none  but  he 
Could   wield;    an   unlopped  trunk  it  was,  and 

huge. 
Still  rough — like   those   which   men  in   treeless 

plains  410 

To  build  them  boats  fish  from  the  flooded  rivers, 
Hyphasis  or  Hydaspes,  when,  high  up 
By  their  dark  springs,  the  wind  in  winter-time 
Hath  made  in  Himalayan  forests  wrack. 
And  strewn  the  channels  with  torn  boughs — so 

huge 
The  club  which  Rustum  lifted  now,  and  struck 
One  stroke;   but  again  Sohrab  sprang  aside, 
Lithe  as  the  glancing  snake,  and  the  club  came 
Thundering  to  earth,  and  leapt  from  Rustum 's 

hand. 
And  Rustum  followed  his  own  blow,  and  fell 
To  his  knees,  and  with  his  fingers  clutched  the 

sand;  421 

And   now    might   Sohrab   have   unsheathed    his 

sword. 
And  pierced  the  mighty  Rustum  while  he  lay 
Dizzy,  and  on  his  knees,  and  choked  with  sand ; 
But   he   looked   on,   and   smiled,  nor   bared  his 

sword. 
But    courteously    drew    back,    and    spoke,    and 

said : — 
' '  Thou  strik  'st  too  hard !   that  club  of  thine 

will  float 
Upon  the  summer-floods,  and  not  my  bones. 
But  rise,  and  be  not  wroth!   not  wroth  am  I; 
No,  when  I  see  thee,  wrath  forsakes  my  soul. 
Thou  say  'st,  thou  art  not  Rustum ;  be  it  so !  431 
Who  art  thou  then,  that  canst  so  touch  my  soul? 
Boy  as  I  am,  I  have  seen  battles  too — 
Have  waded*  foremost  in  their  bloody  waves. 
And  heard  their  hollow  roar  of  dying  men; 
But  never  was  my  heart  thus  touched  before. 
Are  they  from  Heaven,  these  softenings  of  the 

heart? 
O  thou  old  warrior,  let  us  yield  to  Heaven! 
Come,  plant  we  here  in  earth  our  angry  spears. 
And  make  a  truce,  and  sit  upon  this  sand,     440 
And  pledge  each  other  in  red  wine,  like  friends. 
And  thou  shalt  talk  to  me  of  Rustum 's  deeds. 
There  are  enough  foes  in  the  Persian  host. 
Whom    I   may   meet,   and   strike,   and   feel   no 

pang; 
Champions  enough  Afrasiab  has,  whom  thou 
Mayst   fight;    fight    them,   when   they   confront 

thy  spear! 
But    oh,    let    there   be   peace    'twixt    thee    and 

me!" 

*  The  word  originally  meant  only  "walked" :  with 
the  chango  in  mVaning  grew  up  the  hyperbole 
of  "seas  of  blood,"  "bloody  waves,"  etc. 


050 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


He  ceased,  but  while  he  spake,  Bustum  had 

risen, 
And  stood  erect,  trembling  with  rage;  his  club 
He  left  to  lie,  but  had  regained  his  spear,     450 
Whose    fiery    point    now    in    his    mailed    right- 
hand 
Blazed  bright   and   baleful,   like   that   autumn- 
star, 
The  baleful  sign  of  fevers;  dust  had  soile<l 
His   stately   crest,    and    dimmed   his   glittering 

arms. 
His  breast  heaved,  his  lips  foamed,  and  twice 

his  voice 
Was   choked    with    rage;    at   last    these   words 

broke  way: — 
"Girl!    nimble   with   thy  feet,  not  with  thy 

hands ! 
Curled  minion,  dancer,  coiner  of  sweet  words! 
Fight,  let  me  hear  thy  hateful  voice  no  more ! 
Thou  art  not  in  Afrasiab's  gardens  now        460 
With  Tartar  girls,  with  whom  thou  art  wont  to 

dance ; 
But  on  the  Oxus-sands,  and  in  the  dance 
Of  battle,  and  with  me,  who  make  no  play 
Of  war;  I  fight  it  out,  and  hand  to  hand. 
Speak  not  to  me  of  truce,  and  pledge,  and  wine ! 
Remember  all  thy  valour;  try  thy  feints 
And  cunning!  all  the  pity  I  had  is  gone; 
Because  thou  hast  shamed  me  before  both  the 

hosts 
With  thy  light  skipping  tricks,  and  thy  girl 's 

wiles. ' '  469 

He  spoke,  and  Sohrab  kindled  at  his  taunts, 

And    he    too    drew    his   sword;    at    once    they 

rushed 
Together,  as  two  eagles  on  one  prey 
Come  rushing  down  together  from  the  clouds. 
One  from  the  east,  one  from  the  west;   their 

shields 
Dashed  with  a  clang  together,  and  a  din 
Rose,  such  as  that  the  sinewy  wood-cutters 
Make  often  in  the  forest's  heart  at  morn, 
Of  hewing  axes,  crashing  trees — such  blows 
Rustum  and  Sohrab  on  each  other  hailed. 
And  you   would   say  that  sun   and   stars  took 

part  480 

In  that  unnatural  conflict;  for  a  cloud 
Grew  suddenly  in  Heaven,  and  darked  the  sun 
Over  the  fighters'  heads;  and  a  wind  rose 
Under  their  feet,  and  moaning  swept  the  plain, 
And  in  a  sandy  whirlwind  wrappetl  the  pair. 
In  gloom  they  twain  were  wrapped,  and  they 

alone ; 
P'or  both  the  on-looking  hosts  on  either  hand 
Stood  in  broad  daylight,  and  the  sky  was  pure. 
An<l  the  sun  sparkled  on  the  Oxus  stream. 
But   in  the  gloom   they   fought,  with  bloodshot 

eves  490 


And  labouring  breath;  first  Rustum  struck  the 

shield 
Which  Sohrab  held  stifl:'  out;   tlie  steel-spiketl 

spear 
Rent  the  tough  plates,  but  failed  to  reach  the 

skin, 
And  Rustum  plucked  it  back  with  angry  groan. 
Then  Sohrab  with   his  sword   smote  Rustum 's 

helm. 
Nor  clove  its  steel  quite  through ;   but  all  the 

crest 
He  shore  away,  and  that  proud  horsehair  plume, 
Never  till  now  defiled,  sank  to  the  dust; 
And    Rustum    bowed    his   head;    but    then    the 

gloom 
Grew  blacker,  thunder  rumbled  in  the  air,     500 
And  lightnings  rent  the  cloud;  and  Ruksh,  the 

horse, 
Who  stood  at  hand,  uttered  a  dreadful  cry ; — 
No  horse's  cry  was  that,  most  like  the  roar 
Of  some  pained  desert-lion,  who  all  day 
Hath  trailed  the  hunter's  javelin  in  his  side. 
And  comes  at  night  to  die  upon  the  sand. 
The  two  hosts  heard  that  cry,  and  quaked  for 

fear. 
And  Oxus  curdled  as  it  crossed  his  stream. 
But  Sohrab  heard,  and  quailed  not,  but  rushed 

on, 
And  struck  again ;  and  again  Rustum  bowed  510 
His  head ;  but  this  time  all  the  blade,  like  glass, 
Sprang  in  a  thousand  shivers  on  the  helm, 
And  in  the  hand  the  hilt  remained  alone. 
Then    Rustum    raised    his    head;    his    dreadful 

eyes 
Glareil,    and    he    shook    on    high    his   menacing 

spear, 
And    shouted :     Bustum ! — Sohrab    heard    that 

shout, 
And  shrank  amazed;  back  he  recoiled  one  step, 
And  scanned  with  blinking  eyes  the  advancing 

form ;  , 

And  then  he  stood  bewildered;  and  he  dropped 
His  covering  shield,  and  the  spear  pierced  his 

side.  520 

He   reeled,   and  staggering  back,   sank   to   the 

ground. 
And  then   the  gloom  dispersed,  and   the  wind 

fell, 
And  the  bright  sun  broke  forth,  and  melted  all 
The  cloud;  and  the  two  armies  saw  the  pair — 
Saw  Rustum   standing,  safe  upon   his  feet, 
And  Sohrab,  wounded,  on  the  bloo<ly  sand. 

Then,  with  a  bitter  smile,  Rustum  began: — 
"Sohrab,  thou  thoughtest  in  thy  mind  to  kill 
A  Persian  lord  this  day,  and  strip  his  corpse, 
And  bear  thy  trophies  to  Afrasiab's  tent.  MO 
Or  else  that  the  great  Rustum  would  come  down 
Himself  to  fight,  and  that  thy  wiles  would  move 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


651 


His  heart  to  take  a  gift,  and  let  thee  go. 
And  then  that  all  the  Tartar  host  would  praise 
Thy  courage  or  thy  craft,  an<l  spread  thy  fame, 
To  glad  thy  father  in  his  weak  old  age. 
Fool,  thou  art  slain,  and  by  an  unknown  man! 
Dearer  to  the  red  jackals  shalt  thou  be 
Than  to  thy  friends,  and  to  thy  father  old. ' ' 
And,     with     a     fearless     mien,     Sohrab     re- 
plied:— 540 
"l^nknown   thou   art;    yet   thy   fierce   vaunt    is 

vain. 
Thou    dost    not   slay    me,    proud   and    boastful 

man! 
No!  Rustum  slays  me,  and  this  filial  heart. 
For  were  I  matched  with  ten  such  men  as  thee. 
And  I  were  that  which  till  to-day  I  was, 
They  should  be  lying  here,  1  standing  there. 
But  that  beloved  name  unnerved  my  arm — 
That  name,  and  something,  I  confess,  in  thee, 
Which   troubles    all    my    heart,    and    made    my 

shield 
Fall;    and    thy    spear    transfixed    an    unarmed 

foe.  550 

And  now  thou  boastest,  and  insult  'st  my  fate. 
But  hoar  thou  this,  fierce  man,  tremble  to  hear 
The  mighty  Rustum  shall  avenge  my  death! 
My  father,  whom  I  seek  through  all  the  world. 
He  shall  avenge  my  death,  and  punish  thee !  ' ' 
As    when    some    hunter    in    the    spring    hath 

found 
A  breeding  eagle  sitting  on  her  nest, 
Upon  the  craggy  isle  of  a  hill-lake. 
And  pierced  her  with  an  arrow  as  she  rose, 
And  followed  her  to  find  her  where  she  fell   560 
Far  off; — anon  her  mate  comes  winging  back 
From  hunting,  and  a  great  way  off  descries 
His  huddling  young  left  sole;  at  that,  he  checks 
His  pinion,  and  with  short  uneasy  sweeps 
Circles  above  his  eyry,  with  loud  screams 
Chiding  his  mate  back  to  her  nest;  but  she 
Lies  dying,  with  the  arrow  in  her  side, 
In  some  far  stony  gorge  out  of  his  ken, 
A  heap  of  fluttering  feathers — never  more 
Shall  the  lake  glass  her,  flying  over  it ;         570 
Never  the  black  and  dripping  precipices 
Echo  her  stormy  scream  as  she  sails  by — 
As  that  poor  bird  flies  home,  nor  knows  his  loss. 
So  Rustum  knew  not  his  own  loss,  but  stood 
Over  his  dying  son,  and  knew  him  not. 

But,  with  a  cold  incredulous  voice,  he  said: — 
"What  prate  is  this  of  fathers  and  revenge? 
The  mighty  Rustum  never  had  a  son. " 

And,  with  a  failing  voice,  Sohrab  replied: — 
"Ah  yes,  he  had!  and  that  lost  son  am  I.     580 
Surely  the  news  will  one  day  reach  his  ear, 
Reach  Rustum,  where  he  sits,  and  tarries  long, 
Somewhere,   I  know   not  where,  but  far  from 

here. 


And  pierce  him  like  a  stab,  and  make  him  leap 
To  arms,  and  cry  for  vengeance  upon  thee. 
Fierce  man,  bethink  thee,  for  an  only  son! 
What  will  that  grief,  what  will  that  vengeance 

be  I 
Oh,  could  I  live,  till  I  that  grief  had  seen! 
Yet  him  I  pity  not  so  much,  but  her, 
My  mother,  who  in  Ader-baijan  dwells  590 

With  that  old  king,  her  father,  who  grows  gray 
With  age,  and  lules  over  the  valiant  Koords. 
Her  most  I  pity,  who  no  more  will  see 
Sohrab  returning  from  the  Tartar  camp. 
With  spoils  and  honour,  when  the  war  is  done. 
But  a  dark  rumour  will  be  bruited  up, 
From  tribe  to  tribe,  until  it  reach  her  ear; 
And  then  will  that  defenceless  woman  learn 
That  Sohrab  will  rejoice  her  sight  no  more. 
But  that  in  battle  with  a  nameless  foe,        600 
By  the  far-distant  Oxus,  he  is  slain." 

He  spoke;  and  as  he  ceased,  he  wept  aloud, 
Thinking  of  her  he  left,  and  his  own  death. 
He    spoke;    but    Rustum    listened,    plunged    in 

thought. 
Nor  did  he  yet  believe  it  was  his  son 
Who  spoke,  although  he  called  back  names  he 

knew ; 
For  he  had  had  sure  tidings  that  the  babe, 
Which  was  in  Ader-baijan  born  to  him. 
Had  been  a  puny  girl,  no  boy  at  all — 
So  that  sad  mother  sent  him  word,  for  fear   610 
Rustum  should  seek  the  boy,  to  train  in  arms. 
And  so  he  deemed  that  either  Sohrab  took, 
By  a  false  boast,  the  style  of  Rustum 's  son; 
Or  that  men  gave  it  him,  to  swell  his  fame. 
So    deemed    he;    yet    he    listened,    plunged    in 

thought. 
And  his  soul  set  to  grief,  as  the  vast  tide 
Of  the  bright  rocking  Ocean  sets  to  shore 
At  the  full  moon;   tears  gathered  in  his  eyes; 
For  he  remembered  his  own  early  youth. 
And  all  its  bounding  rapture;  as,  at  dawn,     620 
The  shepherd  from  his  mountain-lodge  descries 
A  far,  bright  city,  smitten  by  the  sun. 
Through  many  rolling  clouds — so   Rustum  saw 
His  youth;  saw  Sohrab 's  mother,  in  her  bloom; 
And  that  old  king,  her  father,  who  loved  well 
His  wandering   guest,   and   gave   him  his  fair 

child 
With  joy;  and  all  the  pleasant  life  they  led, 
They  three,  in  that  long-distant  summer-time — 
The  castle,  and  the  dewy  woods,  and  hunt 
And  hound,  and  morn  on  those  delightful  hills 
In  Ader-baijan.     And  he  saw  that  Youth,      631 
Of  age  and  looks  to  be  his  own  dear  son. 
Piteous  and  lovely,  lying  on  the  sand, 
Like  some  rich  hyacinth  which  by  the  scythe 
Of  an  unskilful  gardener  has  been  cut, 
Mowing  the  garden  grass-plots  near  its  bed. 


652 


THE  VICTOKIAN  AGE 


And  lies,  a  fragrant  tower  of  purple  bloom, 
Oil  the  mown,  dying  grass — so  Sohrab  lay, 
Lovely  in  death,  upon  the  common  sand. 
And    Rustum    gazed    on    him    with    grief,    anil 

said:—  640 

* '  O  Sohrab,  thou  indeed  art  such  a  son 
Whom  Rustum,  wert  thou  his,  might  well  have 

loved. 
Yet  here  thou  errest,  Sohrab,  or  else  men 
Have  told  thee  false — thou  art   not   Rustum 's 

son. 
For  Rustum  had  no  son ;  one  child  he  had — 
But  one — a  girl;  who  with  her  mother  now 
Plies  some   light   female   task,   nor   dreams   of 

us — 
Of  us  she  dreams  not,  nor  of  wounds,  nor  war. " 
But  Sohrab  answ  ered  him  in  wrath ;  for  now 
The    anguish    of    the    deep-fixed    spear    grew 

fierce,  ^50 

And  he  desired  to  draw  forth  the  steel. 
And  let  the  blood  flow  free,  and  so  to  die — 
But  first  he  would  convince  his  stubborn  foe ; 
And,  rising  sternly  on  one  arm,  he  said: — 
"Man,    who    art    thou    who    dost    deny    my 

words  ? 
Truth  sits  upon  the  lips  of  dying  men, 
And    falsehood,   while   1    lived,   was    far    from 

mine. 
I  tell  thee,  pricked  upon  this  arm  I  bear 
That  seal  wliich  Rustum  to  my  mother  gave, 
That  she  might  prick  it  on  the  babe  she  bore." 
He  spoke;   and  all  the  blood  left  Rustum 's 

cheeks,  661 

And  his  knees  tottered,  and  he  smote  his  hand 
Against  his  breast,  his  heavy  mailed  hand. 
That  the  hard  iron  corslet  clanked  aloud: 
And  to  his  heart  he  ))ressed  the  other  hand, 
And  in  a  hollow  voice  he  spake,  and  said: — 
"Sohrab,  that  were  a  proof  which  could  not 

lie! 
If   thou    show    this,    tlien    art    thou    Rustum 's 

son. ' ' 
Then,  with  weak  hasty  fingers,  Sohrab  loosed 
His  belt,  and  near  the  shoulder  bared  his  arm, 
And  showed  a  sign  in  faint  vermilion  points      671 
Pricked;  as  a  cunning  workman,  in  Pekin, 
Pricks    with    vermilion    some    clear    porcelain 

vase, 
An  emperor's  gift — at  early  morn  he  paints. 
And  all  day  long,  and,  when  night  comes,  the 

lamp 
liights    up    his    studious    forehead    and    thin 

hands — 
So  delicately  pricked  the  sign  appeared 
On  Sohrab 's  arm,  the  sign  of  Rustum 'h  seal. 
It  was  that  griffin,  which  of  old  reared  Zal, 
Rustum 's  great  father,  wliom  they  left  to  die, 
A  helpless  hjibc,  ;imnng  the  mountain-rocks;  681 


Him  that  kind  creature  found,  and  reared,  and 

loved — 
Then  Rustum  took  it  for  his  glorious  sign. 
And  Sohrab  bared  that  imago  on  his  arm. 
And   himself    scanned    it    long   with    mournful 

eyes, 
And    then   he    touched    it    with    his   hand    and 

said: — 
"How  say'st  thou?     Is  that  sign  the  proper 

sign 
Of  Rustum  's  son,  or  of  some  other  man 's  ? " 
He  spoke;  but  Rustum  gazed,  and  gazed,  and 

stood 
Speechless;    and    then    he    uttered    one    sharp 

cry :  690 

0  boy — thy  father! — and  his  voice  choked  there. 
And  then  a  dark  cloud  passed  before  his  eyes. 
And  his  head  swam,  and  he  sank  down  to  earth. 
But  Sohrab  crawled  to  where  he  lay,  and  cast 
His  arms  about  his  neck,  and  kissed  his  lips, 
And    with    fond    faltering   fingers    stroked    his 

cheeks. 
Trying  to  call  him  back  to  life;  and  life 
Came  back  to  Rustum,  and  he  oped  his  eyes, 
And  they  stood  wide  with  horror;  and  he  seized 
In  both  his  hands  the  dust  which  lay  around, 
And  threw  it   on   his  head,  and  smirched  his 

hair, —  701 

His  hair,  and  face,  and  beard,  and  glittering 

arms; 
And    strong    convulsive    groanings    shook    his 

breast, 
And  his  sobs  choked  him;  and  he  clutched  his 

sword, 
To  draw  it,  and  for  ever  let  life  out. 
But    Sohrab    saw    his    thought,    and    held    his 

hands. 
And    with    a    soothing    voice    he    spake,    and 

said: — 
"Father,  forbear!  for  I  but  meet  to-day 
The  doom  which  at  my  birth  was  written  down 
In  Heaven,  and  thou  art  Heaven's  unconscious 

hand.  710 

Surely  my  heart  cried  out  that  it  was  thou, 
When  first  I  saw  thee;  and  thy  heart  spoke  too, 

1  know    it!    but    fate    trod    those    promptings 

down 
Under  its  iron  heel;  fate,  fate  engaged 
The  strife,  and  hurled  me  on  my  father's  spear. 
But  let  us  speak  no  more  of  this!  I  find 
My  father;  let  me  feel  that  I  have  found! 
Come,  sit  beside  me  on  this  sand,  and  take 
My  head  betwixt  thy  hands,  and  kiss  my  cheeks. 
And  wash  them  with  thy  tears,  and  say:   My 

son !  720 

Quick!   quick!    for  numbered  are  mv  sands  of 

life. 
And  swift;  for  like  the  lightning  to  this  field 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


r..-,3 


I  tame,  ami  like  the  wind  I  go  awaj- — 
Sudden,  and  swift,  and  like  a  passing  wind. 
But  it  was  writ  in  Heaven  that  this  should  be." 

So  said  he,  and  his  voice  released  the  heart 
Of  Rustum,  and  his  tears  broke  forth;  he  cast 
His  arms  round  his  son  's  neck,  and  wept  aloud. 
And   kissed   him.     And   awe   fell   on   both   the 

hosts, 
"When  they  saw  Rustum 's  grief;  and  Ruksh,  the 

horse,  730 

With  his  head  bowing  to  the  ground  and  mane 
Sweeping  the  dust,  came  near,  and  in  mute  woe 
First  to  the  one,  then  to  the  other  moved 
His  head,  as  if  inquiring  what  their  grief 
Might  mean;  and  from  his  dark,  compassionate 

eyes, 
The  big  warm  tears  rolled  down,  and  caked  the 

sand.* 
But    Rustum   chid   him    with   stern   voice,    and 

said: — 
' '  Ruksh,  now   thou  grievest ;    but,  O  Ruksh, 

thy  feet 
Should  first  have  rotted  on  their  nimble  joints, 
Or  ere  they  brought  thy  master  to  this  field  I  " 
But    Sohrab     looked    upon    the    horse    and 

said: —  741 

"Is   this,   then,   Ruksh?     How   often,   in   past 

days, 
My  mother  told  me  of  thee,  thou  brave  steed. 
My  terrible  father 's  terrible  horse !  and  said. 
That  I  should  one  day  find  thy  lord  and  thee. 
Come,  let  me  lay  my  hand  upon  thy  mane! 
O  Ruksh,  thou  art  more  fortunate  than  I ; 
For  thou  hast  gone  where  I  shall  never  go, 
And  snuflFed  the  breezes  of  my  father's  home, 
And  thou  hast  trod  the  sands  of  Seistan,       750 
And  seen  the  River  of  Helmund,  and  the  Lake 
Of  Zirrah;  and  the  aged  Zal  himself 
Has   often   stroked   thy  neck,   and   given   thee 

food. 
Corn  in  a  golden  platter  soaked  with  wine, 
And  said:  O  Euksh!  hear  Bustum  tcell! — but  1 
Have    never   known    my   grandsire's    furrowed 

face, 
Nor  seen  his  lofty  house  in  Seistan, 
Nor   slaked   my   thirst   at   the   clear   Helmund 

stream ; 
But  lodged  among  my  father's  foes,  and  seen 
Afrasiab's  cities  only,  Samarcand.  760 

Bokhara,  and  lone  Khiva  in  the  waste. 
And  the  black  Toorkmun  tents;  and  only  drunk 
The  desert  rivers.  Moorghab  and  Tejend, 
Knhik,  and  where  the  Kalmuks  feed  their  sheep, 
The  northern  Sir;  and  this  great  Oxus  stream. 
The  yellow  Oxus,  by  whose  brink  I  die. ' ' 


Compare    the    action    of    the    horse    of    Achilles, 
Iliad,  xix,  end. 


Then,     with     a    heavy     groan,     Rustum     be- 
wailed:— 
**0h,  that  its  waves  were  flowing  over  me  I 
Oh,  that  I  saw  its  grains  of  yellow  silt 
Roll  tumbling  in  the  current  o  'er  my  head ! ' ' 
But,    with   a    grave   mild   voice,    Sohrab   re- 
plied:—  771 
"Desire  not  that,  my  father!   thou  must  live. 
For  some  are  born  to  do  great  deeds,  and  live. 
As  some  are  born  to  be  obscured,  and  die. 
Do  thou  the  deeds  1  die  too  young  to  do, 
And  reap  a  second  glory  in  thine  age; 
Thou  art  my  father,  and  thy  gain  is  mine. 
But  come!   thou  seest  this  great  host  of  men 
Which  follow  me;  I  pray  thee,  slay  not  these! 
Let    me    entreat    for    them;    what    have    they 
done?                                                            780 
They  followed  me,  my  hope,  my  fame,  my  star. 
Let  them  all  cross  the  Oxus  back  in  peace. 
But   me  thou  must   bear   hence,  not   send  with 

them. 
But  carry  me  with  thee  to  Seistan, 
And  place  me  on  a  bed,  and  mourn  for  me. 
Thou,    and   the   snow-haired    Zal,    and    all   thy 

friends. 
And  thou  must  lay  me  in  that  lovely  earth, 
And  heap  a  stately  mound  above  my  bones, 
And  plant  a  far- seen  pillar  over  all. 
That  so  the  passing  horseman  on  the  waste    790 
May  see  my  tomb  a  great  way  off,  and  cry: 
Sohrab,  the  mighty  Bustum's  son,  lies  there. 
Whom  his  great  father  did  in  ignorance  kill! 
And  I  be  not  forgotten  in  my  grave." 

And,    with    a    mournful    voice,    Rustum    re- 
plied : — 
"Fear  not!  as  thou  hast  said,  Sohrab,  my  son, 
So  shall  it  be;  for  I  will  burn  my  tents. 
And  quit  the  host,  and  bear  thee  hence  with  me, 
And  carry  thee  away  to  Seistan, 
And  place  thee  on  a  bed.  and  mourn  for  thee. 
With  the  snow-headed  Zal,  and  all  my  friends, 
And  I  will  lay  thee  in  that  lovely  earth,         802 
And  heap  a  stately  mound  above  thy  bones. 
And  plant  a  far-seen  pillar  over  all, 
And  men  shall  not  forget  thee  in  thy  grave. 
And  I  will  spare  thy  host;  yea,  let  them  go! 
Let  them  all  cross  the  Oxus  back  in  i^eacel 
What  should  I  do  with  slaying  any  more? 
For  would  that  all  that  I  have  ever  slain 
Might  be  once  more  alive;  my  bitterest  foes.  810 
And  they  who  were  called  champions  in  their 

time, 
And  through  whose  death  I  won  that  fame  1 

have — 
And  I  were  nothing  but  a  common  man, 
A  poor,  mean  soldier,  and  without  renown. 
So  thou  mightest  live  too,  my  son,  my  son! 
Or  rather  would  that  I,  even  I  myself. 


654 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Might  now  be  lying  on  this  bloody  sand, 
Near  death,  and  by  an  ignorant  stroke  of  thine. 
Not  thou  of  mine;  and  1  might  die,  not  thou; 
And  1,  not  thou,  be  borne  to  Seistan;  S-0 

And  Zal  might  weep  above  my  grave,  not  thine; 
And  say:    0  son,  I  weep  thee  not  too  sore, 
For  willingly,  I  know,  thou  met'st   thine  end! 
But  now  in  blood  and  battles  was  my  youth, 
And  full  of  blood  and  battles  is  my  age, 
And  I  shall  never  end  this  life  of  blood." 
Then,    at    the    point    of    death,    Sohrab    re- 
plied : — 
"A  life  of  blood  indeed,  thou  dreadful  man! 
But  thou  shalt  yet  have  peace;  only  not  now, 
Not  yet!  but  thou  shalt  have  it  on  that  day. 
When  thou  shalt  sail  in  a  high-masted  ship,   831 
Thou  and  the  other  peers  of  Kai  Khosroo, 
Returning  home  over  the  salt  blue  sea. 
From  laying  thy  dear  master  in  his  grave." 
And    Rustum    gazed    in   Sohrab 's    face,    and 

said: — 
'*Soon  be  that  day,  my  son,  and  deep  that  sea! 
Till  then,  if  fate  so  wills,  let  me  endure. ' ' 
He  spoke;   and  Sohrab  smiled  on  him,  and 

took 
The  spear,  and  drew  it  from  his  side,  and  eased 
His  wound's  imperious  anguish;   but  the  blood 
Came  welling  from  the  open  gash,  and  life     841 
Flowed   with    the   stream; — all    down   his   cold 

white  side 
The  crimson  torrent  ran,  dim  now  and  soiled, 
Like  the  soiled  tissue  of  white  violets 
Left,  freshly  gathered,  on  their  native  bank, 
By  children  whom  their  nurses  call  with  haste 
Indoors  from  the  sun's  eye;  his  head  drooped 

low, 
His   limbs   grew    slack;    motionless,   white,    he 

lay — 
White,  with  eyes  closed;  only  when  heavy  gasps, 
Deep    heavy    gasps   quivering   through    all    his 

frame,  850 

Convulsed  him  back  to  life,  he  opened  them. 
And  fixed  them  feebly  on  his  father's  face; 
Till  now  all  strength  was  ebbed,  and  from  his 

limbs 
Unwillingly  the  spirit  fled  away, 
Regretting  the  warm  mansion  which  it  left. 
And    youth,    and    bloom,    and    this    delightful 

world. 
So,  on  the  bloody  sand,  Sohrab  lay  dea<l; 
And    the   great    Rustum    drew    his   horseman's 

cloak 
Down  o'er  his  face,  and  sate  by  his  dead  son. 
Ah    those    black    granite    pillars,    once    higii- 

reared  860 

By  Jemshidi  in  Persepolis,  to  bear 

1  Or  .Tntnshid  :  n  mythical  kinpr  of  Pnrsln.     Porsp- 
IMtliH  In  nutfd  for  itH  ruins  of  ancit>nl  Krandcur. 


His  house,  now    'mid   their   broken   flights   of 

steps 
Lie  prone,  enormous,  down  the  mountain  side — 
So  in  the  sand  lay  Rustum  by  his  son. 

And  night  came  down  over  the  solemn  waste, 
And  the  two  gazing  hosts,  and  that  sole  pair, 
And  darkened  all;  and  a  cold  fog,  with  night, 
Crept  from  the  Oxus.     Soon  a  hum  arose 
As  of  a  great  assembly  loosed,  and  fires 
Began  to  twinkle  through  the  fog;  for  now   870 
Both   armies  moved   to   camp,   and   took   their 

meal; 
The  Persians  took  it  on  the  open  sands 
Southward,  the  Tartars  by  the  river  marge; 
And  Rustum  and  his  son  were  left  alone. 

But  the  majestic  river  floated  on, 
Out  of  the  mist  and  hum  of  that  low  land, 
Into  the  frosty  starlight,  and  there  moved. 
Rejoicing,     through     the     hushed     Cliorasmian 

waste, 
Under  the  solitary  moon; — he  flowed 
Right  for  the  polar  star,  past  Orgunje,2         880 
Brimming,  and  bright,  and  large;    then  sands 

begin 
To  hem  his  watery  march,  and  dam  his  streams. 
And  split  his  currents;  that  for  many  a  league 
The  shorn  and  parcelled  Oxus  strains  along 
Through  beds  of  sand  and  matted  rushy  isles — 
Oxus,  forgetting  the  bright  speed  he  had 
In  his  high  mountain-cradle  in  Pamere, 
A  foiled  circuitous  wanderer — till  at  last 
The  longed-for  dash  of  waves  is  heard,  and  wide 
His  luminous  home  of  waters  opens,  bright    890 
And  tranquil,  from  whose  floor  the  new-bathed 

stars 
Emerge,  and  shine  upon  the  Aral  Sea. 

PHILOMELA* 

Hark!  ah,  the  nightingale — 

The  tawny-throated! 

Hark,  from  that  moonlit  cedar  what  a  burst! 

What  triumph!    hark! — what  pain! 

O  wanderer  from  a  Grecian  shore. 
Still,  after  many  years,  in  distant  lands, 
Still  nourishing  in  thy  bewildered  brain 
That  wild,  unquenched,  deep-sunken,  old-world 

pain — 
Say,  will  it  never  heal? 

And  can  this  fragrant  Isiwn  10 

With  its  cool  trees,  and  night, 
And  the  sweet,  tranquil  Thames. 
And  moonshine,  and  the  dew, 

2  A  vlllaRp  near  Khiva. 

•  Sop  till'  fnrnilinr  sloiy  of  IMiilomoln  nnd  Proone 
ill  Croplc  inytlioloKy.  Tlip  pot'in  is  evldpntly 
addfpsspd  to  II  friend,  "Eugpnia." 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


650 


To  thy  racked  heart  and  brain 
Afford  no  balm? 

Dost  thou  to-night  behold, 

Here,  through  the  moonlight  on  this  English 
grass, 

The  unfriendly  palace  in  the  Thracian  wild? 

Dost  thou  again  peruse 

With  hot  cheeks  and  seared  eyes  20 

The  too  clear  web,  and  thy  dumb  sister's 
shame  ? 

Dost  thou  once  more  assay 

Thy  flight,  and  feel  come  over  thee, 

Poor  fugitive,  the  feathery  change 

Once  more,  and  once  more  seem  to  make  re- 
sound 

With  love  and  hate,  triumph  and  agony. 

Lone  Daulis,  and  the  high  Cephissian  valef 

Listen,  Eugenia — 

How   thick   the   bursts  come  crowding  through 

the  leaves! 
Again — thou   hearest?  30 

Eternal  passion! 
Eternal  pain! 

KAISER  DEAD 

April  6,  1887. 

What,  Kaiser  dead?  The  heavy  news 
Post-haste  to  Cobhami  calls  the  Muse, 
From  where  in  Farringford^  she  brews 

The  ode  sublime. 
Or  with  Pen-bryn  's  bold  barda  pursues 

A  rival  rhyme. 

Kai's  bracelet  tail,  Kai's  busy  feet, 
Were  known  to  all  the  village-street. 
"What,  poor  Kai  dead?"  say  all  1  meet; 
*  *  A  loss  indeed ! ' ' 

0  for  the  croon  pathetic,  sweet. 

Of  Robin's  reed!*  12 

Six  years  ago  I  brought  him  down, 

A  baby  dog,  from  London  town; 

Round  his  small  throat  of  black  and  brown 

A  ribbon  blue. 
And  vouched  by  glorious  renown 

A  dachshound  true. 

His  mother,  most  majestic  dame. 
Of  blood-unmixed,  from  Potsdam'"'  came; 
And  Kaiser's  race  we  deemed  the  same — 
No  lineage  higher. 

1  In  Surrey,  where  Arnold  was  then  living. 

2  Tonnvson's  home  on  the  Isle  of  Wight. 

•i  Sir  Lewis  Morris  lived  at  Pen-bryn,  In  Wales. 
•I  Adapted  from  Burnss  Poor  MaUie'a  Elegy,  which 

Arnold  is  imitating, 
r.  A  residence  of  the  German  emperor. 


24 


36 


And  so  he  bore  the  imperial  name. 
But  ah,  his  sire! 

Soon,  soon  the  days  conviction  bring. 
The  collie  hair,  the  collie  swing. 
The  tail's  indomitable  ring. 

The  eye's  unrest — 
The  case  was  clear;  a  mongrel  thing 

Kai  stood  confest. 

But  all  those  virtues,  which  commend 
The  humbler  sort  who  serve  and  tend, 
Were  thine  in  store,  thou   faithful   friend. 

What  sense,  what  cheer! 
To  us,  declining  towards  our  end, 

A  mate  how  dear! 

For  Max,  thy  brother-dog,  began 

To  flag,  and  feel  his  narrowing  span. 

And  cold,  besides,  his  blue  blood  ran. 

Since,   'gainst  the  classes, 
He  heard,  of  late,  the  Grand  Old  Man 

Incite  the  Masses.^ 

Yes,  Max  and  we  grew  slow  and  sad; 
But  Kai,  a  tireless  shepherd-lad, 
Teeming  with  plans,  alert,  and  glad 

In  work  or  play. 
Like  sunshine  went  and  came,  and  bade 

Live  out  the  day! 

Still,  still  I  see  the  figure  smart — 

Trophy  in  mouth,  agog  to  start. 

Then,  home  returned,  once  more  depart; 

Or  prest  together 
Against  thy  mistress,  loving  heart. 

In  winter  weather, 

I  see  the  tail,  like  bracelet  twirled. 
In  moments  of  disgrace  uncurled. 
Then  at  a  pardoning  word  re- furled, 

A  conquering  sign; 
Crying,  "Come  on,  and  range  the  world. 

And  never  pine. ' ' 

Thine  eye  was  bright,  thy  coat  it  shone; 
Thou  hadst  thine  errands,  off  and  on; 
In  joy  thy  last  morn  flew;  anon, 

A  fit!    All's  over; 
And  thou  art  gone  where  Geist'  hath  gone, 

And  Toss,  and  Rover. 

Poor  Max,  with  downcast,  reverent  head. 
Regards  his  brother's  form  outspread; 


6  A  mild  thrust  at  Gladstono  and  his  Homo   Rule 

Bill. 
1  Mourned  in  a  previous  elegy,  Oeint'x  Orave. 


48 


60 


666 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


72 


84 


Full  well  Max  knows  the  friend  is  dead 

Whose  cordial  talk, 
And  jokes,  in  doggish  language  said, 

Beguiled  his  walk. 

And  Glory,  stretched  at  Burwood  gate, 
Thy  passing  by  doth  vainly  wait; 
And  jealous  Jock,  thy  only  hate, 

The  chiel  from  Skye, 
Lets  from  his  shaggy  Highland  pate 

Thy  memory  die. 

Well,  fetch  his  graven  collar  fine, 
And  rub  the  steel,  and  make  it  shine, 
And  leave  it  round  thy  neck  to  twine, 

Kai,  in  thy  grave. 
There  of  thy  master  keep  that  sign, 

And  this  plain  stave. 

DOVER  BEACH* 


The  sea  is  calm  to-night. 

The  tide  is  full,  the  moon  lies  fair 

Upon    the   straits; — on    the    French    coast    the 

light 
Gleams    and    is    gone;    the    cliffs    of    England 

stand. 
Glimmering  and  vast,  out  in  the  tranquil  bay. 
Come  to  the  window,  sweet  is  the  night-air! 
Only,  from  the  long  line  of  spray 
Where  the  sea  meets  the  moon-blanched  land, 
Listen!   you  hear  the  grating  roar 
Of   pebbles  which   the  waves  draw   back,   and 

fling,  10 

At  their  return,  up  the  high  strand, 
Begin,  and  cease,  and  then  again  begin, 
With  tremulous  cadence  slow,  and  bring 
The  eternal  note  of  sadness  in. 


Sophocles  long  ago 

Heard  it  on  the  .Egsean,  and  it  brought 

Into  Ijis  mind  the  turbid  ebb  and  flow 

Of  human  misery ;  we 

Find  also  in  the  sound  a  thought, 

Hearing  it  by  this  distant  northern  sea. 


20 


The  Sea  of  Faith 

Was  once,  too,  at  the  full,  and  round  earth 's 

shore 
Im}'  like  the  folds  of  a  bright  girdle  furled. 
But  now  I  only  hear 
Its  melancholy,  long,  withdrawing  roar, 
Retreating,  to  the  breath 
Of  the  night-wind,  down  the  vast  edgefi  drear 
And  naked  shinglcH  of  the  world. 

•  Another  expronnlon  of  Arnold*!*  Btolc  creed.     See 
niiic  oil  Ills  sonnet  7V<  u  I'linitl.  p.  m-^. 


Ah,  love,  let  us  be  true 

To  one  another;  for  the  world,  which  seems    30 

To  lie  before  us  like  a  land  of  dreams. 

So  various,  so  beautiful,  so  new. 

Hath  really  neither  joy,  nor  love,  nor  light, 

Nor  certitude,  nor  peace,  nor  help  for  pain; 

And  we  are  here  as  on  a  darkling  plain 

Swept    with   confused   alarms  of   struggle   and 

flight. 
Where  ignorant  armies  clash  by  night. 

THE  LAST  WOKD 

Creep  into  thy  narrow  bed. 
Creep,  and  let  no  more  be  said! 
Vain  thy  onset!   all  stands  fast. 
Thou  thyself  must  break  at  last. 

Let  the  long  contention  cease! 
Geese  are  swans,  and  swans  are  geese. 
Let  them  have  it  how  they  will! 
Thou  art  tired;  best  be  still. 

They  out-talked  thee,  hissetl  thee,  tore  theef 
Better  men  fared  thus  before  thee; 
Fired  their  ringing  shot  and  passed. 
Hotly  charged — and  sank  at  last. 

Charge  once  more,  then,  and  be  dumb! 
Let  the  victors,  when  they  come. 
When  the  forts  of  folly  fall. 
Find  thy  body  by  the  wall! 

CULTURE    AND    HUMAN    PERFECTION* 

The  disparagers  of  culture  make  its  motive 
curiosity;  sometimes,  indeed,  they  make  its 
motive  mere  exclusiveness  and  vanity.  The  cul- 
ture which  is  supposed  to  plume  itself  on  a 
smattering  of  Greek  and  Latin  is  a  culture 
which  is  begotten  by  nothing  so  intellectual  as 
curiosity;  it  is  valued  either  out  of  sheer  vanity 
and  ignorance,  or  else  as  an  engine  of  social 
and  class  distinction,  separating  its  holder,  like 
a  badge  or  title,  froni  other  people  who  have 
not  got  it.  No  serious  man  would  call  this  cul- 
ture, or  attach  any  value  to  it,  as  culture,  at  all. 
To  find  tl»e  real  ground  for  the  very  different 
estimate  which  serious  people  will  set  upon  cul- 
ture, we  must  find  some  motive  for  culture  in 
tlie  terms  of  which  may  lie  a  real  ambiguity; 
and  such  a  motive  the  word  cur.ioMitii  gives  us, 

I  have  before  now  pointed  out  tlint  we  Kng- 
lish  do  not,  like  tlie  foreigners,  use  this  word 

•.From  the  first  chapter  of  Ciilturr  nml  Aimrvhy 
(ISO"),  entitled  "Sweetness  .ind  l.luht." 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


6o7 


in  a  good  sense  as  well  as  in  a  bad  sense.  With 
us  the  word  is  always  used  in  a  somewhat  dis- 
approving sense.  A  liberal  and  intelligent 
eagerness  about  the  things  of  the  mind  may  be 
meant  by  a  foreigner  when  he  speaks  of 
curiosity,  but  with  us  the  word  always  conveys 
a  certain  notion  of  frivolous  and  unedifying 
activity.  In  the  Quarterly  Beview,  some  little 
time  ago,  was  an  estimate  of  the  celebrated 
French  critic,  M.  Sainte-Beuve,  and  a  very  in- 
adequate estimate  it  in  my  judgment  was.  And 
its  ina<lequacy  consisted  chiefly  in  this:  that  in 
our  English  way  it  left  out  of  sight  the  double 
sense  really  involved  in  the  word  curiosity, 
thinking  enough  was  said  to  stamp  ^I.  Sainte- 
Beuve  with  blame  if  it  wras  said  that  he  was 
impelled  in  his  operations  as  a  critic  by 
curiosity,  and  omitting  either  to  perceive  that 
M.  Sainte-Beuve  himself,  and  many  other  peo- 
ple with  him,  would  consider  that  this  was 
praiseworthy  and  not  blameworthy,  or  to  point 
out  why  it  ought  really  to  be  accounted  worthy 
of  blame  and  not  of  praise.  For,  as  there  is  a 
curiosity  about  intellectual  matters  which  is 
futile  and  merely  a  disease,  so  there  is  certainly 
a  curiosity, — a  desire  after  the  things  of  the 
mind  simply  for  their  own  sakes  and  for  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  them  as  they  are, — which  is, 
in  an  intelligent  being,  natural  and  laudable. 
Nay,  and  the  very  desire  to  see  things  as  they 
aret  implies  a  balance  and  regulation  of  mind 
which  is  not  often  attained  without  fruitful 
effort,  and  which  is  the  very  opposite  of  the 
blind  and  diseased  impulse  of  mind  which  is 
what  we  mean  to  blame  when  we  blame  curiosity. 
Montesquieui  says:  "The  first  motive  which 
ought  to  impel  us  to  study  is  the  desire  to 
augment  the  excellence  of  our  nature,  and  to 
render  an  intelligent  being  yet  more  intelli- 
gent." Tliis  is  the  true  ground  to  assign  for 
the  genuine  scientific  passion,  however  mani- 
fested, and  for  culture,  viewed  simply  as  a 
fruit  of  this  passion;  and  it  is  a  worthy  ground, 
even  though  we  let  the  term  curiosity  stand  to 
describe  it. 

But  there  is  of  culture  another  view,  in  which 
not  solely  the  scientific  passion,  the  sheer  desire 
to  see  things  as  they  are,  natural  and  proper  in 
an  intelligent  being,  appears  as  the  ground  of 
it.  There  is  a  view  in  which  all  the  love  of  our 
neighbour,  the  impulses  towards  action,  help, 

1  A  French  writer  of  the  18th  century,  author  of 
the  celebrated  philosophical  work  on  The 
Spirit  of  the  Laws. 

;  This  phrase,  derived  from  Wordsworth,  has  been 
given  wide  currency  by  Arnold.  See  Words- 
worth's Supplementary  Essay  to  his  Treface 
to  the  Lyrical  Ballads, 


and  beneficence,  the  desire  for  removing  human 
error,  clearing  human  confusion,  and  diminish- 
ing human  misery,  the  noble  aspiration  to  leave 
the  world  better  and  happier  than  we  found  it, 
— motives  eminently  such  as  are  called  social, — 
come  in  as  part  of  the  grounds  of  culture,  and 
the  main  and  pre-eminent  part.  Culture  is, 
then,  properly  described,  not  as  having  its 
origin  in  curiosity,  but  as  having  its  origin  in 
the  love  of  perfection;  it  is  a  study  of  perfec- 
tion. It  moves  by  the  force,  not  merely  or 
primarily  of  the  scientific  passion  for  pure 
knowledge,  but  also  of  the  moral  and  social 
passion  for  doing  good.  As,  in  the  first  view 
of  it,  we  took  for  its  worthy  motto  Montes- 
quieu 's  words,  ' '  To  render  an  intelligent  being 
yet  more  intelligent!"  so,  in  the  second  view 
of  it,  there  is  no  better  motto  which  it  can 
have  than  these  words  of  Bishop  Wilson- :  "To 
make  reason  and  the  will  of  God  prevail!  " 

Only,  whereas  the  passion  for  doing  good  is 
apt  to  be  over-hasty  in  determining  what  rea- 
son and  the  will  of  God  say,  because  its  turn 
is  for  acting  rather  than  thinking,  and  it  wants 
to  be  beginning  to  act ;  and  whereas  it  is  apt 
to  take  its  own  conceptions,  which  proceed  from 
its  own  state  of  development  and  share  in  all 
the  imj^erfections  and  immaturities  of  this,  for 
a  basis  of  action;  what  distinguishes  culture  is, 
that  it  is  possessed  by  the  scientific  passion,  as 
well  as  by  the  passion  of  doing  good;  that  it 
demands  worthy  notions  of  reason  and  the  will 
of  God,  and  does  not  readily  suffer  its  own 
crude  conceptions  to  substitute  themselves  for 
them.  And  knowing  that  no  action  or  insti- 
tution can  be  salutary  and  stable  which  is  not 
based  on  reason  and  the  will  of  God,  it  is  not 
so  bent  on  acting  and  instituting,  even  with  the 
great  aim  of  diminishing  human  error  and 
misery  ever  before  its  thoughts,  but  that  it 
can  remember  that  acting  and  instituting  are 
of  little  use,  unless  we  know  how  and  what  we 
ought  to  act  and  to  institute. 

This  culture  is  more  interesting  and  more 
far-reaching  than  that  other,  which  is  founded 
solely  on  the  scientific  passion  for  knowing. 
But  it  needs  times  of  faith  and  ardour,  times 
when  the  intellectual  horizon  is  opening  and 
widening  all  round  us,  to  flourish  in.  And  is 
not  the  close  and  bounded  intellectual  horizon 
within  which  we  have  long  lived  and  moved 
now  lifting  up,  and  are  not  new  lights  finding 
free  passage  to  shine  in  upon  us?  For  a  long 
time  there  was  no  passage  for  them  to  make 
their  way  in  upon  us,  and  then  it  was  of  no 

2  Thomas  Wilson,   Bishop   of  the  Isle  of  Man    (d. 
1765), 


658 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


use  to  think  of  adapting  the  world's  action  to 
them.  Wliere  was  the  hope  of  making  reason 
and  the  will  of  God  prevail  among  people  who 
had  a  routine  which  they  had  christened  reason 
and  the  will  of  God,  in  which  they  were  inex- 
tricably bound,  and  beyond  which  they  had  no 
power  of  looking?  But  now  the  iron  force  of 
adhesion  to  the  old  routine, — social,  political 
religious, — has  wonderfully  yielded;  the  iron 
force  of  exclusion  of  all  which  is  new  has  won- 
derfully yielded.  The  danger  now  is,  not  that 
people  should  obstinately  refuse  to  allow  any- 
thing but  their  old  routine  to  pass  for  reason 
and  the  will  of  God,  but  either  that  they  should 
allow  some  novelty  or  other  to  pass  for  these  too 
easily,  or  else  that  they  should  underrate  the 
importance  of  them  altogether,  and  think  it 
enough  to  follow  action  for  its  own  sake,  with- 
out troubling  themselves  to  make  reason  and 
the  will  of  God  prevail  therein.  Now,  then,  is 
tiie  moment  for  culture  to  be  of  service,  culture 
which  believes  in  making  reason  and  the  will 
of  God  prevail;  believes  in  perfection;  is  the 
study  and  pursuit  of  perfection;  and  is  no 
longer  debarred,  by  a  rigid  invincible  exclusion 
of  whatever  is  new,  from  getting  acceptance 
for  its  ideas,  simply  because  they  are  new. 

The  moment  this  view  of  culture  is  seizeil, 
the  moment  it  is  regarded  not  solely  as  the 
endeavour  to  see  things  as  they  are,  to  draw 
towards  a  knowledge  of  the  universal  order 
which  seems  to  be  intended  and  aimed  at  in  the 
world,  and  which  it  is  a  man's  happiness  to  go 
along  with  or  his  misery  to  go  counter  to, — to 
learn,  in  short,  the  will  of  God, — the  moment, 
I  say,  culture  is  considered  not  merely  as  the 
endeavour  to  see  and  learn  this,  but  as  the 
endeavour,  also,  to  make  it  prevail,  the  moral, 
social,  and  beneficent  character  of  culture  be- 
comes manifest.  The  mere  endeavour  to  see 
and  learn  the  truth  for  our  own  personal  satis- 
faction is  indeed  a  commencement  for  making 
it  prevail,  a  preparing  the  way  for  this,  which 
always  serves  this,  and  is  wrongly,  therefore, 
stamped  with  blame  absolutely  in  itself  and  not 
only  in  its  caricature  and  degeneration.  But 
perhaps  it  has  got  stamped  with  blame  and  dis- 
paraged with  the  dubious  title  of  curiosity 
because,  in  comparison  with  this  wider  en- 
deavour of  such  great  and  plain  utility,  it  looks 
selfish,  petty,  and  unprofitable. 

And  religion,  the  greatect  and  most  impor- 
tant of  the  efforts  by  which  the  human  race 
has  manifested  its  impulse  to  perfe<'t  itself, — 
religion,  that  voice  of  the  deepest  human  expe- 
rience,— does  not  only  enjoin  and  sanction  the 
aim   which    is   the   great  aim    of   culture,     the 


aim  of  setting  ourselves  to  ascertain  what  per- 
fection is,  and  to  make  it  prevail;  but  also,  in 
determining  generally  in  what  human  perfec- 
tion consists,  religion  comes  to  a  conclusion 
identical  with  that  which  culture, — culture 
seeking  the  determination  of  this  question 
through  all  the  voices  of  human  experience 
which  have  been  heard  upon  it,  of  art,  science, 
poetry,  philosophy,  history,  as  well  as  of  reli- 
gion, in  order  to  give  a  greater  fullness  and 
certainty  to  its  solution, — likewise  reaches.  Ee- 
ligion  says:  The  kingdom  of  God  is  within 
you ;  and  culture,  in  like  manner,  places  human 
perfection  in  an  internal  condition,  in  the 
growth  and  predominance  of  our  humanity  pro- 
per, as  distinguished  from  our  animality.  It 
places  it  in  the  ever-increasing  efficacy  and  in 
the  general  harmonious  expansion  of  those  gifts 
of  thought  and  feeling  which  make  the  pecu- 
liar dignity,  wealth,  and  happiness  of  human 
nature.  As  1  have  said  on  a  former  occasion: 
"It  is  in  making  endless  additions  to  itself,  in 
the  endless  expansion  of  its  powers,  in  endless 
growth  in  wisdom  and  beauty,  that  the  spirit  of 
the  human  race  finds  its  ideal.  To  reach  this 
ideal,  culture  is  an  indispensable  aid,  and  that 
is  the  true  value  of  culture. ' '  Not  a  having 
and  a  resting,  but  a  growing  and  a  becoming, 
is  the  character  of  perfection  as  culture  con- 
ceives it;  and  here,  too,  it  coincides  with  reli- 
gion  

But  the  point  of  view  of  culture,  keeping 
the  mark  of  human  perfection  simply  and 
broadly  in  view,  and  not  assigning  to  this  per- 
fection, as  religion  or  utilitarianism  pssigns  to 
it,  a  special  and  limited  character,  tiiis  point 
of  view,  I  say,  of  culture  is  best  given  by 
these  words  of  Epictetusi:  "It  is  a  sign  of 
d(pvia,"  says  he, — that  is,  of  a  nature  not 
finely  tempered, — "to  give  yourselves  up  to 
things  which  relate  to  the  body ;  to  make,  for 
instance,  a  great  fuss  about  exercise,  a  great 
fuss  about  eating,  a  great  fuss  about  drinking, 
a  great  fuss  about  walking,  a  great  fuss  about 
riding.  All  these  things  ought  to  be  done  merely 
by  the  way;  the  formation  of  the  spirit  and 
character  must  be  our  real  concern. ' '  This  is  ad- 
mirable; and,  indeed,  the  Greek  word  evipvia, 
a  finely  tempered  nature,  gives  exactly  the  no- 
tion of  perfection  as  culture  brings  us  to  con- 
ceive it:  a  harmonious  i>erfection,  a  perfec- 
tion in  which  the  characters  of  beauty  and  in- 
telligence are  both  present,  which  unites  'the 
two  noblest  of  things," — as  Swift,  who  of  one 
I  of  the  two,  at  any  rate,  had  himself  all  too 
little,  most  happily  calls  them  in  his  Battle  of 
I  Sor  note  on  Arnold's  sonnet  To  a  Frlrnd. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


659 


the  Books, — "the  two  noblest  of  things,  sweet- 
ness and  light.' ^*  The  €V<f>vrii-  is  the  man 
who  tends  toward  sweetness  and  light;  the 
d<^ifj3  on  the  other  hand,  is  our  Philistine.* 
The  immense  spiritual  significance  of  the 
tireeks  is  due  to  their  having  been  inspired 
with  this  central  and  happy  idea  of  the  essen- 
tial character  of  human  perfection;  and  Mr. 
Bright 's'  misconception  of  culture,  as  a  smat- 
tering of  Greek  and  Latin,  comes  itself,  after 
all,  from  this  wonderful  significance  of  the 
Greeks  having  affected  the  very  machinery  of 
our  education,  and  is  in  itself  a  kind  of  hom- 

.       age  to  it. 

I  in   thus  making  sweetness  and   light  to    be 

characters  of  perfection,  cultiwe  is  of  like 
spirit  with  poetry,  follows  one  law  with  po- 
etry. Far  more  than  on  our  freedom,  our 
population,  and  our  industrialism,  many 
amongst  us  rely  upon  our  religious  organiza- 
tions to  save  us.  I  have  called  religion  a  yet 
more  important  manifestation  of  human  na- 
ture than  poetry,  because  it  has  worked  on  a 
broader  scale  for  perfection,  and  with  greater 
masses  of  men.  But  the  idea  of  beauty  and  of 
a  human  nature  perfect  on  all  its  sides,  which  is 
the  dominant  idea  of  poetry,  is  a  true  and  in- 
valuable idea,  though  it  has  not  yet  had  the 
success  that  the  idea  of  conquering  the  obvious 
faults  of  our  animality,  and  of  a  human  na- 
ture perfect  on  the  moral  side, — which  is  the 
dominant  idea  of  religion, — has  been  enabled 
to  have;  and  it  is  destined,  adding  to  itself 
the  religious  idea  of  a  devout  energy,  to  trans- 
form and  govern  the  other. 

The  best  art  and  poetry  of  the  Greeks,  in 
which  religion  and  poetry  are  one,  in  which  the 
idea  of  beauty  and  of  a  human  nature  perfect 
on  all  sides  adds  to  itself  a  religious  and  de- 
vout energy,  and  works  in  the  strength  of  that, 
is  on  this  account  of  such  surpassing  interest 
and  instructiveness  for  us,  though  it  was, — as 
having  regard  to  the  human  race  in  general, 
and,  indeed,  having  regard  to  the  Greeks  them- 
selves, we  must  own, — a  premature  attempt,  an 
attempt  which  for  success  needed  the  moral 
and  religious  fibre  in  humanity  to  be  more 
braced  and  developed  than  it  had  yet  been.  But 

2  "Well  endowed  by  nature." 

3  "III  endowed  by  nature." 

4  Arnold's   name  "  for   the   middle  class   of  English 

society,   whose  defect   he  declares  to  be  nar- 
rowness. I 

.•i  .John     Bright,    a     Liberal     statesman,     who    had 
scoffed  at  Arnold's  advocacy  of  culture.  i 

*  Swift  derived  the  words  from  the  labor  of  the 
bees,    that    (ill    their    hives    "with    honey    and 
wax.    thus   furnishing   mankind   with    the   two  ' 
noblest  of  things,  sweetness  and  light."     The  I 
terms  stand  for  spiritual  beauty  and  intellec- 
tual breadth. 


j  Greece  did  not  err  in  having  the  idea  of  beau- 
ty, harmony,  and  complete  human  perfection, 
so  present  and  paramount.  It  is  impossible  to 
have  this  idea  too  present  and  paramount ;  only, 
the  moral  fibre  must  be  braced  too.  And  we, 
because  we  have  braced  the  moral  fibre,  are 
not  on  that  account  in  the  right  way,  if  at  the 
same  time  the  idea  of  beauty,  harmony,  and 
complete  human  perfection  is  wanting  or  mis- 
apprehended   amongst    us. 

NATURAL    MAGIC     IN     CELTIC     LITER- 
ATUREt 

The  Celt's  quick  feeling  for  what  is  noble 
and  distinguished  gave  his  poetry  style;  his 
indomitable  personality  gave  it  pride  and  pas- 
sion; his  sensibility  and  nervous  exaltation 
gave  it  a  better  gift  still,  the  gift  of  render- 
ing with  wonderful  felicity  the  magical  charm 
of  nature.  The  forest  solitude,  the  bubbling 
spring,  the  wild  flowers,  are  everywhere  in  ro- 
mance. They  have  a  mysterious  life  and  grace 
there;  they  are  Nature's  own  children,  and 
utter  her  secret  in  a  way  which  makes  them 
something  quite  different  from  the  woods,  wa- 
ters, and  plants  of  Greek  and  Latin  poetry. 
Now  of  this  delicate  magic,  Celtic  romance  is 
so  pre-eminent  a  mistress,  that  it  seems  impos- 
sible to  believe  the  power  did  not  come  into 
romance  from  the  Celts.  Magic  is  just  the 
word  for  it, — the  magic  of  nature;  not  merely 
the  beauty  of  nature, — that  the  Greeks  and 
Latins  had ;  not  merely  an  honest  smack  of  tlie 
soil,  a  faithful  realism, — that  the  Germans 
had;  but  the  intimate  life  of  Nature,  her 
weird  power  and  her  fairy  charm.  As  the 
Saxon  names  of  places,  with  the  pleasant 
wholesome  smack  of  the  soil  in  them, — Weath- 
ersfield,  Thaxted,  Shalford, — are  to  the  Celtic 
names  of  places,  with  their  penetrating,  lofty 
beauty, — Velindra,  Tyntagel,  Caernarvon, — so 
is  the  homely  realism  of  German  and  Norse 
nature  to  the  fairy-like  loveliness  of  Celtic 
nature.  Gwydion  wants  a  wife  for  his  pupil: 
"Well,"  says  Math,  "we  will  seek,  I  and 
thou,  by  charms  and  illusions,  to  form  a  wife 
for  him  out  of  flowers.  So  they  took  the  blos- 
soms of  the  oak,  and  the  blossoms  of  the  broom, 
and  the  blossoms  of  the  meadow-sweet,  and  pro- 
duced from  them  a  maiden,  the  fairest  and 
most  graceful  that  man  ever  saw.  And  they 
baptized  her,  and  gave  her  the  name  of  Flower- 
Aspect."!:     Celtic  romance  is  full  of  exquisite 

t  From  On  the  Sfiiilij  of  Celtic  LUerotnie  (ISfifi). 

The  Celtic  race  is   represented  mainly  by  the 

Welsh,  the  Irish,  and  the  Highland  Scotch. 
t  This    and    the    following    quotations    are    taken 

from    the    Welsh    Mnhinogion,    translated    by 

Lady  Charlotte  Guest. 


660 


THE   VJCTOKIAX  AGE 


touches  like  that,  showing  the  delicacy  of  the 
Celt's  feeling  in  these  matters,  and  how  deei)- 
ly  Nature  lets  him  come  into  her  secrets.  The 
quick  dropping  of  blood  is  called  "faster  than 
the  fall  of  the  dewdrop  from  the  blade  of 
•reed-grass  upon  the  earth,  when  the  dew  of 
June  is  at  the  heaviest."  And  thus  is  Olwcn 
described :  ' '  More  yellow  was  her  hair  than 
the  flower  of  the  broom,  and  her  skin  was 
whiter  than  the  foam  of  the  wave,  and  fairer 
were  her  hands  and  her  fingers  than  the 
blossoms  of  the  wood-anemouy  amidst  the 
spray  of  the  meadow  fountains.'*  For  loveli- 
ness it  would  be  hard  to  beat  that ;  and  for 
magical  clearness  and  nearness  take  the 
following: — 

"And  in  the  evening  Peredur  entered  a  val- 
ley, and  at  the  head  of  the  valley  he  came  to 
a  hermit's  cell,  and  the  hermit  welcomed  him 
gladly,  and  there  he  spent  the  night.  And  in 
the  morning  he  arose,  and  when  he  Avent  forth, 
behold!  a  shower  of  snow  had  fallen  the  niglit 
before,  and  a  hawk  had  killed  a  wild-fowl  in 
front  of  the  cell.  And  the  noise  of  the  horse 
seared  the  hawk  away,  and  a  raven  alighted 
upon  the  bird.  And  Peredur  stood  and  com- 
pared the  blackness  of  the  raven  and  the  white- 
ness of  the  snow,  and  the  redness  of  the  blood, 
to  the  hair  of  the  lady  whom  best  he  loved, 
which  was  blacker  than  the  raven,  and  to  her 
skin,  which  was  whiter  than  the  snow,  and  to 
her  two  cheeks,  which  were  redder  than  the 
blood  upon  the  snow  appeared  to  be. ' ' 

And  this,  which  is  perhaps  less  striking,  is  not 
less  beautiful: 

"And  early  in  the  day  Geraint  and  Enid  left 
the  wood,  and  they  came  to  an  open  country, 
with  meadows  on  one  hand  and  mowers  mowing 
the  meadows.  And  there  was  a  river  before 
them,  and  the  horses  bent  down  and  drank  the 
water.  And  they  went  up  out  of  the  river  by 
a  steep  bank,  and  there  they  met  a  slender 
stripling  with  a  satchel  about  his  neck ;  and  he 
had  a  small  blue  pitcher  in  his  hand,  and  a 
bowl  on  the  mouth  of  the  pitcher." 

And  here  the  landscape,  up  to  this  point  so 
Greek  in  its  clear  beauty,  is  suddenly  magical- 
izefl  by  the  romance  touch : 

* '  And  they  saw  a  tall  tree  by  the  side  of  the 
river,  one-half  of  which  was  in  flames  from  the 
root  to  the  top,  and  the  other  half  was  green 
and  in  full  leaf." 

Magic  is  the  word  to  insist  upon, — a  magic- 
ally vivid  and  near  interpretation  of  nature; 
since  it  is  this  which  constitutes  the  special 
charm  and  power  of  the  effect  I  am  calling  at- 
tention to,  and  it  is  for  this  that  the  Celt's 
sensibility  gives  him  a  peculiar  aptitude. 


WOKDSWOKTH* 

"But  turn  we,"  as  Wordsworth  says,  "from 
these  bold,  bad  men,"  the  haunters  of  Social 
Science  Congresses.  And  let  us  be  on  our 
guard,  too,  against  the  exhibitors  and  extollers 
of  a  "scientific  system  of  thought"  in  Words- 
worth's poetry.  The  poetry  will  never  be  seen 
aright  while  they  thus  exhibit  it.  The  cause 
of  its  greatness  is  simple,  and  may  be  told  quite 
simply.  Wordsworth  's  poetry  is  great  because 
of  the  extraordinary  power  with  which  Words- 
worth feels  the  joy  offered  to  us  in  nature,  m 
the  joy  oifered  to  us  in  the  simple  primary  af-  1 
fections  and  duties;  and  because  of  the  extra- 
ordinary power  with  which,  in  case  after  case, 
he  shows  us  this  joy,  and  renders  it  so  as  to  1 
make  us  share  it. 

The  source  of  joy  from  which  he  thus  draws 
is  the  truest  and  most  unfailing  source  of  joy 
accessible  to  man.  It  is  also  accessible  uni- 
versally. Wordsworth  brings  us  word,  there- 
fore, according  to  his  own  strong  and  charac- 
teristic line,  he  brings  us  word 

"Of  Joy  in  widest  commonalty  spread.'"i 

Here  i.s  an  immense  advantage  for  a  poet. 
Wordsworth  tells  of  what  all  seek,  and  tells 
of  it  at  its  truest  and  best  source,  and  yet  a 
source  where  all  may  go  and  draw  from  it. 

Nevertheless,    we    are    not    to    suppose    that 
everything     is     precious     which      Wordsworth, 
I  standing  even  at   this  perennial  and   beautiful 
1  source,  may  give  us.     Wordsworth ians  are  apt 
to  talk  as  if  it  must  be.     They  will  speak  with 
the  same  reverence  of  The  Sailor's  Mother,  for 
example,  as  of  Lucy  Gray.     They  do  their  nms- 
I  ter  harm  by  such  lack  of  discrimination.    Lucy 
\  Gray  is  a  beautiful  success;  The  Sailor's  Moth- 
er is  a  failure.t    To  give  aright  what  he  wishes 
to  give,  to  interpret  and  render  successfully,  is 
not  always  within  Wordsworth's  own  command. 
Tt   is  within  no  poet's  command;    here   is  the 
part  of  the  Muse,  the  inspiration,  the  God,  the 
"not  ourselves.  "2     In  Wordsworth's  case,  the 
accident,   for   so  it   may   almost   be   called,   of 
inspiration,    is    of    peculiar    importance.      No 
poet,  perhaps,  is  so  evidently  filled  with  a  new 

1  Thr  Recluse,  line  771. 

;;  Arnold  elsewhere  speaks  of  dolty  as  the  "tend- 
ency not  oui-i,elves  that  makes  for  righteous- 
ness." 

♦  From  the  Preface  to  The  Poema  of  Wordxworfh, 
choson  and  edited  by  Arnold  (18"!»).  In  the 
passage  Just  preoodlnn.  Arnold  dei)recat('s  the 
attempt  to  make  Wordsworth  sponsor  for 
any  complete  philosophical  or  sochil  system, 
such,  for  Instance,  as  a  Social  Science  con- 
tiVHH  mlglit  dryly  and  dismally  (nmtc  and 
discuss. 

;  Swinburne  thought  otherwiso.  See  his  Miscul- 
laiilcH. 


MATTHEW  AENOLD 


661 


and  sacred  energy  when  the  inspiration  is  upon 
him;  no  poet,  when  it  fails  him,  is  so  left 
"weak  as  is  a  breaking  wave."  I  remember 
hearing  him  say  tha'  ' '  Goethe 's  poetry  was  not 
inevitables  enough."  The  remark  is  striking 
and  true;  no  line  in  Goethe,  as  Goethe  said 
himself,  but  its  maker  knew  well  how  it  came 
there.  Wordsworth  is  right,  Goethe's  poeti'y 
is  not  inevitable;  not  inevitable  enough.  But 
Wordsworth's  poetry,  when  he  is  at  his  best, 
is  inevitable,  as  inevitable  as  Nature  herself. 
It  might  seem  that  Nature  not  only  gave  him 
the  matter  for  his  poem,  but  wrote  his  poem 
for  him.  He  has  no  style.  He  was  too  con- 
versant with  Milton  not  to  catch  at  times  his 
master's  manner,  and  he  has  fine  Miltonic 
lines;  but  he  has  no  assured  poetic  style  of  his 
own,  like  ililton.  When  he  seeks  to  have  a 
style,  he  falls  into  ponderosity  and  pomposity. 
In  the  Excursion  we  have  his  style,  as  an  artis- 
tic product  of  his  own  creation;  and  although 
Jeffrey*  completely  failed  to  recognize  Words- 
worth 's  real  greatness,  he  was  yet  not  wrong 
in  saying  of  the  Excursion,  as  a  work  of  poetic 
style:  "This  will  never  do."  And  yet  mag- 
ical as  is  that  power,  which  Wordsworth  has 
not,  of  assured  and  possessed  poetic  style,  he 
has  something  which  is  an  equivalent  for  it. 

Every  one  who  has  any  sense  for  these  things 
feels  the  subtle  turn,  the  heightening,  which  is 
given  to  a  poet's  verse  by  his  genius  for  style. 
We  can  feel  it  in  the 

"After  life's  fitful  fever,  he  sleeps  weir'5 
of  Shakespeare;  in  the 

"...     though  fallen  on  evil  days. 
On  evil  days  though  fallen,  and  evil  tongues"6 — 

of  Milton.  It  is  the  incomparable  charm  of 
Milton's  power  of  poetic  style  which  gives  such 
worth  to  Paradise  Regained,  and  makes  a  great 
poem  of  a  work  in  which  Milton 's  imagination 
does  not  soar  high.  Wordsworth  has  in  con- 
stant possession,  and  at  command,  no  style  of 
this  kind;  but  he  had  too  poetic  a  nature,  and 
had  read  the  great  poets  too  well,  not  to  catch, 
as  I  have  already  remarked,  something  of  it 
occasionally.  We  find  it  not  only  in  his  Miltonic 
lines ;  we  find  it  in  such  a  phrase  as  this,  where 
the  manner  is  his  own,  not  Milton's: 

"...     the  fierce  confederate   storm 
Of  sorrow  barricadoed  evermore 
Within  the  walls  of  cities  ;"T 

although  even  here,  perhaps,  the  power  of  style, 

which  is  undeniable,  is  more  properly  that  of 

eloquent  prose  than  the  subtle  heightening  and 

3  i.  e..  spontaneous 

4  Francis  Jeffrey,  first  editor  of  the  Edinburgh  Re- 

5  Macbeth,  III.  li,  23. 

6  Par.  Lost,  vii,  25. 

7  The  Recluse,  11.  831-833. 


change  wrought  by  genuine  poetic  style.  It  is 
style,  again,  and  the  elevation  given  by  style, 
which  chiefly  makes  the  effectiveness  of  Lao- 
damia.  Still,  the  right  sort  of  verse  to  choose 
from  Wordsworth,  if  we  are  to  seize  his  true 
and  most  characteristic  form  of  expression,  is 
a  line  like  this  from  Michael: 

"And  never  lifted  up  a  single  stone." 
There  is  nothing  subtle  in  it,  no  heightening, 
no    study    of    poetic    style,    strictly    so    called, 
at  all;  yet  it  is  expression  of  the  highest  and 
most  truly  expressive  kind. 

Wordsworth  owed  much  to  Burns,  and  a  style 
of  perfect  plainness,  relying  for  effect  solely 
on  the  weight  and  force  of  that  which  with 
entire  fidelity  it  utters.  Burns  could  show  him: 

"The  poor  inhabitant  below 
Was  quick  to  learn  and  wise  to  know 
And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow 

And  softer  flame; 
But  thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low 
And  stained  his  name."8 

Every  one  will  be  conscious  of  a  likeness  here 
to  Wordsworth;  and  if  Wordsworth  did  great 
things  with  this  nobly  plain  manner,  we  must 
remember,  what  indeed  he  himself  would  al- 
ways have  been  forward  to  acknowledge,  that 
Burns  used  it  before  him. 

Still,  Wordsworth's  use  of  it  has  something 
unique  and  unmatchable.  Nature,  herself, 
seems,  I  say,  to  take  the  pen  out  of  his  hand, 
and  to  write  for  him  with  her  own  bare,  sheer, 
penetrating  power.  This  arises  from  two 
causes;  from  the  profound  sincereness  with 
which  Wordsworth  feels  his  subject,  and  also 
from  the  profoundly  sincere  and  natural  char- 
acter of  his  subject  itself.  He  can  and  will 
treat  such  a  subject  with  nothing  but  the  most 
plain,  first-hand,  almost  austere  naturalness. 
His  expression  may  often  be  called  bald,  as, 
for  instance,  in  the  poem  of  Resolution  and 
Independence ;  but  it  is  bald  as  the  bare  moun- 
tain tops  are  bald,  with  a  baldness  which  is 
full  of  grandeur. 

Wherever  we  meet  with  the  successful  bal- 
ance, in  Wordsworth,  of  profound  truth  of  sub- 
ject with  profound  truth  of  execution,  he  is 
unique.  His  best  poems  are  those  which  most 
perfectly  exhibit  this  balance.  I  have  a  warm 
admiration  for  Laodamia  and  for  the  great 
Ode;  but  if  I  am  to  tell  the  very  truth,  I  find 
Laodamia  not  wholly  free  from  something  ar- 
tificial, and  the  great  Ode  not  wholly  free  from 
something  declamatory.  If  I  had  to  pick  out 
poems  of  a  kind  most  perfectly  to  show  Words- 
worth 's  unique  power,  I  should  rather  choose 
poems  such  as  Michael,  The  Fountain,  The  Hiph- 

8  A  Bard's  Epitaph,  st.  4. 


663 


THE   VILTOIUAN  AUE 


land  Reaper.  And  poems  with  the  peculiar  and 
unique  beauty  which  distinguishes  these,  Words- 
worth produced  in  considerable  number;  be- 
sides very  many  other  poems  of  which  the 
worth,  although  not  so  rare  as  the  wortli  of 
these,  is  still  exceedingly  high. 

On  the  whole,  then,  as  I  said  at  the  begin- 
ning, not  only  is  Wordsworth  eminent  by  rea- 
son of  the  goodness  of  his  best  work,  but  ho  is 
eminent  also  by  reason  of  the  great  body  of 
good  work  which  he  has  left  to  us.  With  the 
ancients  I  will  not  compare  him.  In  many  re- 
spects the  ancients  are  far  above  us,  and  yet 
there  is  something  that  we  demand  whicli  they 
can  never  give.  Leaving  the  ancients,  let  us 
come  to  the  poets  and  poetry  of  Cliristendom. 
Dante,  Shakespeare,  Moli^re,  ]\Iilton,  Goethe, 
are  altogether  larger  and  more  splendid  lumi- 
naries in  the  poetical  heaven  than  Wordsworth. 
But  I  know  not  where  else,  among  the  mod- 
erns,  we   are  to   find   his   superiors 

He  is  one  of  the  very  chief  glories  of  English 
Poetry;  and  by  nothing  is  England  so  glorious 
as  by  her  poetry.  Let  us  lay  aside  every  weight 
which  hinders  our  getting  him  recognized  as 
this,  and  let  our  one  study  be  to  bring  to  pass, 
as  widely  as  possible  and  as  truly  as  possible, 
his  own  word  concerning  his  poems:  "They 
will  cooperate  with  the  benign  tendencies  in  hu- 
man nature  and  society,  and  will,  in  their  de- 
gree, be  efficacious  in  making  men  wiser,  better 
and  happier. '^ 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE 
(1818-1894) 

THE  SAILING  OF  THE  SPANISH 
ARMADA* 

The  weatlier  moderating,  the  fleet  was  again 
collected  in  the  Bay  of  FerroU  by  the  6th 
]6th2  of  July.  All  repairs  were  completed  by 
the  llth-21st,  and  the  next  day,  12th-22nd,  the 

1  OIT  nort  hwestorn  2  The  first  date  Is  Old 
Spain.  Stvlo ;  see  note  on 

p.  .'523. 

*  Tho  story  of  tho  spectacular  but  ill-fated  expe- 
dition of  the  Spanish  .\rniada  has  often  been 
told,  but  by  no  one  perhaps  more  graphically 
than  by  Froudo.  Ills  first  account  is  that  in 
the  .'50th  chapter  of  his  Uistorn  of  Enfiland 
(1856-1870),  from  which  has  been  taken  this 
description  of  the  sailing  of  the  Armada. 
Later  in  life,  after  mtich  additional  research. 
Fronde  wrote  and  piil)llshfd  The  Spanixh 
Htory  of  the  Armuila  (1K!>2).  About  the  same 
time  he  was  appolnfi-fl  to  a  lf<tureshlp  at 
Oxford,  whern  Iw  delivered  sonio  lectures  on 
the  subject  which  were  published  after  his 
death  (Unollxh  Hcanicn  in  the  XV  1th  Cen- 
tury, IS!).').  From  these  the  second  selection 
above  has   been    taken. 

In  the  summer  of  l.'iHM,  Philip  II.  of  Spain,  who 


Armada  took  leave  of  Spain  for  the  last  time. 

The  scene  as  the  fleet  passed  out  of  the  har- 
bour must  liave  been  singularly  beautiful.  It 
was  a  treaclierous  interval  of  real  summer.  The 
early  sun  was  lighting  the  long  chain  of  the 
Galician  mountains,  marking  with  shadows  the 
cleft  ilefiles,  and  shining  softly  on  the  white 
walls  and  vineyards  of  Corufia.  The  wind  was 
light,  and  falling  towards  a  calm;  the  great 
galleons  drifted  slowly  Avith  the  tide  on  the 
puri)lo  water,  the  long  streamers  trailing  from 
the" trucks,  the  red  crosses,  the  emblem  of  the 
crusade,  showing  bright  upon  the  hanginf  sails. 
The  fruit  boats  were  bringing  oft'  tlie  .ast 
fresh  supplies,  and  tlie  pinnaces  hastening  to 
the  ships  with  the  last  loiterers  on  shore.  Out 
of  thirty  thousand  men  who  that  morning  stood 
upon  the  decks  of  the  i)roud  Armada,  twenty 
thousand  and  more  were  never  again  to  see  the 
hills  of  Spain.  Of  the  remnant  who  in  two 
short  months  crept  back  ragged  and  torn,  all 
but  a  few  hundred  returned  only  to  die. 

The  Spaniards,  thougli  a  great  people,  were 
usually  over  conscious  of  tlieir  greatness,  and 
boasted  too  loudly  of  their  fame  and  prowess; 
but  among  the  soldiers  and  sailors  of  the 
doomed  expedition  against  England,  the  na- 
tional vainglory  Avas  singularly  silent.  They 
were  the  flower  of  the  country,  culled  and 
chosen  over  the  entire  Peninsula,  and  they  were 
going  with  a  modest  nobility  upon  a  service 
whicli  they  knew  to  be  dangerous,  but  which 
they  believed  to  be  peculiarly  sacred.  Every 
one,  seaman,  officer,  and  soldier,  had  confessed 
and  communicated  before  he  went  on  board. 
Gambling,  swearing,  profane  language  of  all 
kinds  had  been  peremptorily  forbidden.  Pri- 
vate quarrels  and  differences  had  been  made  up 
or  suspended.  .  .  In  every  vessel,  and  in  the 
whole  fleet,  the  strictest  order  was  prescribed 
and  observed.  Medina  Sidonia  led  the  way  in 
the  »SVoi  Martin,  showing  lights  at  night,  and 
firing  guns  when  the  weather  was  hazy.  Mount 's 


was  tryinjj  to  restore  the  Catholic  faith 
through  the  Protestant  countries  of  ICurope. 
fitted  out  his  "Invincil)ie  Armada"  with  the 
purpose  of  invading  England.  His  great  Ad- 
miral. Santa  Cruz,  had  just  died,  and  the 
expedition  was  given  into  tlie  command  of 
the  Duke  of  Medina  Sidonia.  a  wealthy  nolile- 
man  of  little  experience  and  less  ability,  who 
ought  to  have  been  allowed  to  remain  at 
home  among  his  orange  groves.  His  instruc- 
tions were  to  effect  a  junction  with  the  Duke 
of  Tariua,  a  general  in  the  Spanish  service 
in  the  r..ow  (Countries,  and  to  assist  the  latter 
in  transporting  his  army  to  thi>  English 
shores.  The  obvious  tactifs  for  the  English  to 
pursue  was  to  cripple  and  if  possible  de- 
feat the  fleet  as  it  sailed  through  the  English 
Channel.  The  fleet  start<'d  from  Lisbon  on 
the  20th  of  May.  Iiut  was  delayed  on  the 
route  six  weeks  liy  had  weather. 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FBOUDE 


663 


Bays  was  to  be  the  next  place  of  remlezvous  if 
they  were  again  separated. 

On  the  first  evening  the  wind  dropped  to  a 
calm.  The  morning  after,  the  13th-23rd,  a 
fair  fresh  breeze  came  up  from  the  south  and 
southwest;  the  ships  ran  fiowingly  before  it; 
and  in  two  days  and  nights  they  had  crossed 
the  bay,*  and  were  off  Ushant.s  Tlie  fastest  of 
the  pinnaces  was  dispatched  from  thence  to 
Parma,  with  a  letter  bidding  him  expect  the 
Duke's  immediate  coming. 

But  they  had  now  entered  the  latitude  of 
the  storms  which  through  the  whole  season  had 
raged  round  the  English  shore.  The  same  night 
a  southwest  gale  overtook  them.  They  lay-to, 
not  daring  to  run  further.  The  four  galleys 
unable  to  keep  the  sea  were  driven  in  upon  the 
French  coast,  and  wrecked.  The  Santa  Aila,  a 
galleon  of  eight  hundred  tons,  went  down,  car- 
rying with  her  ninety  seamen,  three  hundred 
soldiers,  and  fifty  thousand  ducats  in  gold.  The 
weather  was  believed  to  be  under  the  peculiar 
care  of  God,  and  this  first  misfortune  was  of 
evil  omen  for  the  future.  The  storm  lasted  two 
days,  and  then  the  sky  cleared,  and  again  gath- 
ering into  order  they  proceeded  on  tlieir  way. 
On  the  19th-29th  they  were  in  the  mouth  of  the 
Channel.  At  daybreak  on  the  morning  of  the 
20th-30th  the  Lizard  was  under  their  lee,  and 
an  English  fishing-boat  was  hanging  near  them, 
counting  their  numbers.  They  gave  chase,  but 
the  boat  shot  away  down  wind  and  disappeared. 
They  captured  another  an  liour  or  two  later, 
from  which  they  learnt  the  English  fleet  was 
in  Plymouth,  and  Medina  Sidonia  called  a 
council  of  war  to  consider  whether  they  should 
go  in,  and  fall  upon  it  while  at  anchor.  Phil- 
ip's orders,  however,  were  peremptory  that 
they  should  turn  neither  right  nor  left,  and 
maice  straiglit  for  Margate  roadsf  and  Parma. 
The  Duke  was  unenterprising,  and  consciously 
unequal  to  his  work;  and  already  bending  un- 
der his  responsibilities,  he  hesitated  to  add  to 
them. 

Had  he  decided  otherwise  it  would  have  made 
no  difference,  for  the  opportunity  was  not  al- 
lowed him.  Long  before  the  Spaniards  saw 
the  Lizard  they  had  themselves  been  seen,  and 

3  On     the     English     coast    of    Cornwall,    between 

Lands   End  on  th"  west  and  Lizard   Head  on 
the  east. 

4  Of  Biscay. 

r.  An  island  off  the  extrpme  northwpstern  coast  of 
France. 

t  Just  north  of  Dover,  opposite  Calais.  Vessels 
sailing  up  the  English  Channel  and  through 
Dover  Strait  would  round  the  North  Foreland 
and  Margate  to  pass  into  the  Thames.  The 
passage  of  the  fleet  up  the  Channel  was  vir- 
tually a  running  fight,  beginning  at  Plymouth 
and  lasting  for  a  week. 


on  the  evening  of  the  19th-29th,  the  beacons 
along  the  coast  had  told  England  that  the  hour 
of  its  trial  was  come. 


DEFEAT  OF  THE  ARMADA 

In  the  gallery  at  Madrid  there  is  a  picture, 
painted  by  Titian,  representing  the  Genius  of 
Spain  coming  to  the  delivery  of  the  afflicted 
Bride  of  Christ.  Titian  was  dead,  but  the 
temper  of  the  age  survived,  and  in  the  study 
of  that  great  picture  you  will  see  the  spirit 
in  which  the  Spanish  nation  had  set  out  for  the 
conquest  of  England.  The  scene  is  the  sea- 
shore. The  Church  a  naked  Andromeda,t  with 
dishevelled  hair,  fastened  to  the  trunk  of  an 
ancient  disbranched  tree.  The  cross  lies  at  her 
feet,  the  cup  overturned,  the  serpents  of  heresy 
biting  at  her  from  behind  with  uplifted  crests. 
Coming  on  before  a  leading  breeze  is  the  sea 
monster,  the  Moslem  fleet,  eager  for  their  prey, 
while  in  front  is  Perseus,  the  Genius  of  Spain, 
banner  in  hand,  with  the  legions  of  the  faithful 
laying  not  raiment  before  him,  but  shield  and 
helmet,  the  apparel  of  war  for  the  Lady  of 
Nations  to  clothe  herself  with  strength  and 
smite  her  foes. 

In  the  Armada  the  crusading  enthusiasm  had 
reached  its  point  and  focus.  England  was  the 
stake  to  which  the  Virgin,  the  daughter  of 
Sion,  was  bound  in  captivity.  Perseus  had 
come  at  last  in  the  person  of  the  Duke  of  Me- 
dina Sidonia,  and  with  him  all  that  was  best 
and  brightest  in  the  countrymen  of  Cervantes.i 
to  break  her  bonds  and  replace  her  on  her 
throne.  They  had  sailed  into  the  channel  in  pi- 
ous hope,  with  the  blessed  banner  waving  over 
their  heads. 

To  be  the  executor  of  the  decrees  of  Provi- 
dence is  a  lofty  ambition,  but  men  in  a  state 
of  high  emotion  overlook  the  precautions  which 
are  not  to  be  dispensed  with  even  on  the  sub- 
limest  of  errands.  Don  Quixote,  when  he  set 
out  to  redress  the  wrongs  of  humanity,  forgot 
that  a  change  of  linen  might  be  necessary,  and 
that  he  must  take  money  with  him  to  pay  his 
hotel  bills.  Philip  II.,  in  sending  the  Armada 
to  England,  and  confident  in  supernatural  pro- 
tection, imagined  an  unresisted  triumphal  pro- 
cession. He  forgot  that  contractors  might  be 
rascals,  that  water  four  months  in  the  casks 
in  a  hot  climate  turned  putrid,  and  that  putrid 
water  would  poison  his  ships '  companies,  though 

1  Creator  of  Don  Quixote,  the  half-mad  knight- 
errant. 

JAndromeda.  according  to  the  Greek  legend,  was 
exposed  to  be  devoured  by  a  sea-mouster,  but 
was  rescued  by  Perseus. 


664 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


his  crews  were  companies  of  angels.  He  forgot 
that  the  servants  of  the  evil  one  might  fight 
for  their  mistress  after  all,  and  that  he  must 
send  adequate  supplies  of  powder,  and,  worst 
forgetfulness  of  all,  that  a  great  naval  expe- 
dition required  a  leader  who  understood  his 
business.  Perseus,  in  the  shape  of  the  Duke  of 
Medina  Sidonia,  after  a  week  of  disastrous 
battles,  found  himself  at  the  end  of  it  in  an  ex- 
posed roadstead,2  where  he  ought  never  to  have 
been,  nine-tenths  of  his  provisions  thrown  over- 
board as  unfit  for  food,  his  ammunition  ex- 
hausted by  the  unforeseen  demands  upon  it, 
the  seamen  and  soldiers  harassed  and  dis- 
pirited, oflScers  the  whole  week  without  sleep, 
and  the  enemy,  who  had  hunted  him  from  Plym- 
outh to  Calais,  anchored  within  half  a  league 
of  him. 

Still,  after  all  his  misadventures,  he  had 
brought  the  fleet,  if  not  to  the  North  Foreland,3 
yet  within  a  few  miles  of  it,  and  to  outward 
appearance  not  materially  injured.  Two  of  the 
galleons  had  been  taken;  a  third,  the  Santa 
Alia,  had  strayed;  and  his  galleys  had  left 
him,  being  found  too  weak  for  the  channel  sea, 
but  the  great  armament  had  reached  its  desti- 
nation substantially  uninjured  so  far  as  English 
eyes  could  see.  Hundreds  of  men  had  been 
kilJed  and  hundreds  more  wounded,  and  the 
spirit  of  the  rest  had  been  shaken.  But  the  loss 
of  life  could  only  be  conjectured  on  board  the 
English  fleet.  The  English  admiral*  could  only 
see  that  the  Duke  was  now  in  touch  with 
Parma.  Parma,  they  knew,  had  an  army  at 
Dunkirk*  with  him,  which  was  to  cross  to  Eng- 
land. He  had  been  collecting  men,  barges,  and 
transports  all  the  winter  and  spring,  and  the 
backward  state  of  Parma's  preparations  could 
not  be  anticipated,  still  less  relied  upon.  The 
(,'alais  anchorage  was  unsafe;  but  at  that  sea- 
son of  the  year,  especially  after  a  wet  summer, 
the  weather  usually  settled;  and  to  attack  the 
Spaniards  in  a  French  port  might  be  dangerous 
for  many  reasons.  It  was  uncertain  after  the 
day  of  the  Barricades"'  whether  the  Duke  of 
(Juise  or  Henry  of  Valois  was  master  of  France, 
and  a  violation  of  the  neutrality  laws  might 
easily  at  that  moment  bring  Guise  and  France 
into  the  field  on  the  Spaniards'  side.  It  was, 
no  doubt,  with  some  such  expectation  that  the 

2  Calais   Roads. 

8  K«'('  Inst  note  of  preceding  selection. 

*  A  iHtVt  twenty  mlleM  east  of  Calais. 

&  May   12.   wlien   tlie  Pulte  of  Guise  entered   Paris 
In  an  attempt  to  depose  Henry  III. 

•  Lord  Charles  Howard.     Sir  Francis  Drake,  vice 

admlnil,  commanded  a  second  division  of  the 
I'rltlsh  fleet ;  HIr  Henry  Seymour  a  third. 
Commanders  of  squadrons  were  Sir  John 
Hawkins  and  Sir  Martin  Froblsher. 


Duke  and  his  advisers,  had  chosen  Calais  aa 
the  point  at  which  to  bring  up.  It  was  now 
Saturday,  the  7th  of  August.  The  governor  of 
the  town  came  ofl'  in  the  evening  to  the  San 
Martin.  He  expressed  surprise  to  see  the  Span- 
ish fleet  in  so  exposed  a  position,  but  he  was 
profuse  in  his  offers  of  service.  Anything  which 
the  Duke  required  should  be  provided,  especially 
every  facility  for  communicating  with  Dunkirk 
and  Parma.  The  Duke  thanked  him,  said  that 
he  supposed  Parma  to  be  already  embarked 
witli  his  troops,  ready  for  the  passage,  and  that 
his  own  stay  in  the  roads  would  be  but  brief. 
On  Monday  morning  at  latest  he  expected  that 
the  attempt  to  cross  would  be  made.  The  gov- 
ernor took  his  leave,  and  the  Duke,  relieved 
from  his  anxieties,  was  left  to  a  peaceful  night. 
He  was  disturbed  on  the  Sunday  morning  by 
an  express  from  Parma  informing  him  that,  so 
far  from  being  embarked,  the  army  could  not 
be  ready  for  a  fortnight.  The  barges  were 
not  in  condition  for  sea.  The  troops  were  in 
camp.  The  arms  and  stores  were  on  the  quays 
at  Dunkirk.  As  for  the  fly-boatse  and  ammuni- 
tion which  the  Duke  had  asked  for,  he  had 
none  to  spare.  He  had  himself  looked  to  be 
supplied  from  the  Armada.  He  promised  to 
use  his  best  expedition,  but  the  Duke,  mean- 
while, must  see  to  the  safety  of  the  fleet. 

Unwelcome  news  to  a  harassed  landsman 
thrust  into  the  position  of  an  admiral  and 
eager  to  be  rid  of  his  responsibilities.  If  by 
evil  fortune  the  northwester  should  come  down 
upon  him,  with  the  shoals  and  sandbanks  close 
under  his  lee,  he  would  be  in  a  bad  way.  Nor 
was  the  view  behind  him  calculated  for  com- 
fort. There  lay  the  enemy  almost  within  gun- 
shot, who,  though  scarcely  more  than  half  his 
numbers,  had  huntetl  him  like  a  pack  of  blood- 
hounds, and,  worse  than  all,  in  double  strength ; 
for  the  Thames  squadron — three  Queen  's  ships 
and  thirty  London  adventurers — under  Lord  H. 
Seymour  and  Sir  John  Hawkins,  had  crossed 
in  the  night.  There  they  were  between  him  and 
Cape  Grisnez,7  and  the  reinforcements  meant 
plainly  enough  that  mischief  was  in  the  wind. 

After  a  week  so  trying  the  Spanish  crews 
would  have  been  glad  of  a  Sunday 's  rest  if  they 
could  have  had  it;  but  the  rough  handling 
which  they  had  gone  through  had  thrown  every- 
thing into  disorder.  The  sick  and  wounded  had 
to  be  cared  for,  torn  rigging  looked  to,  splin- 
tered timbers  mended,  decks  scoured,  and  guns 
and  arms  cleaned  up  and  put  to  rights.  And 
so  it  was  that   no   rest  could   be   allowed;    so 

6  "OunI)oats  worked  with  oars." 

7  Eighteen  miles  S.  W.  of  Calais. 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FEOUDE 


665 


much  had  to  be  done,  and  so  busy  was  every 
one,  that  the  usual  rations  were  not  served  out 
and  the  Sunday  was  kept  as  a  fast.  In  the 
afternoon  the  stewards  went  ashore  for  fresh 
meat  and  vegetables.  They  came  back  with 
their  boats  loaded,  and  the  prospect  seemed  a 
little  less  gloomy.  Suddenly,  as  the  Duke  and 
a  group  of  officers  were  watching  the  English 
fleet  from  the  San  Martin's  poop  deck,  a  small 
smart  pinnace,  carrying  a  gun  in  her  bow,  shot 
out  from  Howard's  lines,  bore  down  on  the 
San  Martin,  sailed  round  her,  sending  in  a  shot 
or  two  as  she  passed,  and  went  off  unhurt.  The 
Spanish  officers  could  not  help  admiring  such 
airy  impertinence.  Hugo  de  Mon^ada^  sent  a 
ball  after  the  pinnace,  which  went  through  her 
mainsail,  but  did  no  damage,  and  the  pinnace 
again  disappeared  behind  the  English  ships. 

So  a  Spanish  officer  describes  the  scene.  The 
English  story  says  nothing  of  the  pinnace,  but 
she  doubtless  came  and  went  as  the  Spaniard 
says,  and  for  sufficient  purpose.  The  English, 
too,  were  in  straits,  though  the  Duke  did  not 
dream  of  it.  You  will  remember  that  the  last 
supplies  which  the  Queen  had  allowed  to  the 
fleet  had  been  issued  in  the  middle  of  June. 
They  were  to  serve  for  a  month,  and  the  eon- 
tractors  were  forbidden  to  prepare  more.  The 
Queen  had  clung  to  her  hope  that  her  differ- 
ences with  Philip  were  to  be  settled  by  the 
Commission  at  Ostend;^  and  she  feared  that  if 
Drake  and  Howard  were  too  well  furnished 
they  Mould  venture  some  fresh  rash  stroke  on 
the  coast  of  Spain,  which  might  mar  the  nego- 
tiations. Their  month's  provisions  had  been 
stretched  to  serve  for  six  weeks,  and  when  the 
Armada  appeared  but  two  full  days'  rations 
remained.  On  these  they  had  fought  their  way 
up  Channel.  Something  had  been  brought  out 
by  private  exertion  on  the  Dorsetshire  coast, 
and  Seymour  had,  perhaps,  brought  a  little 
more.  But  they  were  still  in  extremity.  The 
contractors  had  warned  the  Government  that 
they  could  provide  nothing  without  notice,  and 
notice  had  not  been  given.  The  adventurers 
were  in  better  state,  having  been  equipped  by 
private  owners.  But  the  Queen's  ships  in  a 
day  or  two  more  must  either  go  home  or  their 
crews  would  be  starving.  They  had  been  on 
reduced  rations  for  near  two  months.  Worse 
than  that,  they  were  still  poisoned  by  the  sour 
beer.      The   Queen   had   changed   her  mind   so 


8  Commander  of  the  8  A  conferonce  botween 
Duke's  flagship  and  commissioners  o  f 
captain  of  the  galle-  Elizabeth  and  Par- 
asses  (iarge  galleys,  ma,  who  were  try- 
wlth  masts  and  ing  to  arrange 
oars).  terms  of  peace. 


often,  now  ordering  the  fleet  to  prepare  for 
sea,  then  recalling  her  instructions  and  paying 
off  the  men,  that  those  whom  Howard  had  with 
him  had  been  enlisted  in  haste,  had  come  on 
board  as  they  were,  and  their  clothes  were  hang- 
ing in  rags  on  them.  The  fighting  and  the  sight 
of  the  flying  Spaniards  were  meat  and  drink, 
and  clothing,  too,  and  had  made  them  careless 
of  all  else.  There  was  no  fear  of  mutiny;  but 
there  was  a  limit  to  the  toughest  endurance. 
If  the  Armada  was  left  undisturbed,  a  long 
struggle  might  be  still  before  them.  The  enemy 
would  recover  from  its  flurry,  and  Parma  would 
come  out  from  Dunkirk.  To  attack  them  di- 
rectly in  French  waters  might  lead  to  perilous 
complications,  while  delay  meant  famine.  The 
Spanish  fleet  had  to  be  started  from  the  roads 
in  some  way.  Done  it  must  be,  and  done  imme- 
diately. 

Then,  on  that  same  Sunday  afternoon  a  mem- 
orable council  of  war  was  held  in  the  Ark's^o 
main  cabin.  Howard,  Drake,  Seymour,  Haw- 
kins, Martin  Frobisher  and  two  or  three  others 
met  to  consult,  knowing  that  on  them  at  that 
moment  the  liberties  of  England  were  depend- 
ing. Their  resolution  was  taken  promptly. 
There  was  no  time  for  talk.  After  nightfall  a 
strong  flood  tide  would  be  setting  up  along 
shore  to  the  Spanish  anchorage.  They  would 
try  what  could  be  done  with  fire  ships,  and  the 
excursion  of  the  pinnace,  which  was  taken  for 
bravado,  was  probably  for  a  survey  of  the 
Armada's  exact  position.  Meantime  eight  use- 
less vessels  were  coated  with  pitch — hulls,  spars 
and  rigging.  Pitch  was  poured  on  the  decks 
and  over  the  sides,  and  parties  were  told  off 
to  steer  them  to  their  destination  and  then  fire 
and  leave  them. 

The  hours  stole  on,  and  twilight  passed  into 
dark.  The  night  was  without  a  moon.  The 
Duke  paced  his  deck  late  with  uneasy  sense  of 
danger.  He  observed  lights  moving  up  and 
down  the  English  lines,  and  imagining  that  the 
endemoniada  gente — the  infernal  devils — might 
be  up  to  mischief,  ordered  a  sharp  lookout.  A 
faint  westerly  air  was  curling  the  water,  and  to- 
wards midnight  the  watchers  on  board  the  gal- 
leons made  out  dimly  several  ships  which  seemed 
to  be  drifting  down  upon  them.  Their  experi- 
ence since  the  action  off  Plymouth  had  been  so 
strange  and  unlooked  for  that  anything  unin- 
telligible which  the  English  did  was  alarming. 

The  phantom  forms  drew  nearer,  and  were 
almost  among  them  when  they  broke  into  a 
blaze  from  water-line  to  truck,  and  the  two 
fleets  were  seen  by  the  lurid  light  of  the  con- 

10 The  Ark  Ra7eff;7i,  How  ard's  flagship. 


666 


THE  VIOTORIAX  AGE 


flagration;  the  anchorage,  the  walls  and  win- 
dows of  ('alais,  and  the  sea  shining  rod  as  far 
as  eye  could  reach,  as  if  the  ocean  itself  was 
burning.  Among  the  dangers  which  they  might 
have  to  encounter,  English  fireworks  had  been 
especially  dreaded  by  the  Spaniards.  Fire  ship?? 
— a  fit  device  of  heretics — had  worked  havoc 
among  the  Spanish  troops,  when  the  bridge  was 
blown  up  at  Antwerp. n  They  imagined  tliat 
similar  infernal  macliines  were  approaching  the 
Armada.  A  capable  commander  would  have 
sent  a  few  launches  to  grapple  the  burning 
hulks,  which  of  course  were  now  deserted,  and 
tow  them  out  of  harm 's  way.  Spanish  sailors 
were  not  cowards,  and  would  not  have  fliinched 
from  duty  because  it  might  be  dangerous;  but 
the  Duke  and  Diego  Florezi^  lost  their  heads 
again.  A  signal  gun  from  the  San  Martin 
ordered  the  whole  fleet  to  slip  their  cables  and 
stand  out  to  sea. 

Orders  given  in  panic  are  doubly  unwise,  for 
they  spread  the  terror  in  which  they  originate. 
The  danger  from  the  fire  ships  was  chiefly  from 
the  eff'ect  on  the  imagination,  for  they  api)ear 
to  have  drifted  by  and  done  no  real  injury. 
And  it  speaks  well  for  the  seamanship  and  cour- 
age of  the  Spaniards  that  they  were  able, 
crowded  together  as  they  were,  at  midnight. 
and  in  sudden  alarm,  to  set  their  canvas  and  i 
clear  out  without  running  into  one  another. 
They  buoyed  their  cables,  expecting  to  return 
for  them  at  daylight,  and  with  only  a  single 
accident,  to  be  mentioned  directly,  they  executed 
successfully  a  really  difficult  manoeuvre. 

The  Duke  was  delighted  with  himself.  The 
fire  ships  burned  harmlessly  out.  He  had  baf- 
fled the  inventions  of  the  cndcmoniada  gente. 
He  brought  up  a  league  outside  the  harbour, 
and  supposed  that  the  whole  Armada  had  done 
the  same.  Unluckily  for  himself,  he  found  it 
at  daylight  divided  into  two  bodies.  The  San 
Martin  with  forty  of  the  best  appointed  of  tlie 
galleons  were  riding  together  at  their  andiors. 
The  rest,  two-thirds  of  the  whole,  having  no 
second  anchors  ready,  and  inexperienced  in 
Channel  tides  and  currents,  had  been  lying  to. 
The  west  wind  was  blowing  up.  Witliout  see- 
ing wliere  they  were  going  they  had  drifted  to 
leeward  and  were  two  leagues  ofT,  towards 
Oravelines,  dangerously  near  the  shore.  The 
Duke  was  too  ignorant  to  realize  the  full  ])eril 
of  his  situation.  He  signalled  to  them  to  re- 
turn and  join  him.  As  the  wind  and  tide 
stood  it  was  impossible.  Tie  proposed  to  follow 
them.     The  pilots  told   him  that   if  he  did  the 

11  Three     yonrs     previ-      i2Tho   Duke's   nautical 
ously.  adviser. 


whole  fleet  might  be  lost  on  the  banks.  To- 
wards the  land  the  look  of  things  was  not  more 
encouraging.  , 

One  accident  only  had  happened  the  night 
before.  The  Capitana  galleass,  with  Don  Hugo 
de  Mon^ada  and  eight  hundred  men  on  board, 
had  fouled  her  helm  in  a  cable  in  getting  under 
way  and  had  become  unmanageable.  The  gal- 
ley slaves  disobeyed  orders,  or  else  Don  Hugo 
was  as  incompetent  as  his  commander-in-chief. 
The  galleass  had  gone  on  the  sands,  and  as  the 
tide  ebbed  had  fallen  over  on  her  side.  How- 
ard, seeing  her  condition,  had  followed  her  in 
the  Ark  with  four  or  five  other  of  the  Queen's 
ships,  and  was  furiously  attacking  her  with  his 
boats,  careless  of  neutrality  laws.  Howard 's 
theoi-y  was,  as  he  said,  to  pluck  the  feathers  one 
by  one  from  the  Spaniard  's  wing,  and  here  was 
a  feather  worth  picking  up.  The  galleass  was 
the  most  splendid  vessel  of  her  kind  afloat,  Don 
Hugo  one  of  the  greatest  of  Spanish  gran- 
dees. 

Howard  was  making  a  double  mistake.  He 
took  the  galleass  at  last  after  three  hours '  fight- 
ing. Don  Hugo  was  killed  by  a  muskot  ball. 
The  vessel  was  plundered  and  Howard 's  men 
took  possession,  meaning  to  carry  her  away 
wlien  the  tide  rose.  The  French  authorities 
ordered  him  off,  threatening  to  fire  upon  him ; 
and  after  wasting  the  forenoon,  he  was  obliged 
at  last  to  leave  her  where  she  lay.  Worse  than 
this,  he  had  lost  three  precious  hours,  and  had 
lost  along  with  them,  in  the  opinion  of  the 
Prince  of  Parma,  the  honours  of  the  great  day. 

Drake  and  Hawkins  knew  better  than  to 
waste  time  plucking  single  feathers.  The  fire 
ships  had  been  more  effective  than  they  could 
have  dared  to  hope.  The  enemy  was  broken 
up.  The  Duke  was  shorn  of  half  his  strength, 
and  the  Lord  had  delivered  him  into  their  hand. 
He  had  got  under  way,  still  signalling  wildly, 
and  uncertain  in  which  direction  to  turn.  His 
uncertainties  Avere  ended  for  him  by  seeing 
Drake  bear  down  ujion  him  with  the  whole  Eng- 
lish fleet,  save  those  which  were  loitering  about 
the  galleass.  The  English  liad  now  the  advan- 
tage of  numbers.  The  superiority  of  their  guns 
lie  knew  already,  and  their  greater  speed  al- 
lowerl  him  no  hope  to  escape  a  battle.  Forty 
ships  alone  were  left  to  him  to  defend  the  ban- 
ner of  the  crusade  and  the  honour  of  Castile; 
l)ut  those  forty  were  the  largest  and  most  pow- 
erfully armed  and  manned  that  he  had,  and  on 
l)oard  them  were  Oquendo,  De  Leyva,  Becalde, 
Mretandona,  the  best  officers  in  the  Spanish 
navy  next   to  the  lost  Don  Pedro. » 

1  Tnken   cnptlvp    liy    Drake    In    the   first   action    at 
I'lymojiih. 


JAMES  ANTHOJ^'Y  PROUDE 


GG7 


It  was  now  or  never  for  England.     The  scene 
of  the  action  which  was  to  decide  the  future  of 
Europe  was  between  Calais  and  Dunkirk,  a  few 
miles  off  shore,  and  within  sight  of  Parma's 
camp.     There  was  no  more  manoeuvring  for  the 
weather-gage,  no  more  fighting  at  long  range. 
Drake  dashed  straight  upon  his  prey  as  the  fal- 
con   stoops    upon    its    quarry.      A    chance    had 
fallen  to  him  which  might  never  return;  not  for 
the  vain  distinction  of  carrying  prizes  into  Eng- 
lish   ports,    not   for   the   ray   of    honour   which 
would   fall   on   him   if   he   could   carry   off   the 
sacred  banner  itself  and  hang  it  in  the  Abbey 
at  Westminster,  but  a  chance  so  to  handle  the 
Armada  that  it  should  never  be  seen  again  in 
English  waters,  and  deal  such  a  blow  on  Philip 
that   the   Spanish   Empire   should   reel  with   it. 
The    English    ships   had    the    same    superiority 
over  the  galleons  which  steamers  have  now  over 
sailing    vessels.      They    had    twice    the    speed ; 
they  could   lie  two  points  nearer  to  the  wind. 
Sweeping  around  them  at  cable 's  length,  crowd- 
ing them  in  one  upon  the  other,  yet  never  once 
giving  them   a  chance  to  grapple,  they  hurled 
in  their  cataracts  of  round  shot.     Short  as  was 
the  powder  supply,  there  was  no  sparing  it  that 
morning.      The   hours    went    on,   and   still   the 
battle  raged,  if  battle  it  could  be  called  where 
the  blows  were  all   dealt  on  one  side  and  the 
suffering  was  all  on  the  other.     Never  on  sea 
or  land  did  the  Spaniards  show  themselves  wor- 
thier  of   their  great    name   than   on   that   day. 
But   from  the  first   they  could   do  nothing.      It 
"was  said   afterwards  in  Spain   that   the   Duke 
showed  the  white  feather,  that  he  charged  his 
pilot  to  keep  him  out  of  harm's  way,  that  he 
shut  himself  up  in  his  cabin,   buried  in  wool- 
packs,  and  so  on.    The  Duke  had  faults  enough, 
but    poltroonery    was    not    one   of    them.      He, 
who   till  he   entered   the   English   Channel   had 
never  been  in  action  on  sea  or  lan<l,  found  him- 
self, as  he  said,  in  the  midst  of  the  most  furious 
engagement    recorded    in    the    history    of    the 
world.     As   to   being  out   of   harm's  way,  the 
standard  at  his  masthead  drew  the  hottest  of 
the  fire  upon  him.     The  Sail  Martin's  timbers 
were  of  oak  and  a  foot  thick,  but  the  shot,  he 
said,  went  through  them   enough   to   shatter  a 
rock.    Her  deck  was  a  slaughterhouse;  half  his 
company  w^ere  killed  or  wounded,  and  no  more 
would  have  been  heard  or  seen  of  the  San  Mar- 
tin or  her  commander  had  not  Oquendo  and  De 
Leyva  pushed  in  to  the  rescue  and  enabled  him 
to  creep  away  under  their  cover.     He  himself 
saw    nothing    more    of    the    action    after    this. 
The  smoke,  he  said,  was  so  thick  that  he  could 
make    out    nothing,    even    from    his    masthead. 


But  all  round  it  was  but  a  repetition  of  the 
same  scene.  The  Spanish  shot  flew  high,  as  be- 
fore, above  the  low  English  hulls,  and  they 
were  themselves  helpless  butts  to  the  EngUsh 
guns.  And  it  is  noticeable  and  supremely 
creditable  to  them  that  not  a  single  galleon 
struck  her  colours.  One  of  them,  after  a  long 
duel  with  an  Englishman,  was  on  the  point  of 
sinking.  An  EngUsh  officer,  admiring  the  cour- 
age which  the  Spaniards  had  shown,  ran  out 
upon  his  bowsprit,  told  them  that  they  had  done 
all  wliich  became  men,  and  urged  them  to  sur- 
render and  save  their  lives.  For  answer  they 
cursed  the  English  as  cowards  and  chickens  be- 
cause they  refused  to  close.  The  officer  was  shot. 
His  fall  brought  a  last  broadside  on  them, 
which  finished  the  work.  They  went  down,  and 
the  water  closed  over  them.  Rather  death  to 
the  soldiers  of  the  Cross  than  surrender  to  a 
heretic. 

The  deadly  hail  rained  on.  In  some  ships 
blood  was  seen  streaming  out  of  the  scupper 
holes.  Yet  there  was  no  yielding;  all  ranks 
showed  equal  heroism.  The  priests  went  up  and 
down  in  the  midst  of  the  carnage,  holding  the 
crucifix  before  the  eyes  of  the  dying.  At  mid- 
day Howard  came  up  to  claim  a  second  share 
in  a  victory  which  was  no  longer  doubtful. 
Towards  the  afternoon  the  Spanish  fire  slack- 
ened. Their  powder  was  gone,  and  they  could 
make  no  return  to  the  cannonade  which  was 
still  overwhelming  them.  They  admitted  freely 
afterwards  that  if  the  attack  had  been  con- 
tinued but  two  hours  more  they  must  all  have 
struck  or  gone  ashore.  But  the  English  maga- 
zines were  empty  also;  the  last  cartridge  was 
shot  away,  and  the  battle  ended  from  mere 
inability  to  keep  it  up.  It  had  been  fought  on 
both  sides  with  peculiar  determination.  In  the 
English  there  was  the  accumulated  resentment 
of  thirty  years  of  menace  to  their  country  and 
their  creed,  with  the  enemy  in  tangible  shape 
at  last  to  be  caught  and  grappled  with;  in  the 
Spanish,  the  sense  that  if  their  cause  had  not 
brought  them  the  help  they  looked  for  from 
above,  the  honour  and  faith  of  Castile  should 
not  suffer  in  their  hands. 

It  was  over.  The  English  drew  off,  regret- 
ting that  their  thrifty  mistress  had  limited 
their  means  of  fighting  for  her,  and  so  obliged 
them  to  leave  their  work  half  done.  When  the 
cannon  ceased  the  wind  rose,  the  smoke  rolled 
away,  and  in  the  level  light  of  the  sunset  they 
could  see  the  results  of  the  action. 

A  galleon  in  Recalde's  squadron  was  sinking 
with  all  hands.  The  San  Philip  and  the  San 
Matteo    were    drifting   dismasted    towards   the 


668 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Dutch  coast,  where  they  were  afterwards 
wrecked.  Those  which  were  left  with  canvas 
still  showing  were  crawling  slowly  after  their 
comrades  who  had  not  been  engaged,  the  spars 
and  rigging  so  cut  up  that  they  could  scarce 
bear  their  sails.  The  loss  of  life  could  only  be 
conjectured,  but  it  had  been  obviously  terrible. 
The  nor'-wester  was  blowing  up  and  was  press- 
ing the  wounded  ships  upon  the  shoals,  from 
which,  if  it  held,  it  seemed  impossible  in  their 
crippled  state  they  would  be  able  to  work 
off. 

In  this  condition  Drake  left  them  for  the 
night,  not  to  rest,  but  from  any  quarter  to  col- 
lect, if  he  could,  more  food  and  powder.  The 
snake  had  been  scotched,  but  not  killed.i  More 
than  half  the  great  fleet  were  far  away,  un- 
touched by  shot,  perhaps  able  to  fight  a  second 
battle  if  they  recovered  heart.  To  follow,  to 
drive  them  on  the  banks  if  the  wind  held,  or 
into  the  North  Sea,  anywhere  so  that  he  left 
them  no  chance  of  joining  hands  with  Parma 
again,  and  to  use  the  time  before  they  had 
rallied  from  his  blows,  that  was  the  present 
necessity.  His  own  poor  fellows  were  famished 
and  in  rags ;  but  neither  he  nor  they  had  leisure 
to  think  of  themselves.  There  was  but  one 
thought  in  the  whole  of  them,  to  be  again  in 
chase  of  the  flying  foe.  Howard  was  resolute 
as  Drake.  All  that  was  possible  was  swiftly 
done.  Seymour  and  the  Thames  squadron  were 
to  stay  in  the  straits  and  watch  Parma.  From 
every  obtainable  source  food  and  powder  were 
collected  for  the  rest — far  short  in  both  ways 
of  what  ought  to  have  been,  but,  as  Drake  said, 
'we  were  resolved  to  put  on  a  brag  and  go  on 
as  if  we  needed  nothing.'  Before  dawn  the 
admiral  and  he  were  again  off  on  the  chase. 

The  brag  was  unneeded.  What  man  could  do 
had  been  done,  and  the  rest  was  left  to  the 
elements.  Never  again  could  Spanish  seamen 
be  brought  to  face  the  English  guns  with  Me- 
dina Sidonia  to  lead  them.  They  had  a  fool  at 
their  head.  The  Invisible  Powers  in  whom  they 
had  been  taught  to  trust  had  deserted  them. 
Their  confidence  was  gone  and  their  spirit 
broken.  Drearily  the  morning  broke  on  the 
Duke  and  his  consorts  the  day  after  the  battle. 
The  Armada  had  collected  in  the  night.  The 
nor'-wester  had  freshened  to  a  gale,  and  they 
were  labouring  heavily  along,  making  fatal  lee- 
way towards  the  shoals. 

It  was  St.  Lawrence's  Day,  Philip's  patron 
saint,  whose  shoulder-bone  he  had  lately  added 
to  the  treasures  of  the  Escurialjz  but  St.  Law- 


t  Macbeth,  III,  il.  13. 
2Tb«>  palac<>  uf  !'hillp  II. 


fence  was  as  heedless  as  St.  Dominic*  The 
San  Martin  had  but  six  fathoms  under  her. 
Those  nearer  to  the  land  signalled  five,  and 
right  before  them  they  could  see  the  brown 
foam  of  the  breakers  curling  over  the  sands, 
while  on  their  weather-beam,  a  mile  distant  and 
clinging  to  them  like  the  shadow  of  death,  were 
the  English  ships  which  had  pursued  them  from 
Plymouth  like  the  dogs  of  the  Furies.  The 
Spanish  sailors  and  soldiers  had  been  without 
food  since  the  evening  when  they  anchored  at 
Calais.  All  Sunday  they  had  been  at  work, 
no  rest  allowed  them  to  eat.  On  the  Sunday 
night  they  had  been  stirred  out  of  their  sleep 
by  the  fire  ships.  Monday  they  had  been  fight- 
ing, and  Monday  night  committing  their  dead 
to  the  sea.  Now  they  seemed  advancing  di- 
rectly upon  inevitable  destruction.  As  the 
wind  stood  there  was  still  room  for  them  to 
wear  and  thus  escape  the  banks,  but  they  would 
then  have  to  face  the  enemy,  who  seemed  only 
refraining  from  attacking  them  because  while 
they  continued  on  their  present  course  the 
winds  and  waves  would  finish  the  work  without 
help  from  man.  Kecalde,  De  Leyva,  Oquendo, 
and  other  officers  were  sent  for  to  the  San 
Martin  to  consult.  Oquendo  came  last.  'Ah, 
Seiior  Oquendo,'  said  the  Duke  as  the  heroic 
Biscayan  stepped  on  board,  'que  haremos?' 
(what  shall  we  do?)  'Let  your  Excellency  bid 
load  the  guns  again,'  was  Oquendo 's  gallant 
answer.  It  could  not  be.  De  Leyva  himself 
said  that  the  men  would  not  fight  the  English 
again.  Florez  advised  surrender.  The  Duke" 
wavered.  It  was  said  that  a  boat  was  actually 
lowered  to  go  off  to  Howard  and  make  terms, 
and  that  Oquendo  swore  that  if  the  boat  left 
the  San  Martin  on  such  an  errand  he  would  fling 
Florez  into  the  sea.  Oquendo 's  advice  would 
have,  perhaps,  been  the  safest  if  the  Duke 
could  have  taken  it.  There  were  still  seventy 
ships  in  the  Armada  little  hurt.  The  English 
were  '  bragging, '  as  Drake  said,  and  in  no  con- 
dition themselves  for  another  serious  engage- 
ment. But  the  temper  of  the  entire  fleet  made 
a  courageous  course  impossible.  There  was  but 
one  Oquendo.  Discipline  was  gone.  The  sol- 
diers in  their  desperation  had  taken  the  com- 
mand out  of  the  hands  of  the  seamen.  Officers 
and  men  alike  abandoned  hope,  and,  with  no 
human  prospect  of  salvation  left  to  them,  they 
flung  themselves  on  their  knees  upon  the  decks 
and  prayed  the  Almighty  to  have  pity  on  them. 
But  two  weeks  were  gone  since  they  had  knelt 
on  those  same  decks  on  the  first  sight  of  the 

!<  Referring  to  a   disaRtrous  pnRaKcment  five  days 
before,  on  St.  Dominic's  Day,  Aug.  4. 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY 


669 


English  shore  to  thank  Him  for  having  brought 
them  so  far  on  an  enterprise  so  glorious.  Two 
weeks;  and  what  weeks!  Wrecked,  torn  by 
cannon  shot,  ten  thousand  of  them  dead  or 
dying — for  this  was  the  estimated  loss  by  bat- 
tle— the  survivors  could  now  but  pray  to  be 
delivered  from  a  miserable  death  by  the  ele- 
ments. In  cyclones  the  wind  often  changes 
suddenly  back  from  northwest  to  west,  from 
west  to  south.  At  that  moment,  as  if  in  an- 
swer to  their  petition,  one  of  these  sudden  shifts 
of  wind  saved  them  from  the  immediate  peril. 
The  gale  backed  round  to  S.S.W.,  and  ceased 
to  press  them  on  the  shoals.  They  could  ease 
their  sheets,  draw  off  into  open  water,  and  steer 
a  course  up  the  middle  of  the  North  Sea. 

So  only  that  they  went  north,  Drake  was 
content  to  leave  them  unmolested.  Once  away 
into  the  high  latitudes  they  might  go  where 
they  would.  Neither  Howard  nor  he,  in  the 
low  state  of  their  own  magazines,  desired  any 
unnecessary  fighting.  If  the  Armada  turned 
back  they  must  close  with  it.  If  it  held  its 
present  course  they  must  follow  it  till  they 
could  be  assured  it  would  communicate  no  more 
for  that  summer  with  the  Prince  of  Parma. 
Drake  thought  they  would  perhaps  make  for  the 
Baltic  or  some  port  in  Norway.  They  would 
meet  no  hospitable  reception  from  either  Swedes 
or  Danes,  but  they  would  probably  try.  One 
only  imminent  danger  remained  to  be  provided 
against.  If  they  turned  into  the  Forth,  it  was 
still  possible  for  the  Spaniards  to  redeem  their 
defeat,  and  even  yet  shake  Elizabeth's  throne. 
Among  the  many  plans  which  had  been  formed 
for  the  invasion  of  England,  a  landing  in  Scot- 
land had  long  been  the  favourite.  Guise  had 
always  preferred  Scotland  when  it  was  intended 
that  Guise  should  be  the  leader.  Santa  Cruz 
had  been  in  close  correspondence  with  Guise  on 
this  very  subject,  and  many  officers  in  the  Ar- 
mada must  have  been  acquainted  with  Santa 
Cruz's  views.  The  Scotch  Catholic  nobles  were 
still  savage  at  Mary  Stuart's  execution,  and 
had  the  Armada  anchored  in  Leith  Roads*  with 
twenty  thousand  men,  half  a  million  ducats, 
and  a  Santa  Cruz  at  its  head,  it  might  have 
kindled  a  blaze  at  that  moment  from  John 
o 'Groat's  Lands  to  the  Border. 

But  no  such  purpose  occurred  to  the  Duke 
of  Medina  Sidonia.  He  probably  knew  nothing 
at  all  of  Scotland  or  its  parties.  Among  the 
many  deficiencies  which  he  had  pleaded  to 
Philip  as  unfitting  him  for  the  command,  he 
had    said   that    Santa   Cruz   had   acquaintances 


4  On  the  Firth  of  Forth, 
near  Edinburgh. 


5  The   northwestern   ex- 
tremity of  Scotland. 


among  the  English  and  Scotch  peers.  He  had 
himself  none.  The  smaU  information  which  he 
had  of  anything  did  not  go  beyond  his  orange 
gardens  and  his  tunny  fishing.  His  chief  merit 
was  that  he  was  conscious  of  his  incapacity; 
and,  detesting  a  service  into  which  he  had  been 
fooled  by  a  hysterical  nun,*  his  only  anxiety 
was  to  carry  home  the  still  considerable  fleet 
which  had  been  trusted  to  him  without  further 
loss.  Beyond  Scotland  and  the  Scotch  isles 
there  was  the  open  ocean,  and  in  the  open  ocean 
there  were  no  sandbanks  and  no  English  guns. 
Thus,  with  all  sail  set,  he  went  on  before  the 
wind.  Drake  and  Howard  attended  him  till 
they  had  seen  him  past  the  Forth,  and  knew 
then  that  there  was  no  more  to  fear.  It  was 
time  to  see  to  the  wants  of  their  own  poor  fel- 
lows, who  had  endured  so  patiently  and  fought 
so  magnificently.  On  the  13th  day  of  August 
they  saw  the  last  of  the  Armada,  turned  back, 
and  made  their  way  to  the  Thames-t 

\ 

THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY 
(1825-1895) 

ON  A  PIECE  OF  CHALK.t 

If  a  well  were  to  be  sunk  at  our  feet  in  the 
midst  of  the  city  of  Norwich,  the  diggers  would 
very  soon  find  themselves  at  work  in  that  white 
substance,  almost  too  soft  to  be  called  rock, 
with  which  we  are  all  familiar  as  "chalk." 
Not  only  here,  but  over  the  whole  county  of 
Norfolk,  the  well-sinker  might  carry  his  shaft 
down  many  hundred  feet  without  coming  to 
the  end  of  the  chalk;  and,  on  the  sea-coast, 
where  the  waves  have  pared  away  the  face  of 
the  land  which  breasts  them,  the  scarped  faces 
of  the  high  cliflFs  are  often  wholly  formed  of 
the  same  material.  Northward,  the  chalk  may 
be  followed  as  far  as  Yorkshire;  on  the  south 

*  A  nun  at  Lisbon  had  told  the  wavering  Duke 
that  "Our  Lady  had  sent  her  to  promise  him 
success." 

t  The  remainder  of  the  narrative  is  the  story  of 
the  disasters  that  attended  the  Spanish  in 
their  voyapc  around  Scotland  and  Ireland 
Many  died  from  exposure,  scanty  food,  and 
poisonous  water :  many  were  wrecked ;  even 
of  those  who  reached  Spain  alive,  few  ever 
rallied  from  the  experience. 


tA  lecture  delivered  to  the  working  men  of  Nor- 
wich, England,  and  printed  in  Macmillan's 
Magazine,  1868 ;  now  in  Lay  Sermons,  Ad- 
dresses and  Reviews.  Some  changes  have 
here  been  made  in  paragraphing  and  punctua- 
tion. For  clearness  of  exposition  Huxley  has 
few  or  no  superiors,  but  the  system  of  para- 
graphing employed  in  his  works  as  they  are 
ordmarily  printed  not  Infrequently  has  an 
obscuring  eflfect. 


g:o 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


I'oast  it  appears  abruptly  in  the  picturesque 
western  bays  of  Dorset,  and  breaks  into  tlie 
Needlesi  of  tiie  Isle  of  Wight;  wliile  on  the 
shores  of  Kent  it  supplies  that  long  line  of 
white  cliffs  to  which  England  owes  her  name 
of  Albion.2 

Were  the  thin  soil  which  covers  it  all  washed 
away,  a  curved  baud  of  white  chalk,  here  broad- 
er and  there  narrower,  might  be  followed  diag- 
onally across  England  from  Lulworth  in  Dorset 
to  Flamborough  Head  in  Yorkshire — a  distance 
of  over  two  hundred  and  eighty  miles  as  the 
crow  flies.  From  this  band  to  the  Xorth  Sea, 
on  the  east,  and  the  Channel,  on  the  south, 
the  chalk  is  largely  hidden  by  other  deposits; 
but,  except  in  the  Wealdf  of  Kent  and  Sussex, 
it  enters  into  the  very  foundation  of  all  the 
south-eastern   counties. 

Attaining,  as  it  does  in  some  places,  a  thick- 
ness of  more  than  a  thousand  feet,  the  English 
chalk  must  be  admitted  to  be  a  mass  of  consid- 
erable magnitude.  Nevertheless,  it  covers  but 
an  insignificant  portion  of  the  whole  area  occu- 
pied by  the  chalk  formation  of  the  globe,  wliidi 
has  precisely  the  same  general  characters  as  our.s, 
and  is  found  in  detached  patches,  some  less  and 
others  more  extensive  than  the  English.  Chalk 
occurs  in  northwest  Ireland ;  it  stretches  over 
a  large  part  of  France, — the  chalk  which  un- 
derlies Paris  being,  in  fact,  a  continuation  of 
that  of  the  London  basin ;  runs  through  Den- 
mark and  Central  Eur()]>e,  and  extends  south- 
ward to  North  Africa;  while  eastward,  it  ap- 
pears in  the  Crimea  and  in  Syria,  and  may  be 
traced  as  far  as  the  shores  of  the  Sea  of  Aral, 
in  Central  Asia.  If  all  the  points  at  which 
true  chalk  occurs  were  circumscribetl,  they 
would  lie  within  an  irregular  oval  about  three 
thousand  miles  in  long  diameter,  the  area  of 
which  would  be  as  great  as  that  of  Europe, 
and  would  many  times  exceed  that  of  the 
largest  existing  inland  sea — the  Mediterranean. 

Thus  the  chalk  is  no  unimportant  element  in 
the  masonry  of  the  eartli  's  crust,  and  it  im- 
presses a  peculiar  stamp,  varying  witli  the  con- 
ditions to  which  it  is  exi)08ed,  on  the  s.-enery  of 
the  districts  in  which  it  occurs.  The  undulat- 
ing downs  an<l  rounded  coombs-',  covered  with 
sweet-grasged  turf,  of  our  inland  chalk  country, 
have  a  peacefully  domestic  and  mutton-suggest- 
ing prettiness,  but  can  hardly  be  called  either 
grand  or  beautiful.    But  on  our  southern  coasts, 

1  Throe  white  rocks  rlslnp  nhruptiv  from  the  son 
to  the  hclKhf   of   100  fopt. 

-'  I.atln  ulhiiH.  "wliltf." 

3  Or  combK  ;  bowl-shapod  valleys. 

t  ThiM  namp  for  the  nx.'lon  is  old:  .\nt:lo-Snxon 
irenid  (nprmnn  \Va\tl)  means  "forest."  Com- 
pnrc  riixloiis  nciininl   of  liis  Iiiiih.  p.  n.">. 


the  wall -sided  cliffs,  many  hundred  feet  high, 
with  vast  needles  and  pinnacles  standing  out 
in  the  sea,  sharp  and  solitary  enough  to  serve 
as  perches  for  the  wary  cormorant,  confer  a 
wonderful  beauty  and  grandeur  upon  the  chalk 
iieadlands.  And  in  the  East,  chalk  has  its 
share  in  the  formation  of  some  of  the  most 
venerable  of  mountain  ranges,  such  as  the  Leb- 
anon. 

What  is  this  wide-spread  component  of  the 
surface  of  the  earth?    and  whence  did  it  come? 

You  may  think  this  no  very  hopeful  inquiry. 
You  may  not  unnaturally  suppose  that  the  at- 
tempt to  solve  such  problems  as  these  can  lead 
to  no  result,  save  that  of  entangling  the  in- 
quirer in  vague  speculations,  incapable  of  refu- 
tation and  of  verification.  If  such  were  really 
the  case,  I  should  have  selected  some  other  sub- 
ject than  a  "piece  of  chalk"  for  my  discourse. 
But  in  truth,  after  much  deliberation,  I  have 
been  unable  to  think  of  any  topic  which  would 
80  well  enable  me  to  lead  you  to  see  how  solid 
,is  the  foundation  upon  which  some  of  the  most 
startling  conclusions  of  physical  science  rest. 
A  great  chapter  in  the  history  of  the  world  is 
written  in  the  chalk.  Few  passages  in  the  his- 
tory of  man  can  be  supported  by  such  an  over- 
whelming mass  of  direct  and  indirect  evidence 
as  that  which  testifies  to  the  truth  of  the  frag- 
ment of  the  history  of  the  globe  which  I  hope 
to  enable  you  to  read,  with  your  own  eyes,  to- 
night. 

Let  me  add  that  few  chapters  of  human  his- 
tory have  a  more  profound  significance  for  our- 
sehes.  I  weigh  my  words  well  when  I  assert 
tiiat  the  man  who  should  know  the  true  history 
of  tlie  bit  of  chalk  which  every  car]ienter  car- 
ries about  in  his  breeches-pocket,  though  igno- 
rant of  all  other  history,  is  likely,  if  he  will 
think  his  knowledge  out  to  its  ultimate  results, 
to  ha\e  a  truer,  and  therefore  a  better,  concep- 
tion of  this  wonderful  universe,  and  of  man's 
relation  to  it,  than  the  most  learned  student 
who  is  deep  read  in  the  records  of  humanity 
and  ignorant  of  those  of  Nature.  The  lan- 
guage of  the  chalk  is  not  hard  to  learn,  not 
nearly  so  hard  as  Latin,  if  you  only  want  to 
get  at  the  broad  features  of  the  story  it  has 
to  tell ;  and  I  propose  that  we  now  set  to  work 
to  spell  tiiat  story  out  together.     .     .     . 

fin  the  intervening  jjortion  of  his  address 
Huxley  sets  forth  tlie  following  facts: 

First.  Chemically,  chalk  consists  of  carbonic 
acid  and  quicklime.  Under  the  microscope  it 
is  seon  to  be  made  up  of  granules  in  which  are 
imbedded  numerous  calcareous  skeletons  known 
as  Glohipniiiip. 

Second.     The  be<l  of  the  North  Atlantic,  be- 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY 


671 


tween  Ireland  and  Xewfouudland,  is  found  to  ' 
bo  a  vast  i)lain  of  ileep-sea  nuid  whieli  is  sub-  '■ 
stantially  chalk,  deposited  there  by  multitudes  i 
of  organisms  (Globigiriiuv),  which  in  life  have  I 
the  power  of  separating  from  the  ocean  the  j 
small  proportion  of  carbonate  of  lime  which  is  j 
dissolved  in  sea-water,  and  of  building  that  sub- 
stance into  skeletons  for  themselves.  l 

Third.  The  living  Glohigerince  are  exclus-  | 
ively  marine  animals,  and  this,  along  with  other  | 
evidence,  compels  the  conclusion  that  the  chalk  . 
beds  of  the  dry  land  are  the  dried  mud  of  an  j 
ancient  deep  sea.  { 

Fourth.     The  thickness  of  the  chalk  bed  and  | 
the  character  of  its  fossil  remains  prove  that 
the  period   of   deposit — the   cretaceous  epoch — 
was  of  great  duration.] 

Thus  not  only^s  it  certain  that  the  chalk  is 
the   mud   of   an   ancient   sea-bottom ;    but   it   is 
no  less  certain  that  the  chalk  sea  existed  dur- 
ing an  extremely  long  period,  though  we  may 
not  be  prepared  to  give  a  precise  estimate  of 
the  length  of  that  period  in  years.    The  relative 
duration  is  clear,  though  the  absolute  duration 
may  not  be  definable.     The  attempt  to  aifix  any  | 
precise  date  to  the  period  at  which  the  chalk  \ 
sea  began,  or  ended,  its  existence,  is  baffled  by  | 
difficulties  of  the  same  kind.     But  the  relative  | 
age  of  the  cretaceous  epoch  may  be  determined 
with   as  great   ease  and  certainty  as  the  long 
duration  of  that  epoch. 

You  will  have  heard  of  the  interesting  dis- 
coveries recently  made  in  various  parts  of  West- 
ern Europe  of  flint  implements,  obviously 
worked  into  shape  by  human  hands,  under  cir- 
cumstances which  show  conclusively  that  man 
is  a  very  ancient  denizen  of  these  regions.  It 
has  been  proved  that  the  old  populations  of 
Europe,  whose  existence  has  been  revealed  to  us 
in  this  way,  consisted  of  savages,  such  as  the 
Esquimaux  are  now;  that,  in  the  country  which 
is  now  France,  they  hunted  the  reindeer,  an<l 
were  familiar  with  the  ways  of  the  mammotli 
and  the  bison.  The  physical  geography  of 
France  was  in  those  days  different  from  what 
it  is  now — the  river  Somme.  for  instance,  hav- 
ing cut  its  bed  a  hundred  feet  deeper  between 
that  time  and  this;  and  it  is  probable  that  the 
climate  was  more  like  that  of  Canada  or  Si- 
beria than  that  of  Western  Europe. 

The  existence  of  these  people  is  forgotten 
even  in  the  traditions  of  the  oldest  historical 
nations.  The  name  and  fame  of  them  had 
utterly  vanished  until  a  few  years  back;  and 
the  amount  of  physical  change  which  has  been 
effected  since  their  day  renders  it  more  than 
probable   that,   venerable   as   are   some   of   the 


historical  nations,  the  workers  of  the  chipped 
flints  of  Hoxnei  or  of  Amiens-  are  to  them,  as 
they  are  to  us,  in  point  of  antiquity. 

But  if  we  assign  to  these  hoar  relics  of  long- 
vanished  generations  of  men  the  greatest  age 
that  can  possibly  be  claimed  for  them,  they  are 
not  older  than  the  drift,  or  boulder  clay,  which, 
in  comparison  with  the  chalk,  is  but  a  very 
juvenile  deposit.  You  need  go  no  further  than 
your  own  sea-board  for  evidence  of  this  fact. 
At  one  of  the  most  charming  spots  on  the  coast 
of  Norfolk,  Cromer,  you  will  see  the  boulder 
clay  forming  a  vast  mass,  wMch  lies  upon  the 
chalk,  and  must  consequently  have  come  into 
existence  after  it.  Huge  boulders  of  chalk  are, 
in  fact,  included  in  the  clay,  and  have  evi- 
dently been  brought  to  the  position  they  now 
occupy  by  the  same  agency  as  that  which  has 
planted  blocks  of  syenite  from  Norway  side  by 
side  with  them. 

The  chalk,  then,  is  certainly  older  than  the 
boulder  clay.  If  you  ask  how  much,  I  will 
again  take  you  no  further  than  the  same  spot 
upon  your  own  coasts  for  evidence.  I  have 
spoken  of  the  boulder  clay  and  drift  as  rest- 
ing upon  the  chalk.  That  is  not  strictly  true. 
Interposed  between  the  chalk  and  the  drift  is 
a  comparatively  insignificant  layer,  containing 
vegetable  matter.  But  that  layer  tells  a  won- 
derful history.  It  is  full  of  stumps  of  trees 
standing  as  they  grew.  Fir-trees  are  there  with 
their  cones,  and  hazel-bushes  with  their  nuts; 
there  stand  the  stoolss  of  oak  and  yew  trees, 
beeches  and  alders.  Hence  this  stratum  is  ap- 
propriately   called    the    "forest-bed." 

It  is  obWous  that  the  chalk  must  have  been 
upheaved  and  converted  into  dry  land  before 
the  timber  trees  could  grow  upon  it.  As  the 
boles  of  some  of  these  trees  are  from  two  to 
three  feet  in  diameter,  it  is  no  less  clear  that 
the  dry  land  thus  formed  remained  in  the  same 
condition  for  long  ages.  And  not  only  do  the 
remains  of  stately  oaks  and  well-grown  firs  tes- 
tify to  the  duration  of  this  condition  of  things, 
but  additional  evidence  to  the  same  effect  is 
afforded  by  the  abundant  remains  of  elephants, 
rhinoceroses,  hippopotamuses  and  other  great 
wild  beasts,  which  it  has  yielded  to  the  zealous 
search  of  such  men  as  the  Rev.  Mr.  Gunn.* 
When  you  look  at  such  a  collection  as  he  has 
formed,  and  bethink  you  that  these  elephantine 
bones  did  veritably  carry  their  owners  about, 
and   these   great   grinders   crunch,   in   the   dark 

1  In  Suffolk.  England,  where  an  important  discov- 

ery of  flint  implements  was  made  in  1707. 

2  In  northern  France. 

3  stumps 

4  Robert    Campbell    Gunn    (1808-1881).    a    British 

naturalist. 


672 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


woods  of  which  the  forest-bed  is  now  the  only 
trace,  it  is  impossible  not  to  feel  that  they  are 
as  good  evidence  of  the  lapse  of  time  as  the 
annual  rings  of  the  tree-stumps. 

Thus  there  is  a  writing  upon  the  walls  of 
cliffs  at  Cromer,  and  whoso  runs  may  read  it. 
It  tells  us,  with  an  authority  which  cannot  be 
impeached,  that  the  ancient  sea-bed  of  the 
chalk  sea  was  raised  up,  and  remained  dry  land 
until  it  was  covered  with  forest,  stocked  with 
the  great  game  whose  spoils  have  rejoiced  your 
geologists.  How  long  it  remained  in  that  con- 
dition cannot  be  said;  but  "the  whirligig  of 
time  brought  its  revenges '  's  in  those  days  as  in 
these.  That  dry  land,  with  the  bones  and  teeth 
of  generations  of  long-lived  elephants  hidden 
away  among  the  gnarled  roots  and  dry  leaves 
of  its  ancient  trees,  sank  gradually  to  the  bot- 
tom of  the  icy  sea,  which  covered  it  with  huge 
masses  of  drift  and  boulder  clay.  Sea-beasts, 
such  as  the  ^  walrus,  now  restricted  to  the  ex- 
treme north,  paddled  about  where  birds  had 
twittered  among  the  topmost  twigs  of  the  fir- 
trees.  How  long  this  state  of  things  endured 
we  know  not,  but  at  length  it  came  to  an  end. 
The  upheaved  glacial  mud  hardened  into  the 
soil  of  modern  Norfolk.  Forests  grew  once 
more,  the  wolf  and  the  beaver  replaced  the 
reindeer  and  the  elephant;  and  at  length  what 
we  call  the  history  of  England  dawned. 

Thus  you  have,  within  the  limits  of  your  own 
county,  proof  that  the  chalk  can  justly  claim 
a  very  much  greater  antiquity  than  even  the 
oldest  physical  traces  of  mankind.  But  we 
may  go  further  and  demonstrate,  by  evidence 
of  the  same  authority  as  that  which  testifies  to 
the  existence  of  the  father  of  men,  that  the 
chalk  is  vastly  older  than  Adam  himself. 

The  Book  of  Genesis  informs  us  that  Adam, 
immediately  upon  his  creation,  and  before  the 
appearance  of  Eve,  was  placed  in  the  Garden 
of  Eden.  The  problem  of  the  geographical 
position  of  Eden  has  greatly  vexed  the  spirits 
of  the  learned  in  such  matters,  but  there  is  one 
point  respecting  which,  so  far  as  I  know,  no 
commentator  has  ever  raised  a  doubt.  This  is, 
that  of  the  four  rivers  which  are  said  to  run 
out  of  it,  Euphrates  and  Hiddekel  are  identical 
with  the  rivers  now  known  by  the  names  of 
Euphrates  and  Tigris.  But  the  whole  country 
in  which  these  mighty  rivers  take  their  origin, 
and  through  which  they  run,  is  composed  of 
rocks  which  are  either  of  the  same  age  as  the 
chalk,  or  of  later  date.  So  that  the  chalk  must 
not  only  have  been  formed,  but,  after  its  for- 
mation, the  time  required  for  the  deposit  of 

6  Twelfth  ytght.  V,  I.  384. 


■  these  later  rocks,  and  for  their  upheaval  into 

i  dry  land,  must  have  elapsed  before  the  smallest 

I  brook  which   feeds  the  swift  stream  of  ' '  the 

great  river,  the  river  of  Babylon,  "e  began  to 

flow. 

Thus,  evidence  which  cannot  be  rebutted,  and 
which  need  not  be  strengthened,  though  if  time 
permitted  I  might  indefinitely  increase  its  quan- 
tity, compels  you  to  believe  that  the  earth,  from 
the  time  of  the  chalk  to  the  present  day,  has 
been  the  theater  of  a  series  of  changes  as  vast 
in  their  amount  as  they  were  slow  in  their  pro- 
gress. The  area  on  which  we  stand  has  been 
first  sea  and  then  land,  for  at  least  four  al- 
ternations; and  has  remained  in  each  of  these 
conditions  for  a  period  of  great  length.  Nor 
have  these  wonderful  metamorphoses  of  sea  into 
land,  and  of  land  into  sea,  been  confined  to  one 
corner  of  England.  During  the  chalk  period, 
or  "cretaceous  epoch,"  not  one  of  the  present 
great  physical  features  of  the  globe  was  in 
existence.  Our  great  mountain  ranges,  Pyre- 
nees, Alps,  Himalayas,  Andes,  have  all  been 
upheaved  since  the  chalk  was  deposited,  and 
the  cretaceous  sea  flowed  over  the  sites  of  Sinai 
and  Ararat.  All  this  is  certain,  because  rocks 
of  cretaceous,  or  still  later  date,  have  shared 
in  the  elevatory  movements  which  gave  rise  to 
these  mountain  chains;  and  may  be  found 
perched  up,  in  some  cases,  many  thousand  feet 
high  upon  their  flanks.  And  evidence  of  equal 
cogency  demonstrates  that,  though  in  Norfolk 
the  forest-bed  rests  directly  upon  the  chalk, 
yet  it  does  so,  not  because  the  period  at  wiiich 
the  forest  grew  immediately  followed  that  at 
which  the  chalk  was  formed,  but  because  an 
immense  lapse  of  time,  represented  elsewhere  by 
thousands  of  feet  of  rock,  is  not  indicated  at 
Cromer. 

I  must  ask  you  to  believe  that  there  is  no 
less  conclusive  proof  that  a  still  more  prolonged 
succession  of  similar  changes  occurred  before 
the  chalk  was  deposited.  Nor  have  we  any  rea- 
son to  think  that  the  first  term  in  the  series  of 
these  changes  is  known.  The  oldest  sea-beds 
preserved  to  us  are  sands,  and  mud,  and  peb- 
bles, the  wear  and  tear  of  rocks  which  were 
formed  in  still  older  oceans. 

But,  great  as  is  the  magnitude  of  these  phys- 
ical changes  of  the  world,  they  have  been  ac- 
companied by  a  no  less  striking  series  of  modifi- 
cations in  its  living  inhabitants.  All  the  great 
classes  of  animals,  beasts  of  the  field,  fowls  of 
the  air,  creeping  things,  and  things  which  dwell 
in  the  waters,  flourished  upon  the  globe  long 
ages  before  the  chalk  was  deposited.   Very  few, 

rt  GencHis,  xv,  18. 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY 


673 


however,  if  any,  of  these  ancient  forms  of  ani- 
mal life  were  identical  with  those  which  now 
live.  Certainly  not  one  of  the  higher  animals 
was  of  the  same  species  as  any  of  those  now 
in  existence.  The  beasts  of  the  field,  in  the 
days  before  the  chalk,  were  not  our  beasts  of 
the  field,  nor  the  fowls  of  the  air  such  as  those 
which  the  eye  of  man  has  seen  flying,  unless 
his  antiquity  dates  infinitely  further  back  than 
we  at  present  surmise.  If  we  could  be  carried 
back  into  those  times,  we  should  be  as  one  sud- 
denly set  down  in  Australia  before  it  was  colo- 
nized. "We  should  see  mammals,  birds,  reptiles, 
fishes,  insects,  snails,  and  the  like,  clearly  recog- 
nizable as  such,  and  yet  not  one  of  them  would 
be  just  the  same  as  those  with  wliich  we  are 
familiar,  and  many  would  be  extremely  dif- 
ferent 

Trom  that  time  to  the  present,  the  population 
of  the  world  has  undergone  slow  and  gradual, 
but  incessant  changes.  There  has  been  no 
grand  catastrophe — no  destroyer  has  swept  away 
the  forms  of  life  of  one  period  and  replaced 
them  by  a  totally  new  creation;  but  one  spe- 
cies has  vanished  and  another  has  taken  its 
place;  creatures  of  one  type  of  structure  have 
diminished,  those  of  another  have  increased, 
as  time  has  passed  on.  And  thus,  while  the  dif- 
ferences between  the  living  creatures  of  the 
time  before  the  chalk  and  those  of  the  present 
day  appear  startling  if  placed  side  by  side,  we 
are  led  from  one  to  the  other  by  the  most  grad- 
ual progress  if  we  follow  the  course  of  Nature 
through  the  whole  series  of  those  relics  of  her 
operations  which  she  has  left  behind. 

And  it  is  by  the  population  of  the  chalk 
sea  that  the  ancient  and  the  modern  inhabitants 
of  the  world  are  most  completely  connected. 
The  groups  which  are  dying  out  flourish  side 
by  side  with  the  groups  which  are  now  the  dom- 
inant forms  of  life.  Thus  the  chalk  contains 
remains  of  those  strange  flying  and  swimming 
reptiles,  the  pterodactyl,  the  ichthyosaurus,  and 
the  plesiosaurus,  which  are  found  in  no  later 
deposits,  but  abounded  in  preceding  ages.  The 
chambered  shells  called  ammonites  and  belem- 
nites,  which  are  so  characteristic  of  the  period 
preceding  the  cretaceous,  in  like  manner  die 
with  it.  But  amongst  these  fading  remainders 
of  a  previous  state  of  things  are  some  very  mod- 
ern forms  of  life,  looking  like  Yankee  pedlars 
among  a  tribe  of  Red  Indians.  Crocodiles  of 
modern  type  appear;  bony  fishes,  many  of  them 
very  similar  to  existing  species,  almost  supplant 
the  forms  of  fish  which  predominate  in  more 
ancient  seas;  and  many  kinds  of  living  shell- 
fish first  become  known  to  us  in  the  chalk.     The 


vegetation  acquires  a  modern  aspect.  A  few 
living  animals  are  not  even  distinguishable  as 
species  from  those  which  existed  at  that  remote 
epoch.  The  Globigerina  of  the  present  day, 
for  example,  is  not  difl^erent  specifically  from 
that  of  the  chalk;  and  the  same  may  be  said  of 
many  other  Foraminifera.  I  think  it  probable 
that  critical  and  unprejudiced  examination  will 
show  that  more  than  one  species  of  much  higher 
animals  have  had  a  similar  longevity;  but  the 
only  example  which  I  can  at  present  give  con- 
fidently is  the  snake 's-head  lamp-shell  (Tere- 
bratulina  caput  serpentis),  which  lives  in  our 
English  seas  and  abounded  (as  Terebratulina 
striata  of  authors)   in  the  chalk. 

The  longest  line  of  human  ancestry  must  hide 
its  diminished  head^  before  the  pedigree  of  this 
insignificant  shell-fish.  We  Englishmen  are 
proud  to  have  an  ancestor  who  was  present  at 
the  Battle  of  Hastings.*  The  ancestors  of 
Terebratulina  caput  serpentis  may  have  been 
present  at  a  battle  of  Ichthyosauria  in  that  part 
of  the  sea  which,  when  the  chalk  was  forming, 
flowed  over  the  site  of  Hastings.  While  all 
around  has  changed,  this  Terebratulina  has 
peacefully  propagated  its  species  from  genera- 
tion to  generation,  and  stands,  to  this  day,  as 
a  living  testimony  to  the  continuity  of  the  pres- 
ent with  the  past  history  of  the  globe. 

Up  to  this  moment  I  have  stated,  so  far  as  I 
know,  nothing  but  well-authenticated  facts,  and 
the  immediate  conclusions  which  they  force 
upon  the  mind.  But  the  mind  is  so  constituted 
that  it  does  not  willingly  rest  in  facts  and 
immediate  causes,  but  seeks  always  after  a 
knowledge  of  the  remoter  links  in  the  chain  of 
causation.  Taking  the  many  changes  of  any 
given  spot  of  the  earth 's  surface,  from  sea  to 
land  and  from  land  to  sea,  as  an  established 
fact,  we  cannot  refrain  from  asking  ourselves 
how  these  changes  have  occurred.  And  when 
we  have  explained  them — as  they  must  be  ex- 
plained— by  the  alternate  slow  movements  of 
elevation  and  depression  which  have  affected  the 
crust  of  the  earth,  we  go  still  further  back  and 
ask.  Why  these  movements? 

I  am  not  certain  that  anyone  can  give  you 
a  satisfactory  answer  to  that  question.  Assur- 
edly I  cannot.  All  that  can  be  said,  for  cer- 
tain, is  that  such  movements  are  part  of  the 
ordinary  course  of  nature,  inasmuch  as  they  are 
going  on  at  the  present  time.  Direct  proof 
may  be  given  that  some  parts  of  the  land  of 
the  northern  hemisphere  are  at  this  moment  in- 

7  Paradine  Lost.  IV.  35. 

8  The  Norman  Conquest,  1066. 


674 


THE  V1CT0K1A2S  AGE 


sensibly  rising  and  otliers  insensibly  sinking; 
and  there  is  indirect,  but  perfectly  satisfactory, 
proof  tliat  an  enormous  area  now  covered  by 
the  Pacific  has  been  deepened  thousands  of  feet 
since  the  present  inhabitants  of  that  sea  c-anie 
into  existence.  Thus  there  is  not  a  shadow 
of  a  reason  for  believing  that  the  physical 
changes  of  the  globe  in  past  times  have  been 
effected  by  other  than  natural  causes.  Is  there 
any  more  reason  for  believing  that  the  con- 
comitant modifications  in  the  forms  of  the  liv- 
ing inhabitants  of  the  globe  have  been  brought 
about  in  otiier  ways? 

Before  attempting  to  answer  this  question, 
let  us  try  to  form  a  distinct  mental  picture  of 
what  has  happened  in  some  special  case.  The 
crocodiles  are  animals  which,  as  a  group,  liave 
a  very  vast  antiquity.  They  abounded  ages  be- 
fore the  chalk  was  deposited;  they  tlirong  the 
rivers  in  warm  climates  at  the  present  day. 
There  is  a  difference  in  the  form  of  the  joints 
of  the  backbone,  and  in  some  minor  particulars, 
between  the  crocodiles  of  the  present  epoch  and 
those  which  lived  before  the  chalk;  but  in  the 
cretaceous  epoch,  as  I  have  already  mentioned, 
the  crocodiles  had  assumed  the  modern  type  of  | 
structure.  Notwithstanding  this,  the  crocodiles  ! 
of  the  chalk  are  not  identically  the  same  as  i 
those  which  lived  in  the  times  called  "older 
tertiary,"  which  succeeded  the  cretaceous  epoch, 
and  the  crocodiles  of  the  older  tertiaries  are 
not  identical  with  those  of  the  newer  tertiaries. 
nor  are  these  identical  with  existing  forms.  (I 
leave  open  the  question  whether  particular  spe- 
cies may  have  lived  on  from  epoch  to  epocii.) 
Thus  each  epoch  has  had  its  peculiar  crocodiles ; 
though  all,  since  the  chalk,  have  belonged  to 
the  modern  type,  and  differ  simply  in  their  pro- 
portions, and  in  sueh  structural  particulars  as 
are  discernible  only  to  trained  eyes. 

How  is  the  existence  of  this  long  succession 
of  different  species  of  crocodiles  to  be  accounted 
for?  Only  two  suppositions  seem  to  be  open  to 
us — Either  each  species  of  crocodile  has  been 
specially  created,  or  it  has  arisen  out  of  some 
pre-existing  form  by  the  operation  of  natural 
causes.  Choose  your  hypothesis;  I  have  chosen 
mine.  I  can  find  no  warranty  for  believing  in 
the  distinct  creation  of  a  score  of  successive 
species  of  crocodiles  in  the  course  of  countless 
ages  of  time.  Science  gives  no  countenance  to 
such  a  wild  fancy;  nor  can  even  the  perverse 
ingenuity  of  a  commentator  protend  to  discover 
this  sense  in  the  simple  words  in  wliicli  the 
writer  of  Genesis  records  the  proceedings  of  the 
fifth  and  sixth  days  of  the  Oeation.  On  the 
other  iuim!,  I  see  no  good  reason  for  doubting 


the  necessary  alternative,  that  all  these  varied 
species  have  been  evolved  from  pre-existing 
crocodilian  forms,  by  the  operation  of  causes 
as  completely  a  part  of  the  common  order  of 
nature  as  those  which  have  ett'ected  the  changes 
of  the  inorganic  world.  Few  will  venture  to 
affirm  that  the  reasoning  which  applies  to  croco- 
tliles  loses  its  force  among  other  animals,  or 
among  plants.  If  one  series  of  species  has 
come  into  existence  by  the  operation  of  natural 
causes,  it  seems  folly  to  deny  that  all  may  have 
arisen  in  the  same  way, 

A  small  beginning  has  led  us  to  a  great  end- 
ing. If  I  were  to  put  the  bit  of  chalk  with 
which  we  started  into  the  hot  but  obscure  flame 
of  burning  hydrogen,  it  would  presently  shine 
like  the  sun.  It  seems  to  me  that  this  physical 
metamorphosis  is  no  false  image  of  what  has 
been  the  result  of  our  subjecting  it  to  a  jet  of 
fervent,  though  nowise  brilliant,  thought  to- 
night. It  has  become  luminous,  and  its  clear 
rays,  penetrating  the  abyss  of  the  remote  past, 
have  brought  within  our  ken  some  stages  of  the 
evolution  of  the  earth.  And  in  the  shifting 
"without  haste,  but  without  rest  "f  of  the  land 
and  sea,  as  in  the  endless  variation  of  the  forms 
assumed  by  living  beings,  we  have  observeil 
nothing  but  the  natural  product  of  the  forces 
originally  possessed  by  the  substance  of  the 
universe. 

JOHN  RUSKIN   (1819-1900) 

From  THE  SEYEX  LAMPS  OF  ARCHI- 

TECTUBE* 

The  Lamp  of  Memory. 

Among  the  hours  of  his  lite  to  which  the 
writer  looks  back  with  peculiar  gratitude  as  hav- 
ing been  marked  by  more  than  ortliuary  fulness 
of  joy  or  clearness  of  teaching,  is  one  passed, 
now  some  years  ago,  near  time  of  sunset,  among 
the  broken  masses  of  pine  forest  which  skirt 
the  course  of  the  Ain,  above  the  village  of 
Champagnole,  in  the  Jura,i  It  is  a  spot  which 
has  all  the  solemnity,  with  none  of  the  savage- 
II  "Ohiie  Hast,  aher  oltne  Rant." — Goethe. 

1  A  chain   of  mountains  In  eastern  France. 

*  I'nl)lisliPd  in  lS4n.  some  time  after  the  first  two 
volumes  of  Modern  I'o  intern.  The  seven 
"Lamps"  arc  Sacrifice.  Truth.  Power,  Beauty. 
I.ifo.  >!emory.  and  0))edl(>nre.  The  word 
"lump"  is  used  in  allusion  to  the  story  of 
Aladdin's  magic  lamp  :  and  the  Iwok  was 
written,  said  Iluskln.  "to  show  that  certain 
right  states  of  temper  and  moral  feeling  were 
the  mnslc  powers  hy  which  all  good  archl- 
li'ctnre.  without  exception,  had  been  pro- 
duced." The  selection  here  given  Illustrates 
Hnskin's  early  exuberant  style  and  also,  con- 
tains his  fundamental  doctrine  of  the  neces- 
sity of  relating  art  to  life  and  morality. 


JOHN  KUSKIN 


675 


ness,  of  the  Alps;  where  there  is  a  sense  of  a 
great  power  beginning  to  be  manifested  in  the 
earth,  and  of  a  deep  and  majestic  concord  in 
the  rise  of  the  long  low  lines  of  piny  liills;  the 
first  utterance  of  those  mighty  mountain  sym- 
phonies, soon  to  be  more  loudly  lifted  and 
wildly  broken  along  the  battlements  of  the  Alps. 
But  their  strength  is  as  yet  restrained;  and  the 
far-reaching  ridges  of  pastoral  mountain  suc- 
ceed eadi  other,  like  the  long  and  sighing  swell 
which  moves  over  quiet  waters  from  some  far- 
off  stormv  sea.  And  tiiere  is  a  deep  tenderness 
pervaiUng  that  vast  monotony.  The  destructive 
forces  and  the  stern  expression  of  the  central 
ranges  are  alike  withdra^\n.  No  frost-ploughe<l, 
dust-encumbered  paths  of  ancient  glacier  fret 
the  soft  Jura  pastures;  no  splintered  heaps  of 
ruin  break  the  fair  ranks  of  her  forests;  no  pale, 
defiled,  or  furious  rivers  rend  their  rude  and 
changeful  ways  among  her  rocks.  Patiently, 
eddy  by  eddy,  the  clear  green  streams  wind 
along  their  well-known  beds;  and  under  the 
dark  quietness  of  the  undisturbed  pines,  there 
spring  up,  year  by  year,  such  company  of  joy- 
ful flowers  as  I  know  not  the  like  of  among 
all  the  blessings  of  the  earth.  It  was  spring 
time,  too;  and  all  were  coming  forth  in  clusters 
crowded  for  very  love;  there  was  room  enough 
for  all,  but  they  crushed  their  leaves  into  all 
manner  of  strange  shapes  only  to  be  nearer 
each  other.  There  was  the  wood  anemone,  star 
after  star,  closing  every  now  and  then  into  neb- 
ula';  and  there  was  the  oxalis,  troop  by  troop. 
like  virginal  processions  of  the  ]Mois  de  Marie,^ 
the  dark  vertical  clefts  in  the  limestone  choked 
up  with  them  as  with  heavy  snow,  and  touched 
with  ivy  on  the  edges — ivy  as  light  and  lovely 
as  the  vine ;  and,  ever  and  anon,  a  blue  gush 
of  violets,  and  cowslip  bells  in  sunnv  places; 
and  in  the  more  open  ground  the  vetch  and  com- 
frey,  and  mezereon.  and  the  small  sappiiire 
buds  of  the  Polygala  Alpiua,3  and  the  wild 
strawberry,  just  a  blossom  or  two  all  showered 
amidst  the  golden  softness  of  deep,  warm,  am- 
ber-coloured moss.  I  came  out  presently  on  the 
edge  of  the  ravine ;  the  solemn  murmur  of  its 
waters  rose  suddenly  from  beneath,  mixed  with 
the  singing  of  the  thrushes  among  the  pine 
boughs;  and  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  valley, 
walled  all  along  as  it  was  by  gray  cliffs  of 
limestone,  there  was  a  hawk  sailing  slowly  off 
their  brow,  touching  them  nearly  with  his  wings, 
and  with  the  shadows  of  the  pines  flickering 
upon  his  plumage  from  above;  but  with  the  fall 
of  a  hundred  fathoms  under  lus  breast,  and  the 

2  "Mary's  Month."     The  reference  is  to  May  pro- 
cessions in  honor  of  the  Virgin. 
.1  .\  milkwort. 


curling  pools  of  the  green  river  gliding  and 
glittering  dizzily  beneath  him,  their  foam  globes 
moving  with  him  as  he  flew.  It  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  conceive  a  scene  less  dependent  upon  any 
other  interest  than  that  of  its  own  secluded  and 
serious  beauty;  but  the  writer  well  remembers 
the  sudden  blankness  and  chill  which  were  cast 
upon  it  when  he  endeavoured,  in  order  more 
strictly  to  arrive  at  the  sources  of  its  impres- 
siveness,  to  imagine  it,  for  a  moment,  a  scene 
in  some  aboriginal  forest  of  the  New  Conti- 
nent. The  flowers  in  an  instant  lost  their  light, 
tlie  river  its  music;  the  hills  became  oppressively 
desolate ;  a  heaviness  in  the  boughs  of  the  dark- 
ened forest  showed  how  much  of  their  former 
l)ower  had  been  dependent  upon  a  life  which 
was  not  theirs,  how  much  of  the  glory  of  the 
imperishable,  or  continually  renewed,  creation 
is  reflected  from  things  more  precious  in  their 
memories  than  it,  in  its  renewing.  Those  ever 
springing  flowers  and  ever  flowing  streams  had 
been  dyed  by  the  deep  colours  of  human  endur- 
ance, valour,  and  virtue;  and  the  crests  of  the 
sable  hills  that  rose  against  the  evening  sky 
received  a  deeper  worship,  because  their  far 
shadows  fell  eastward  over  the  iron  walL^  of 
Joux,-i  and  the  four-square  keep  of  Granson.s 
It  is  as  the  centralization  and  protectress  of 
this  sacred  influence,  that  Architecture  is  to  be 
regarded  by  us  with  the  most  serious  thought. 
We  may  live  without  her,  and  worship  without 
her,  but  we  cannot  remember  without  her.  How 
cold  is  all  history,  how  lifeless  all  imagery, 
compared  to  that  which  the  living  nation  writes, 
and  the  uncorrupted  marble  bears! — how  many 
pages  of  doubtful  record  might  we  not  often 
spare,  for  a  few  stones  left  one  upon  another! 
The  ambition  of  the  old  Babel  builders  was  well 
directed  for  this  world: 6  there  are  but  two 
strong  conquerors  of  the  forgetfulness  of  men. 
Poetry  and  Architecture;  and  the  latter  in  some 
sort  includes  the  former,  and  is  mightier  in  its 
reality;  it  is  well  to  have,  not  only  what  men 
have  thought  and  felt,  but  what  their  hands 
iiave  handled,  and  their  strength  wrought,  and 
their  eyes  beheld,  all  the  days  of  their  life.  The 
age  of  Homer  is  surrounded  with  darkness,  his 
very  personality  with  doubt.  Not  so  that  of 
Pericles: 7  and  the  day  is  coming  when  we  shall 

4  In  tlip  Fort  de  Joux.  Mirabeau.  the  French  ora- 
tor, was  once  Imprisoned ;  and  Toussaint 
I/Ouverture,  the  Haitian  revolutionist,  died 
there. 

■"•  A  village  and  castle  on  the  Lake  of  Neuchatel. 
Switzerland.  A  Swiss  garrison  was  treacher- 
ously put  to  death  there  by  Charles  the  Bold 
in  147fi  nnd  gloriously  avenged  by  the  Swiss 
army. 

6  See  Unie-ii-i.  xi.  4. 

T  It  was  during  the  ascendency  of  Pericles  that 
the  Parthenon  was  built. 


676 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


confess  that  we  have  learned  more  of  Greece 
out  of  the  crumbled  fragments  of  her  sculpture 
than  even  from  her  sweet  singers  or  soldier  his- 
torians. And  if  indeed  there  be  any  profit  in 
our  knowledge  of  the  past,  or  any  joy  in  the 
thought  of  being  remembered  hereafter,  which 
can  give  strength  to  present  exertion,  or  pa- 
tience to  present  endurance,  there  are  two  du- 
ties respecting  national  architecture  whose  im- 
portance it  is  impossible  to  overrate;  the  first, 
to  render  the  architecture  of  the  day  historical; 
and  the  second,  to  preserve,  as  the  most  precious 
of  inheritances,  that  of  past  ages. 

It  is  in  the  first  of  these  two  directions  that 
Memory  may  truly  be  said  to  be  the  Sixth  Lamp 
of  Architecture;  for  it  is  in  becoming  memorial. 
or  monumental  that  a  true  perfection  is  at- 
tained by  civil  and  domestic  buildings;  and  this 
partly  as  they  are,  with  such  a  view,  built  in  a 
more  stable  manner,  and  partly  as  their  decora- 
tions are  consequently  animated  by  a  metaphor- 
ical or  historical  meaning. 

As  regards  domestic  buildings,  there  must  al- 
ways be  a  certain  limitation  to  views  of  this 
kind  in  the  power,  as  well  as  in  the  hearts,  of 
men;  still  I  cannot  but  think  it  an  evil  sign  of 
a  people  when  their  houses  are  built  to  last  for 
one  generation  only.  There  is  a  sanctity  in  a 
good  man's  house  which  cannot  be  renewed  in 
every  tenement  that  rises  on  its  ruins;  and  I 
believe  that  good  men  would  generally  feel  this ; 
and  that  having  spent  their  lives  happily  and 
honourably,  they  would  be  grieved,  at  the  close 
of  them,  to  think  that  the  place  of  their  earthly 
abode,  which  had  seen,  and  seemed  almost  to 
sympathize  in,  all  their  honour,  their  gladness  or 
their  suffering, — that  this,  with  all  the  record 
it  bare  of  them,  and  of  all  material  things  that 
they  had  loved  and  ruled  over,  and  set  the  stamp 
of  themselves  upon — was  to  be  swept  away,  as 
soon  as  there  was  room  made  for  them  in  the 
grave;  that  no  respect  was  to  be  shown  to  it, 
no  affection  felt  for  it,  no  good  to  be  drawn 
from  it  by  their  children;  that  though  there  was 
a  monument  in  the  church,  there  was  no  warm 
monument  in  the  heart  and  house  to  them ;  that 
all  that  they  ever  treasured  was  despised,  and 
the  places  that  had  sheltered  and  comforted 
them  were  dragged  down  to  the  dust.  I  say 
that  a  good  man  would  fear  this;  and  that,  far 
more,  a  good  son,  a  noble  descendant,  would 
fear  doing  it  to  his  father 's  house.  I  say  that 
if  men  lived  like  men  indeed,  their  houses  would 
b«  temples — temples  which  we  should  hardly 
dare  to  injure,  and  in  which  it  would  make  us 
holy  to  be  permitted  to  live;  and  there  must  be 
a  strange  dissolution  of  natural  affection,  a 
strange  unthankfulness  for  all  that  homes  have 


given  and  parents  taught,  a  strange  conscious- 
ness that  we  have  been  unfaithful  to  our  fath- 
ers'  honour,  or  that  our  own  lives  are  not  such 
as  would  make  our  dwellings  sacred  to  our 
children,  when  each  man  would  fain  build  to 
himself,  and  build  for  the  little  revolution  of  his 
own  life  only.  And  I  look  upon  those  pitiful 
concretions  of  lime  and  clay  which  spring  up, 
in  mildewed  forwardness,  out  of  the  kneaded 
fields  about  our  capital — upon  those  thin,  totter- 
ing, foundationless  shells  of  splintered  wood  and 
imitated  stone — upon  those  gloomy  rows  of  for- 
malized minuteness,  alike  without  difference  and 
without  fellowship,  as  solitary  as  similar — not 
merely  with  the  careless  disgust  of  an  offended 
eye,  not  merely  with  sorrow  for  a  desecrated 
landscape,  but  with  a  painful  foreboding  that 
the  roots  of  our  national  greatness  must  be 
deeply  cankered  when  they  are  thus  loosely 
struckt  in  their  native  ground ;  that  those  com- 
fortless and  unhonoured  dwellings  are  the  signs 
of  a  great  and  spreading  spirit  of  popular  dis- 
content; that  they  mark  the  time  when  every 
man 's  aim  is  to  be  in  some  more  elevated  sphere 
than  his  natural  one,  and  every  man's  past  life 
is  his  habitual  scorn;  when  men  build  in  the 
hope  of  leaving  the  places  they  have  built,  and 
live  in  the  hope  of  forgetting  the  years  that 
they  have  lived;  when  tlie  comfort,  the  peace, 
the  religion  of  home  have  ceased  to  be  felt,  and 
the  crowded  tenements  of  a  struggling  and  rest- 
less population  differ  only  from  the  tents  of  the 
Arab  or  the  Gipsy  by  their  less  healthy  open- 
ness to  the  air  of  heaven,  and  less  happy  choice 
of  their  spot  of  earth;  by  their  sacrifice  of  lib- 
erty without  the  gain  of  rest,  and  of  stability 
without  the  luxury  of  change. 

This  is  no  slight,  no  consequenceless  evil;  it 
is  ominous,  infectious,  and  fecund  of  other  fault 
and  misfortune.  When  men  do  not  love  their 
hearths,  nor  reverence  their  thresholds,  it  is  a 
sign  that  they  have  dishonoured  both,  and  that 
they  have  never  acknowledged  the  true  univer- 
sality of  that  Christian  worship  which  was  in- 
deed to  supersede  the  idolatry,  but  not  the  piety, 
of  the  pagan.  Our  God  is  a  household  God, 
as  well  as  a  heavenly  one;  He  has  an  altar  in 
every  man's  dwelling;  let  men  look  to  it  when 
they  rend  it  lightly  and  pour  out  its  ashes.  It 
is  not  a  question  of  mere  ocular  delight,  it  is 
no  question  of  intellectual  pride,  or  of  cultivated 
and  critical  fancy,  how,  and  with  what  aspect 
of  durability  and  of  completeness,  the  domestic 
buildings  of  a  nation  shall  be  raised.  It  is 
one  of  those  moral  duties,  not  with  more  im- 
punity to  be  neglected  because  the  perception 
of  them  depends  on  a  finely  toned  and  balanced 
conscientiousness,  to  build  our  dwellings  with 


JOHN  RUSKIN 


677 


care,  and  patience,  and  fondness,  and  diligent 
completion,  and  with  a  view  to  their  duration  at 
least  for  such  a  period  as,  in  the  ordinary  course 
of  national  revolutions,  might  be  supposed 
likely  to  extend  to  the  entire  alteration  of  the 
direction  of  local  interests.  This  at  the  least; 
but  it  would  be  better  if,  in  every  possible  in- 
stance, men  built  their  own  houses  on  a  scale 
commensurate  rather  with  their  condition  at 
the  commencement,  than  their  attainments  at 
the  termination,  of  their  worldly  career;  and 
built  them  to  stand  as  long  as  human  work 
at  its  strongest  can  be  hoped  to  stand;  record- 
ing to  their  children  what  they  have  been,  and 
from  what,  if  so  it  had  been  permitted  them, 
they  had  risen.  And  when  houses  are  thus 
built,  we  may  have  that  true  domestic  archi- 
tecture, the  beginning  of  all  other,  which  does 
not  disdain  to  treat  with  respect  and  thought- 
fulness  the  small  habitation  as  well  as  the 
large,  and  which  invests  with  the  dignity  of 
contented  manhood  the  narrowness  of  worldly 
circumstance. 


From  THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 

The  Throne.    Volume  II,  Chapter  I* 

In  the  olden  days  of  travelling,  now  to  re- 
turn no  more,  in  which  distance  could  not  be 
vanquished  without  toil,  but  in  which  that  toil 
was  rewarded,  partly  by  the  power  of  delib- 
erate survey  of  the  countries  through  which 
the  journey  lay,  and  partly  by  the  happiness 
of  the  evening  hours,  when  from  the  top  of 
the  last  hill  he  had  surmounted,  the  traveller 
beheld  the  quiet  village  where  he  was  to  rest, 
scattered  among  the  meadows  beside  its  valley 
stream;  or,  from  the  long  hoped  for  turn  in 
the  dusty  perspective  of  the  causeway,  saw, 
for  the  first  time,  the  towers  of  some  famed 
city,  faint  in  the  rays  of  sunset — hours  of 
peaceful  and  thoughtful  pleasure,  for  which 
the  rush  of  the  arrival  in  the  railway  station 
is  perhaps  not  always,  or  to  all  men,  an  equiv- 
alent,— in  those  days,  I  say,  when  there  was 
something  more  to  be  anticipated  and  remem- 
bered in  the  first  aspect  of  each  successive 
halting-place,  than  a  new  arrangement  of  glass 
roofing  and  iron  girder,  there  were  few  mo- 
ments of  which  the  recollection  was  more 
fondly   cherished   by   the   traveller,    than   that 

*  In  this  "faithful  view  of  the  site  of  the  Vene- 
tian Throne,"  we  liave  both  an  illustration 
of  Ruslcin's  descriptive  and  narrative  powers, 
and  an  expression  of  the  deep  religious  con- 
victions which  informed  his  earlier  writings. 
In  the  selection  that  follows  will  be  found 
his  defence  and  praise  of  Gothic  art,  together 
with  his  central  social  theory, 


which,  as  I  endeavoured  to  describe  in  the  close 
of  the  last  chapter,  brought  him  within  sight 
of  Venice,  as  his  gondola  shot  into  the  open 
lagoon  from  the  canal  of  Mestre.  Not  but  that 
the  aspect  of  the  city  itself  was  generally  the 
source  of  some  slight  disappointment,  for,  seen 
in  this  direction,  its  buildings  are  far  less 
characteristic  than  those  of  the  other  great 
towns  of  Italy;  but  this  inferiority  was  partly 
disguised  by  distance,  and  more  than  atoned 
for  by  the  strange  rising  of  its  walls  and 
towers  out  of  the  midst,  as  it  seemed,  of  the 
deep  sea,  for  it  was  impossible  that  the  mind 
or  the  eye  could  at  once  comprehend  the  shal- 
lowness of  the  vast  sheet  of  water  which 
stretched  away  in  leagues  of  rippling  lustre  to 
the  north  and  south,  or  trace  the  narrow  line 
of  islets  bounding  it  to  the  east.  The  salt 
breeze,  the  white  noaning  sea-birds,  the  masses 
of  black  weed  separating  and  disappearing 
gradually,  in  knots  of  heaving  shoal,  under 
the  advance  of  the  steady  tide,  all  proclaimed 
it  to  be  indeed  the  ocean  on  whose  bosom  the 
great  city  rested  so  calmly;  not  such  blue, 
soft,  lake-like  ocean  as  bathes  the  Neapolitan 
promontories,  or  sleeps  beneath  the  marble 
rocks  of  Genoa,  but  a  sea  with  the  bleak  power 
of  our  own  northern  waves,  yet  subdued  into  a 
strange  spacious  rest,  and  changed  from  its 
angry  pallor  into  a  field  of  burnished  gold,  as 
the  sun  declined  behind  the  belfry  tower  of 
the  lonely  island  church,  fitly  named  "St. 
George  of  the  Seaweed. ' '  As  the  boat  drew 
nearer  to  the  city,  the  coast  which  the  traveller 
had  just  left  sank  behind  him  into  one  long, 
low,  sad-coloured  line,  tufted  irregularly  with 
brushwood  and  willows;  but  at  what  seemed 
its  northern  extremity,  the  hills  of  Arqua  rose 
in  a  dark  cluster  of  purple  pyramids,  balanced 
on  the  bright  mirage  of  the  lagoon;  two  or 
three  smooth  surges  of  inferior  hill  extended 
themselves  about  their  roots,  and  beyond  these, 
beginning  with  the  craggy  peaks  above  Vi- 
cenza,  the  chain  of  the  Alps  girded  the  whole 
horizon  to  the  north — a  wall  of  jagged  blue, 
here  and  there  showing  through  its  clefts  a 
wilderness  of  misty  precipices,  fading  far 
back  into  the  recesses  of  Cadore,  and  itself 
rising  and  breaking  away  eastward,  where  the 
sun  struck  opposite  upon  its  snow  into  mighty 
fragments  of  peaked  light,  standing  up  behind 
the  barred  clouds  of  evening,  one  after  an- 
other, countless,  the  crown  of  the  Adrian  Sea, 
until  the  eye  turned  back  from  pursuing  them, 
to  rest  upon  the  nearer  burning  of  the  cam- 
panilesi    of    Murano,    and    on    the    great   city, 

1  bell-towers    (Murano  is  an   island  just  north  of 
Venice. ) 


GTS 


THE  VICTOKIAN  AGE 


where  it  magnified  itself  along  the  waves,  as 
the  quick  silent  pacing  of  the  gondola  drew 
nearer  and  nearer.  And  at  last,  when  its  walls 
were  reached,  and  the  outmost  of  its  untrod- 
den streets  was  entered,  not  through  towered 
gate  or  guarded  rampart,  but  as  a  deep  inlet 
between  two  rocks  of  coral  in  the  Indian  sea; 
•when  first  upon  the  traveller's  sight  opened 
the  long  ranges  of  columned  palaces, — each 
with  its  black  boat  moored  at  the  portal, — 
each  with  its  image  cast  down  beneath  its  feet 
upon  that  green  pavement  which  every  breeze 
broke  into  new  fantasies  of  rich  teSvsellation ; 
when  first,  at  the  extremity  of  the  bright  vista, 
the  shadowy  IJialto  threw  its  colossal  curve 
slowly  forth  from  behind  the  palace  of  the 
Camerlenghi;-  that  strange  curve,  so  delicate, 
so  adamantine,  strong  as  a  mountain  cavern, 
graceful  as  a  bow  just  bent;  when  first,  before 
its  moonlike  circumference  was  all  risen,  the 
gondolier 's  cry,  ' '  Ah !  Stall, '  '3  struck  sharp 
upon  the  ear,  and  the  prow  turned  aside  un- 
der the  mighty  cornices  that  half  met  over  the 
narrow  canal,  where  the  plash  of  the  water 
followed  close  and  loud,  ringing  along  the 
marble  by  the  boat 's  side ;  and  when  at  last 
that  boat  darted  forth  upon  the  breadth  of 
silver  sea,  across  which  the  front  of  the  Ducal 
Palace,  flushed  with  its  sanguine  veins,  looks 
to  the  snowy  dome  of  Our  Lady  of  Salvation,* 
it  was  no  marvel  that  the  mind  should  be 
so  deeply  entranced  by  the  visionary  charm 
of  a  scene  so  beautiful  and  so  strange,  as  to 
forget  the  darker  truths  of  its  history  and  its 
being.  "Well  might  it  seem  that  such  a  city 
had  owed  her  existence  rather  to  the  rod  of 
the  enchanter  than  the  fear  of  the  fugitive; 
that  the  waters  which  encircled  her  had  been 
chosen  for  the  mirror  of  her  state,  rather  than 
the  shelter  of  her  nakedness ;  and  that  all  w  hich 
in  nature  was  wild  or  merciless, — Time  and 
Decay,  as  well  as  the  waves  and  tempests, — 
had  been  won  to  adorn  lier  instead  of  to  de- 
stroy, and  might  still  spare,  for  ages  to  come, 
that  beauty  which  seemed  to  have  fixed  for  its 
throne  the  sands  of  the  hour-glass  as  well  as 
of  the  sea. 

And  although  the  last  few  eventful  years, 
fraught  with  change  to  the  face  of  the  whole 
earth,  have  been  more  fatal  in  their  influence 
on  Venice  than  the  five  hundred  that  preceded 
them;  though  the  noble  landscape  of  approach 
to  her  can  now  be  seen  no  more,  or  seen  only 

2  The    Bridge    of    the    RIalto.    across    the    Grand 

Canal.  consistH  of  n  slnKle  marble  arch  of  74 

f<>ot  Hpan  and  .T_'  feet  In  height. 
»  IndlratinK   that   the  gondollcT   meant   to  turn   to 

the  right. 
4  The  Church  of  Santa  .Maria  dHIn  Snliil.'.  on  the 

right  uldtf  of  the  mouth  of  (lie  Grand  Canal. 


by  a  glance,  as  the  engine  slackens  its  rushing 
on  the  iron  line;  and  though  many  of  her 
palaces  are  forever  defaced,  and  many  in  dese- 
crated ruins,  there  is  still  so  much  of  magic 
in  her  aspect  that  the  hurried  traveller,  who 
must  leave  her  before  the  wonder  of  that  fir.st 
aspect  has  been  worn  away,  may  still  be  led  to 
forget  the  humility  of  her  origin,  and  to  shut 
his  eyes  to  the  depth  of  her  desolation.  They, 
at  least,  are  little  to  be  envied,  in  whose  hearts 
the  great  charities  of  the  imagination  lie  dead, 
and  for  whom  the  fancy  has  no  power  to  re- 
press the  importunity  of  painful  impressions, 
or  to  raise  wliat  is  ignoble,  and  disguise  what 
is  discordant,  in  a  scene  so  rich  in  its  remem- 
brances, so  surpassing  in  its  beauty.  But  for 
this  work  of  tlie  imagination  there  must  be  no 
permission  during  the  task  which  is  before  usl 
The  impotent  feelings  of  romance,  so  singu- 
larly characteristic  of  this  century,  may  indeed 
gild,  but  never  save,  the  remains  of  those 
mightier  ages  to  which  they  are  attached  like 
climbing  flowers;  and  they  must  be  torn  away 
from  the  magnificent  fragments,  if  we  would 
see  them  as  they  stood  in  their  own  strength. 
Those  feelings,  always  as  fruitless  as  they  are 
fond,  are  in  Venice  not  only  incapable  of  pro- 
tecting, but  even  of  discerning,  the  objects  to 
which  they  ought  to  have  been  attached.  The 
Venice  of  modern  fiction  and  drama  is  a  thing 
of  yesterday,  a  mere  eflBorescence  of  decay, 
a  stage  dream  which  the  first  ray  of  daylight 
must  dissipate  into  dust.  No  prisoner,  whose 
name  is  worth  remembering,  or  whose  sorrow 
deserved  sympathy,  ever  crossed  that  "Bridge 
of  Sighs,"  which  is  the  centre  of  the  Byronic 
ideal  of  Venice;"-  no  great  merchant  of  Venice 
ever  saw  that  Rialto  under  which  the  traveller 
now  passes  with  breathless  interest;  the  statue 
which  Byron  makes  Faliero  address  as  one  of  his 
great  ancestors  was  erected  to  a  soldier  of  fortune 
a  hundred  and  fifty  years  after  Faliero  's  death ;« 
and  the  most  conspicuous  parts  of  the  city  have 
been  so  entirely  altered  in  the  course  of  the  last 
three  centuries,  that  if  Henry  Dandolo  or 
Francis  Foscari^  could  be  summoned  from  their 
tombs,  and  stood  each  on  the  deck  of  his  galley 
at  the  entrance  of  the  Grand  Canal,  that  re- 
nowned entrance,  the  painter 's  favourite  sub- 
ject, the  novelist 's  favourite  scene,  where  the 
water  first  narrows  by  the  steps  of  the  Church 
of  La  Salute, — the  mighty  Doges  would  not 
know  in  what  part  of  the  world  they  stood, 
would  literally  not  recognize  one  stone  of  the 

r.  Sec  ChlUlp  Tfarnltl.  IV.  1. 

'i  Sec  Mm  inn   l-alicro.  Ill,   i.  36. 

7  Knrl.v   I><)g('M  of  Venice:  the  one  was  blinded  by 

ll»e    Kv/.iintlne    emiwror,    tlio    other    compelled 

to  abdicate. 


JOHN  RUSKIN 


679 


great  city,  for  whose  sake,  and  by  whose  in- 
gratitude, their  grey  hairs  had  been  brought 
down  with  bitterness  to  the  grave.  The  re- 
mains of  their  Venice  lie  hidden  behind  the 
cumbrous  masses  which  were  the  delight  of  the 
nation  in  its  dotage;  hidden  in  many  a  grass- 
grown  court,  and  silent  pathway,  and  lightless 
canal,  where  the  slow  waves  have  sapped  their 
foundations  for  five  hundred  years,  and  must 
soon  prevail  over  them  for  ever.  It  must  be 
our  tasks  to  glean  and  gather  them  forth,  and 
restore  out  of  them  some  faint  image  of  the 
lost  city;  more  gorgeous  a  thousandfold  than 
that  which  now  exists,  yet  not  created  in  the 
day-dream  of  the  prince,  nor  by  the  ostentation 
of  the  noble,  but  built  by  iron  hands  and 
patient  hearts,  contending  against  the  adver- 
sity of  nature  and  the  fury  of  man,  so  that 
its  wonderfulness  cannot  be  grasped  by  the 
indolence  of  imagination,  but  only  after  frank 
inquiry  into  the  true  nature  of  that  wild  and 
solitary  scene,  whose  restless  tides  and  trem- 
bling sands  did  indeed  shelter  the  birth  of  the 
city,  but  long  denied  her  dominion. 

When  the  eye  falls  casually  on  a  map  of 
Europe,  there  is  no  feature  by  which  it  is  more 
likely  to  be  arrested  than  the  strange  sweeping 
loop  formed  by  the  junction  of  the  Alps  and 
Apennines,  and  enclosing  the  great  basin  of 
Lombardy.  This  return  of  the  mountain  chain 
upon  itself  causes  a  vast  difference  in  the  char- 
acter of  the  distribution  of  its  debris  on  its 
opposite  sides.  The  rock  fragments  and  setli- 
ment  which  the  torrents  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Alps  bear  into  the  plains  are  distributed 
over  a  vast  extent  of  country,  and,  though  here 
and  there  lodged  in  beds  of  enormous  thickness, 
soon  permit  the  firm  substrata  to  appear  from 
underneath  them;  but  all  the  torrents  which 
descend  from  the  southern  side  of  the  High 
Alps,  and  from  the  northern  slope  of  the  Apen- 
nines, meet  concentrically  in  the  recess  or 
mountain  bay  which  the  two  ridges  enclose; 
every  fragment  which  thunder  breaks  out  of 
their  battlements,  and  every  grain  of  dust 
which  the  summer  rain  washes  from  their  pas- 
tures, is  at  last  laid  at  rest  in  the  blue  sweep 
of  the  Lombardic  plain ;  and  that  plain  must 
have  risen  within  its  rocky  barriers  as  a  cup 
fills  with  wine,  but  for  two  contrary  influences 
which  continually  depress,  or  disperse  from  its 
surface,  the  accumulation  of  the  ruins  of  ages. 
I  will  not  tax  the  reader's  faith  in  modern 
science  by  insisting  on  the  singular  depression 
of  the  surface  of  Lombardy,  which  appears  for 
many  centuries  to  have  taken  place  steadily  and 

8  I.   o..    Raskin's   task,   in   this  intended   work   on 
Vonotian  arcliitecture  and  sculpture. 


continually;  the  main  fact  with  which  we  have 
to  do  is  the  gradual  transport,  by  the  Po  and 
its  great  collateral  rivers,  of  vast  masses  of 
the  finer  sediment  to  the  sea.  The  character 
of  the  Lombardic  plain  is  most  strikingly  ex- 
pressed by  the  ancient  walls  of  its  cities,  com- 
posed for  the  most  part  of  large  rounded 
Alpine  pebbles  alternating  with  narrow  courses 
of  brick;  and  was  curiously  illustrated  in  1848, 
by  the  ramparts  of  these  same  pebbles  thrown 
up  four  or  five  feet  high  round  every  field,  to 
check  the  Austrian  cavalry  in  the  battle  under 
the  walls  of  Verona.  The  finer  dust  among 
which  these  pebbles  are  dispersed  is  taken  up 
by  the  rivers,  fed  into  continual  strength  by  the 
Alpine  snow,  so  that,  however  pure  their 
waters  may  be  when  they  issue  from  the  lakes 
at  the  foot  of  the  great  chain,  they  become  of 
the  colour  and  opacity  of  clay  before  they  reach 
the  Adriatic ;  the  sediment  which  they  bear  is 
at  once  thrown  down  as  they  enter  the  sea, 
forming  a  vast  belt  of  low  land  along  the 
eastern  coast  of  Italy.  The  powerful  stream 
of  the  Po  of  course  builds  forward  the  fastest; 
on  each  side  of  it,  north  and  south,  there  is  a 
tract  of  marsh,  fed  by  more  feeble  streams, 
and  less  liable  to  rapid  change  than  the  delta 
of  the  central  river.  In  one  of  these  tracts  is 
built  Ravenna,  and  in  the  other  Venice. 

What  circumstances  directed  the  peculiar  ar- 
rangement of  this  great  belt  of  sediment  in  the 
earliest  times,  it  is  not  here  the  place  to  in- 
quire. It  is  enough  for  us  to  know  that  from 
the  mouths  of  the  Adige  to  those  of  the  Piave 
there  stretches,  at  a  variable  distance  of  from 
three  to  five  miles  from  the  actual  shore,  a  bank 
of  sand,  divided  into  long  islands  by  narrow 
channels  of  sea.  Tlie  space  between  this  bank 
and  the  true  shore  consists  of  the  sedimentary 
deposits  from  these  and  other  rivers,  a  great 
plain  of  calcareous  mud,^  covered,  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Venice,  by  the  sea  at  high  water, 
to  the  depth  in  most  places  of  a  foot  or  a  foot 
and  a  half,  and  nearly  everywhere  exposed  at 
low  tide,  but  divided  by  an  intricate  network 
of  narrow  and  winding  channels,  from  which 
the  sea  never  retires.  In  some  places,  accord- 
ing to  the  run  of  the  currents,  the  land  has 
risen  into  marshy  islets,  consolidated,  some  by 
art,  and  some  by  time,  into  ground  firm  enough 
to  be  built  upon,  or  fruitful  enough  to  be  cul- 
tivated: in  others,  on  the  contrary,  it  has  not 
reached  the  sea  level ;  so  that,  at  the  average  low 
water,  shallow  lakelets  glitter  among  its  irregu- 
larly exposed  fields  of  seaweed.  In  the  midst 
of  the  largest  of  these,  increased  in  importance 

:•  Comnarp  what  Hnxle.v  says  on  the  chalk  forma- 
tion of  Europe,  p.  670, 


680 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


by  the  confluence  of  several  large  river  channels 
towards  one  of  the  openings  in  the  sea  bank, 
the  city  of  Venice  itself  is  built,  on  a  crowded 
cluster  of  islands;  the  various  plots  of  higher 
ground  which  appear  to  the  north  and  south  of 
this  central  cluster,  have  at  different  periods 
been  also  thickly  inhabited,  and  now  bear,  ac- 
cording to  their  size,  the  remains  of  cities,  vil- 
lages, or  isolated  convents  and  churches,  scat- 
tered among  spaces  of  open  ground,  partly 
waste  and  encumbered  by  ruins,  partly  under 
cultivation  for  the  supply  of  the  metropolis. 

The  average  rise  and  fall  of  the  tide  is  about 
three  feet  (varying  considerably  with  the  sea- 
sons) ;  but  this  fall,  on  so  flat  a  shore,  is 
enough  to  cause  continual  movement  in  the 
waters,  and  in  the  main  canals  to  produce  a 
reflux  which  frequently  runs  like  a  mill  stream. 
At  high  water  no  land  is  visible  for  many  miles 
to  the  north  or  south  of  Venice,  except  in  the 
form  of  small  islands  crowned  with  towers  or 
gleaming  with  villages:  there  is  a  channel,  some 
three  miles  wide,  between  the  city  and  the 
mainland,  and  some  mile  and  a  half  wide 
between  it  and  the  sandy  breakwater  called  the 
Lido,  which  divides  the  lagoon  from  the 
Adriatic,  but  which  is  so  low  as  hardly  to  dis- 
turb the  impression  of  the  city's  having  been 
built  in  the  midst  of  the  ocean,  although  the 
secret  of  its  true  position  is  partly,  yet  not 
painfully,  betrayed  by  the  clusters  of  piles  set 
to  mark  the  deep-water  channels,  which  undu- 
late far  away  in  spotty  chains  like  the  studded 
backs  of  huge  sea-snakes,  and  by  the  quick 
glittering  of  the  crisped  and  crowded  waves 
that  flicker  and  dance  before  the  strong  winds 
upon  the  uplifted  level  of  the  shallow  sea.  But 
the  scene  is  widely  difterent  at  low  tide.  A  fall 
of  eighteen  or  twenty  inches  is  enough  to  show 
ground  over  the  greater  part  of  the  lagoon  j 
and  at  the  complete  ebb  the  city  is  seen  stand- 
ing in  the  midst  of  a  dark  plain  of  seaweed, 
of  gloomy  green,  except  only  where  the  larger 
branches  of  the  Brenta  and  its  associated 
streams  converge  towards  the  port  of  the  Lido. 
Through  this  salt  and  sombre  plain  the  gondola 
and  the  fishing-boat  advance  by  tortuous  chan- 
nels, seldom  more  than  four  or  five  feet  deep, 
and  often  so  choked  with  slime  that  the 
heavier  keels  furrow  the  bottom  till  their  cross- 
ing tracks  are  seen  through  the  clear  sea  water 
like  the  ruts  upon  a  wintry  road,  and  the  oar 
leaves  blue  gashes  upon  the  ground  at  every 
stroke,  or  is  entangled  among  the  thick  weed 
that  fringes  the  banks  with  the  weight  of  its 
fiuUon  waves,  leaning  to  and  fro  upon  the  uncer- 
tain sway  of  the  exhausted  tide.  The  scene  is 
often  profoundly  oppressive,  even  at  this  day, 


when  every  plot  of  higher  ground  bears  some 
fragment  of  fair  building:  but,  in  order  to 
know  what  it  was  once,  let  the  traveller  follow 
in  his  boat  at  evening  the  windings  of  some 
unfrequented  channel  far  into  the  midst  of 
the  melancholy  plain;  let  him  remove,  in  his 
imagination,  the  brightness  of  the  great  city 
that  still  extends  itself  in  the  distance,  and  the 
walls  and  towers  from  the  islands  that  are 
near;  and  so  wait,  until  the  bright  investiture 
and  sweet  warmth  of  the  sunset  are  withdrawn 
from  the  waters,  and  the  black  desert  of  their 
shore  lies  in  its  nakedness  beneath  the  night, 
pathless,  comfortless,  infirm,  lost  in  <iark 
languor  and  fearful  silence,  except  where  the 
salt  runlets  plash  into  the  tideless  pools,  or 
the  sea-birds  flit  from  their  margins  with  a 
questioning  cry ;  and  he  will  be  enabled  to  enter 
in  some  sort  into  the  horror  of  heart  with  which 
this  solitude  was  anciently  chosen  by  man  for 
his  habitation.  They  little  thought,  who  first 
drove  the  stakes  into  the  sand,  and  strewed 
the  ocean  reeds  for  their  rest,  that  their  chil- 
dren were  to  be  the  princes  of  that  ocean,  and 
their  palaces  its  pride;  and  yet,  in  the  great 
natural  laws  that  rule  that  sorrowful  wilder- 
ness, let  it  be  remembered  what  strange  prep- 
aration had  been  made  for  the  things  which  no 
human  imagination  could  have  foretold,  and 
how  the  whole  existence  and  fortune  of  the 
Venetian  nation  were  anticipated  or  compelled, 
by  the  setting  of  those  bars  and  doors  to  the 
rivers  and  the  sea.  Had  deeper  currents 
divided  their  islands,  hostile  navies  would  again 
and  again  have  reduced  the  rising  city  into 
servitude;  had  stronger  surges  beaten  their 
shores,  all  the  richness  and  refinement  of  the 
Venetian  architecture  must  have  been  ex- 
changed for  the  walls  and  bulwarks  of  an 
ordinary  sea-port.  Had  there  been  no  tide, 
as  in  other  parts  of  the  Mediterranean,  the  nar- 
row canals  of  the  city  would  have  become 
noisome,  and  the  marsh  in  which  it  was  built 
pestiferous.  Had  the  tide  been  only  a  foot  or 
eighteen  inches  higher  in  its  rise,  the  water- 
access  to  the  doors  of  the  palaces  would  have 
been  impossible:  even  as  it  is,  there  is  some- 
times a  little  difiiculty,  at  the  ebb,  in  landing 
without  setting  foot  upon  the  lower  and  slip- 
pery steps;  and  the  highest  tides  sometimes 
enter  the  courtyards,  and  overflow  the  entrance 
halls.  Eighteen  inches  more  of  difl'erence  be- 
tween the  level  of  the  flood  and  ebb  would  have 
rendered  the  doorsteps  of  every  palace,  at  low 
water,  a  treacherous  mass  of  weeds  and  limpets, 
and  the  entire  system  of  water-carriage  for  the 
higher  classes,  in  their  easy  and  daily  inter- 
course, must  have  been  done  away  with.     The 


JOHN  EUSKIN 


681 


streets  of  the  city  would  have  been  widened,  its 
network  of  canals  filled  up,  and  all  the  peculiar 
character  of  the  place  and  the  people  destroyed. 
The  reader  may  perhaps  have  felt  some  pain 
in  the  contrast  between  this  faithful  view  of 
the  site  of  the  Venetian  Throne,  and  the 
romantic  conception  of  it  which  we  ordinarily 
form;  but  this  pain,  if  he  have  felt  it,  ought 
to  be  more  than  counterbalanced  by  the  value 
of  the  instance  thus  afforded  to  us  at  once  of 
the  inscrutableness  and  the  wisdom  of  the  ways 
of  God.  If,  two  thousand  years  ago,  we  had 
been  permitted  to  watch  the  slow  settling  of 
the  slime  of  those  turbid  rivers  into  the  pol- 
luted sea,  and  the  gaining  upon  its  deep  and 
fresh  waters  of  the  lifeless,  impassable,  unvoy- 
ageable  plain,  how  little  could  we  have  under- 
stood the  purpose  with  which  those  islands  were 
shaped  out  of  the  void,  and  the  torpid  waters 
enclosed  with  their  desolate  walls  of  sand! 
How  little  could  we  have  known,  any  more  than 
of  what  now  seems  to  us  most  distressful,  dark, 
and  objectless,  the  glorious  aim  which  was  then 
in  the  mind  of  Him  in  whose  hand  are  all  the 
corners  of  the  earth!  how  little  imagined  that 
in  the  laws  which  were  stretching  forth  the 
gloomy  margins  of  those  fruitless  banks,  and 
feeding  the  bitter  grass  among  their  shallows, 
there  was  indeed  a  preparation,  and  the  only 
preparation  possible,  for  the  founding  of  a 
city  which  was  to  be  set  like  a  golden  clasp  on 
the  girdle  of  the  earth,  to  write  her  history  on 
the  white  scrolls  of  the  sea-surges,  and  to  word 
it  in  their  thunder,  and  to  gather  and  give 
forth,  in  world-wide  pulsation,  the  glory  of  the 
West  and  of  the  East,  from  the  burning  heart 
of  her  Fortitude  and  Splendour. 

The  Mediaeval  and  the  Modern  Workman. 
From  Volume  II,  Chapter  VI 

Now,  in  the  make  and  nature  of  every  man, 
however  rude  or  simple,  whom  we  employ  in 
manual  labour,  there  are  some  powers  for  bet- 
ter things:  some  tardy  imagination,  torpid 
capacity  of  emotion,  tottering  steps  of  thought, 
there  are,  even  at  the  worst ;  and  in  most  cases 
it  is  all  our  own  fault  that  they  are  tardy  or 
torpid.  But  they  cannot  be  strengthened,  unless 
we  are  content  to  take  them  in  their  feebleness, 
and  unless  we  prize  and  honour  them  in  their 
imperfection  above  the  best  and  most  perfect 
manual  skill.  And  this  is  what  we  have  to  do 
with  all  our  labourers;  to  look  for  the  thought- 
ful part  of  them,  and  get  that  out  of  them, 
whatever  we  lose  for  it,  whatever  faults  and 
errors  we  are  obliged  to  take  with  it.  For  the 
best  that  is  in  them  cannot  manifest  itself,  but 


in  company  with  much  error.  Understand  this 
clearly:  You  can  teach  a  man  to  draw  a 
straight  line,  and  to  cut  one ;  to  strike  a  curved 
line,  and  to  carve  it;  and  to  copy  and  carve  any 
number  of  given  lines  or  forms,  with  admirable 
speed  and  perfect  precision;  and  you  find  his 
work  perfect  of  its  kind:  but  if  you  ask  him 
to  think  about  any  of  those  forms,  to  consider 
if  he  cannot  find  any  better  in  his  own  head, 
he  stops;  his  execution  becomes  hesitating;  he 
thinks,  and  ten  to  one  he  thinks  wrong;  ten 
to  one  he  makes  a  mistake  in  the  first  touch  he 
gives  to  his  work  as  a  thinking  being.  But 
you  have  made  a  man  of  him  for  all  that.  He 
was  only  a  machine  before,  an  animated  tool. 

And  observe,  you  are  put  to  stern  choice  in 
this  matter.  You  must  either  make  a  tool  of 
the  creature,  or  a  man  of  him.  You  cannot 
make  both.  Men  were  not  intended  to  work 
with  the  accuracy  of  tools,  to  be  precise  and 
perfect  in  all  their  actions.  If  you  will  have 
that  precision  out  of  them,  and  make  their 
fingers  measure  degrees  like  cog-wheels,  and 
their  arms  strike  curves  like  compasses,  you 
must  unhumanize  them.  All  the  energy  of  their 
spirits  must  be  given  to  make  cogs  and  com- 
passes of  themselves.  All  their  attention  and 
strength  must  go  to  the  accomplishment  of  the 
mean  act.  The  eye  of  the  soul  must  be  bent 
upon  the  finger-point,  and  the  soul's  force  must 
fill  all  the  invisible  nerves  that  guide  it,  ten 
hours  a  day,  that  it  may  not  err  from  its  steely 
precision,  and  so  soul  and  sight  be  worn  away, 
and  the  whole  human  being  be  lost  at  last — a 
heap  of  sawdust,  so  far  as  its  intellectual  work 
in  this  world  is  concerned;  saved  only  by  its 
Heart,  which  cannot  go  into  the  form  of  cogs 
and  compasses,  but  expands,  after  the  ten  hours 
are  over,  into  fireside  humanity.  On  the  other 
hand,  if  you  will  make  a  man  of  the  working 
creature,  you  cannot  make  a  tool.  Let  him  but 
begin  to  imagine,  to  think,  to  try  to  do  any- 
thing worth  doing;  and  the  engine-turned  pre- 
cision is  lost  at  once.  Out  come  all  his  rough- 
ness, all  his  dulness,  all  his  incapability;  shame 
upon  shame,  failure  upon  failure,  pause  after 
pause:  but  out  comes  the  whole  majesty  of  him 
also ;  and  we  know  the  height  of  it  only  when 
we  see  the  clouds  settling  upon  him.  And, 
whether  the  clouds  be  bright  or  dark,  there 
will  be  transfiguration  behind  and  within  them. 

And  now,  reader,  look  round  this  English 
room  of  yours,  about  which  you  have  been 
proud  so  often,  because  the  work  of  it  was  so 
good  and  strong,  and  the  ornaments  of  it  so 
finished.  Examine  again  all  those  accurate 
mouldings,  and  perfect  polishings,  and  unerring 
adjustments   of  the   seasoned   wood   and   tem- 


682 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


pered  steel.  Many  a  time  you  have  exulted  over 
them,  and  thought  how  great  England  was, 
because  her  slightest  work  was  done  so  thor- 
oughly. Alas!  if  read  rightly,  these  perfect- 
nesses  are  signs  of  a  slavery  in  our  England  a 
thousand  times  more  bitter  and  more  degrading 
than  that  of  the  scourged  African,  or  helot i 
Greek.  ^Men  may  be  beaten,  chained,  tormented, 
yoked  like  cattle,  slaugiitered  like  summer  flies, 
and  yet  remain  in  one  sense,  and  the  best  sense, 
free.  But  to  smother  their  souls  within  them, 
to  blight  and  hew  into  rotting  pollards  the 
suckling  branches  of  their  human  intelligence, 
to  make  the  flesh  and  skin  which,  after  the 
worm 's  work  on  it,  is  to  see  God,2  into  leathern 
thongs  to  yoke  machinery  with, — this  it  is  to  be 
slave-masters  indeed;  and  there  might  be  more 
freedom  in  England,  though  her  feudal  lords' 
lightest  words  were  Avorth  men's  lives,  and 
though  the  blood  of  the  vexed  husbandman 
dropped  in  the  furrows  of  her  fields,  than  there 
is  while  the  animation  of  her  multitudes  is  sent 
like  fuel  to  feed  the  factory  smoke,  and  the 
strength  of  them  is  given  daily  to  be  wasted 
into  the  fineness  of  a  web,  or  racked  into  the 
exactness  of  a  line. 

And,  on  the  other  hand,  go  forth  again  to 
gaze  upon  the  old  cathedral  front,  where  you 
have  smiled  so  often  at  the  fantastic  ignorance 
of  the  old  sculptors:  examine  once  more  those 
ugly  goblins,  and  formless  monsters,  and  stern 
statues,  anatomiless  and  rigid;  but  do  not 
mock  at  them,  for  they  are  signs  of  the  life  and 
liberty  of  every  workman  who  struck  the  stone; 
a  freedom  of  thought,  and  rank  in  scale  of 
being,  such  as  no  laws,  no  charters,  no  charities 
can  secure;  but  which  it  must  be  the  first  aim 
of  all  Europe  at  this  day  to  regain  for  her 
children. 

Let  me  not  be  thought  to  speak  wildly  or 
extravagantly.  It  is  verily  this  degradation  of 
the  operative  into  a  machine,  which,  more  than 
any  other  evil  of  the  times,  is  leading  the  mass 
of  the  nations  everywhere  into  vain,  incoherent, 
destructive  struggling  for  a  freedom  of  which 
they  cannot  explain  the  nature  to  themselves. 
Their  universal  outcry  against  wealth,  and 
against  nobility,  is  not  forced  from  them 
either  by  the  pressure  of  famine,  or  the  sting 
of  mortified  pride.  These  do  much,  and  have 
done  much  in  all  ages;  but  the  foundations  of 
society  were  never  yet  shaken  as  they  are  at 
this  day.  It  is  not  that  men  are  ill  fed,  but 
that  they  have  no  pleasure  in  the  work  by  which 
they  make  their  bread,  and  therefore  look  to 

1  A  ulavc  In  nnclont   Spnrta.  owned  by  the  state, 

and  attacli«'<l  to  the  noil. 

2  Beo  .loh,  xlx,  2«. 


wealth  as  the  only  means  of  pleasure.  It  is 
not  that  men  are  pained  by  the  scorn  of  the 
upper  classes,  but  they  cannot  endure  their 
own;  for  they  feel  that  the  kind  of  labour  to 
which  they  are  condemned  is  verily  a  degrading 
one,  and  makes  them  less  than  men.  Never 
had  the  upper  classes  so  much  sympathy  with 
the  lower,  or  charity  for  them,  as  they  have  at 
this  day,  and  yet  never  were  they  so  much 
hated  by  them:  for,  of  old,  the  separation 
between  the  noble  and  the  poor  was  merely  a 
wall  built  by  law;  now  it  is  a  veritable  dif- 
ference in  level  of  standing,  a  precipice  be- 
tween upper  and  lower  grounds  in  the  field  of 
humanity,  and  there  is  pestilential  air  at  the 
bottom  of  it.  I  know  not  if  a  day  is  ever  to 
come  when  the  nature  of  right  freedom  will  be 
understood,  and  when  men  will  see  that  to  obey 
another  man,  to  labour  for  him,  yield  reverence 
to  him  or  to  his  place,  is  not  slavery.  It  is 
often  the  best  kind  of  liberty, — liberty  from 
care.  The  man  who  says  to  one,  Go,  and  he 
goeth,  and  to  another.  Come,  and  he  cometh,^ 
has,  in  most  cases,  more  sense  of  restraint  and 
difficulty  than  the  man  who  obeys  him.  The 
movements  of  the  one  are  hindered  by  the  bur- 
den on  his  shoulder;  of  the  other,  by  the  bridle 
on  his  lips:  there  is  no  way  by  which  the  bur- 
den may  be  lightened;  but  we  need  not  suffer 
from  the  bridle  if  we  do  not  champ  at  it.  To 
yield  reverence  to  another,  to  hold  ourselves 
and  our  lives  at  his  disposal,  is  not  slavery; 
often  it  is  the  noblest  state  in  which  a  man  can 
live  in  this  world.  There  is,  indeed,  a  reverence 
which  is  servile,  that  is  to  say  irrational  or 
selfish:  but  there  is  also  noble  reverence,  that 
is  to  say,  reasonable  and  loving;  and  a  man  is 
never  so  noble  as  when  lie  is  reverent  in  this 
kind;  nay,  even  if  the  feeling  pass  the  bounds 
of  mere  reason,  so  that  it  be  loving,  a  man  is 
raised  by  it.  Which  had,  in  reality,  most  of 
the  serf  nature  in  him, — the  Irish  peasant  who 
was  lying  in  wait  yesterday  for  his  landlord, 
with  his  musket  muzzle  thrust  through  the 
ragged  hedge;  or  that  old  mountain  servant, 
who  200  years  ago,  at  Inverkeithing,  gave  up 
his  own  life  and  the  lives  of  his  seven  sons  for 
his  chief? — as  each  fell,  calling  forth  his 
brother  to  the  death,  ' '  Another  for  Hector ! '  '* 
And  therefore,  in  all  ages  and  all  countries, 
reverence  has  been  paid  and  sacrifice  made  by 
men  to  each  other,  not  only  without  complaint, 
but  rejoicingly;  and  famine,  and  peril,  and 
sword,  and  all  evil,  and  all  shame,  have  been 
borne  willingly  in  the  causes  of  njasters  and 

8  R*e  Matthew,  viii,  0. 

4  S<»e    the    Preface    to   Scott's   The   Fair   Maid   of 
Perth. 


JOHN  BUSKIN 


683 


kings;  for  all  these  gifts  of  the  heart  ennobled 
the  men  who  gave,  not  less  than  the  men  who 
received,  them,  and  nature  prompted,  and  God 
rewarded  the  sacrifice.  But  to  feel  their  souls 
withering  within  them,  unthanked,  to  find  their 
whole  being  sunk  into  an  unrecognized  abyss,  to 
be  counted  off  into  a  heap  of  mechanism,  num- 
bered with  its  wheels,  and  weighed  with  its 
hammer  strokes; — this  nature  bade  not, — this 
God  blesses  not, — this  humanity  for  no  long 
time  is  able  to  endure. 

We  have  much  studied  and  much  perfected, 
of    late,   the    great    civilized    invention   of   the 
division    of   labour;    only   we    give   it   a    false 
name.    It  is  not,  truly  speaking,  the  labour  that 
is   divided;    but   the   men: — Divided   into   mere 
segments  of  men — broken  into  small  fragments 
and  crumbs  of  life;  so  that  all  tlie  little  piece 
of  intelligence   that   is   left   in   a   man  is   not 
enough  to  make  a  pin,  or  a  nail,  but  exhausts 
itself  in  making  the  point  of  a  pin  or  the  head 
of   a   nail.      Now    it   is   a   good   and   desirable 
thing,  truly,  to  make  many  pins  in  a  day;  but 
if   we   could   only  see   with   what   crystal   sand 
their    points    were    polished, — sand    of    human 
soul,  much  to  be  magnified  before  it  can  be  dis- 
cerned for  what  it  is, — we  should  think   there 
might  be  some  loss  in  it  also.     And  the  great 
cry    that    rises    from    all    our    manufacturing 
cities,  louder  than  their  furnace  blast,  is  all  in 
very     deed     for     this, — that     we     manufacture 
everything  there  except  men;  we  blanch  cotton, 
and    strengthen    steel,    and    refine    sugar,    and 
shape  pottery;  but  to  brighten,  to  strengthen, 
to  refine,  or  to  form  a  single  living  spirit,  never 
enters  into  our  estimate  of  advantages.    And  all 
the  evil  to  which  that  cry  is  urging  our  myriads 
can  be  met  only  in  one  way:   not  by  teaching 
nor    preaching,    for    to    teach    them   is   but    to 
show  them  their  misery,  and  to  preach  to  them, 
if  we  do  nothing  more  than  preach,  is  to  mock 
at  it.     It  can  be  met  only  by  a  right  under- 
standing, on  the  part  of  all  classes,  of  what 
kinds  of  labour  are  good  for  men,  raising  them, 
and    making    them    happy;    by    a    determined 
sacrifice    of    such    convenience,    or    beauty,    or 
cheapness  as  is  to  be  got  only  by  the  degrada- 
tion of  the  workman;    and   by   equally   deter- 
mined demand  for  the  products  and  results  of 
healthy  and  ennobling  labour. 

From  MODERN  PAINTERS 

Or  THE  True  Ideal: — First,  Purist.  Part  TV, 
Chapter  VI 

Having  thus  glanced  at  the  principal  modes 
in  which  the  imagination  works  for  evil,  we  must 
rapidly    note    also    the    principal    directions    in  j 


which  its  operation  is  admissible,  even  in  chang- 
ing or  strangely  combining  what  is  brought 
within  its  sphere. 

For  hitherto  we  have  spoken  as  if  every 
change  wilfully  wrought  by  the  imagination  was 
an  error;  apparently  implying  that  its  only 
proper  work  was  to  summon  up  the  memories 
of  past  events,  and  the  anticipations  of  future 
ones,  under  aspects  which  would  bear  the 
sternest  tests  of  historical  investigation,  or  ab- 
stract reasoning.  And  in  general  this  is,  in- 
deed, its  noblest  work.  Nevertheless,  it  has  also 
permissible  functions  peculiarly  its  own,  and 
certain  rights  of  feigning,  and  adorning,  and 
fancifully  arranging,  inalienable  from  its  na- 
ture. Everything  that  is  natural  is,  within  cer- 
tain limits,  right ;  and  we  must  take  care  not,  in 
over-severity,  to  deprive  ourselves  of  any  re- 
freshing or  animating  power  ordained  to  be  in 
us  for  our  help. 

(A).  It  was  noted  in  speaking  above  of  the 
Angelieani  or  passionate  ideal,  that  there  was 
a  certain  virtue  in  it  dependent  on  the  expres- 
sion of  its  loving  enthusiasm. 

(B).  In  speaking  of  the  pursuit  of  beauty 
as  one  of  the  characteristics  of  the  highest  art, 
it  was  also  said  that  there  were  certain  ways 
of  showing  this  beauty  by  gathering  together, 
without  altering,  the  finest  forms,  and  marking 
them  by  gentle  emphasis. 

(C).  And  in  speaking  of  the  true  uses  of 
imagination  it  was  said  that  we  might  be  al- 
lowed to  create  for  ourselves,  in  innocent  play, 
fairies  and  naiads,  and  other  such  fictitious 
creatures. 

Now  this  loving  enthusiasm,  which  seeks  for 
a  beauty  fit  to  be  the  object  of  eternal  love; 
this  inventive  skill,  which  kindly  displays  what 
exists  around  us  in  the  world;  and  this  playful 
energy  of  thought  which  delights  in  various 
conditions  of  the  impossible,  are  three  forms 
of  idealism  more  or  less  connected  with  the 
three  tendencies  of  the  artistical  mind  which  I 
had  occasion  to  explain  in  the  chapter  on  the 
Nature  of  Gothic,  in  the  Stones  of  Venice.  It 
was  there  pointed  out,  that,  the  things  around 
us  containing  mixed  good  and  evil,  certain  men 
chose  the  good  and  left  the  evil  (thence  prop- 
erly called  Purists)  ;  others  received  both  good 
and  evil  together  (thence  properly  called 
Naturalists) ;  and  others  had  a  tendency  to 
choose  the  evil  and  leave  the  good,  whom,  for 
convenience*  sake,  I  termed  Sensualists.  I  do 
not  mean  to  say  that  painters  of  fairies  and 
naiads   must    belong    to    this    last    and    lowest 


1  So  named  by  Ruskin  because  Fra  .\njielico  (1.187- 
1455).  .  famous  for  bis  paintings  of  angels, 
was  "tho  cputral  master  of  tho  school." 


684 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


class,  or  habitually  choose  the  evil  and  leave 
the  good;  but  there  is,  nevertheless,  a  strange 
connection  between  the  reinless  play  of  the 
imagination,  and  a  sense  of  the  presence  of  evil, 
which  is  usually  more  or  less  developed  in  those 
creations  of  the  imagination  to  which  we  prop- 
erly attach  the  word  Grotesque. 

For  this  reason,  we  shall  find  it  convenient  to 
arrange  what  we  have  to  note  respecting  true 
idealism  under  the  three  heads — 

A.  Purist  Idealism. 

B.  Naturalist  Idealism. 

C.  Grotesque  Idealism. 

A.  Purist  Idealism. — It  results  from  the  un- 
willingness of  men  whose  dispositions  are  more 
than  ordinarily  tender  and  holy,  to  contemplate 
the  various  forms  of  definite  evil  which  neces- 
sarily occur  in  the  daily  aspects  of  the  world 
around  them.  They  shrink  from  them  as  from 
pollution,  and  endeavour  to  create  for  them- 
selves an  imaginary  state,  in  which  pain  and 
imperfection  either  do  not  exist,  or  exist  in 
some  edgeless  and  enfeebled  condition. 

As,  however,  pain  and  imperfection  are,  by 
eternal  laws,  bound  up  with  existence,  so  far  as 
it  is  visible  to  us,  the  endeavour  to  cast  them 
away  invariably  indicates  a  comparative  child- 
ishness of  mind,  and  produces  a  childish  form 
of  art.  In  general,  the  effort  is  most  success- 
ful when  it  is  most  naive,  and  when  the  ignor- 
ance of  the  draughtsman  is  in  some  frank  pro- 
portion to  his  innocence.  For  instance,  one  of 
the  modes  of  treatment,  the  most  conducive  to 
this  ideal  expression,  is  simply  drawing  every- 
thing without  shadows,  as  if  the  sun  were  every- 
where at  once.  This,  in  the  present  state  of 
©ur  knowledge,  we  could  not  do  with  grace, 
because  we  could  not  do  it  without  fear  or 
shame.  But  an  artist  of  the  thirteenth  century 
did  it  with  no  disturbance  of  conscience, — 
knowing  no  better,  or  rather,  in  some  sense,  we 
might  say,  knowing  no  worse.  It  is,  however, 
evident,  at  the  first  thought,  that  all  representa- 
tions of  nature  without  evil  must  either  be 
ideals  of  a  future  world,  or  be  false  ideals,  if 
they  are  understood  to  be  representations  of 
facts.  They  can  only  be  classed  among  the 
branches  of  the  true  ideal,  in  so  far  as  they 
are  understood  to  be  nothing  more  than  expres- 
sions of  the  painter's  personal  affections  or 
hopes. 

Let  us  take  one  or  two  instances  in  order 
clearly  to  explain  our  meaning. 

The  life  of  Angelico  was  almost  entirely 
spent  in  the  endeavour  to  imagine  the  beings 
belonging  to  another  world.  By  purity  of  life, 
habitual    elevation    of    thought,    and    natural 


sweetness  of  disposition,  he  was  enabled  to  ex- 
press the  sacred  affections  upon  the  human 
countenance  as  no  one  ever  did  before  or  since. 
In  order  to  effect  clearer  distinction  between 
heavenly  beings  and  those  of  this  world,  he 
represents  the  former  as  clothed  in  draperies  of 
the  purest  colour,  crowned  with  glories  of  bur- 
nished gold,  and  entirely  shadowless.  "With 
exquisite  choice  of  gesture,  and  disposition  of 
folds  of  drapery,  this  mode  of  treatment  gives 
perhaps  the  best  idea  of  spiritual  beings  which 
the  human  mind  is  capable  of  forming.  It  is, 
therefore,  a  true  ideal;  but  the  mode  in  which 
it  is  arrived  at  (being  so  far  mechanical  and 
contradictory  of  the  appearances  of  nature) 
necessarily  precludes  those  who  practise  it  from 
being  complete  masters  of  their  art.  It  is  al- 
ways childish,  but  beautiful  in  its  childishness. 

The  works  of  our  own  Stothard2  are  examples 
of  the  operation  of  another  mind,  singular  in 
gentleness  and  purity,  upon  mere  worldly  sub- 
ject. It  seems  as  if  Stothard  could  not  con- 
ceive wickedness,  coarseness,  or  baseness;  every 
one  of  his  figures  looks  as  if  it  had  been  copied 
from  some  creature  who  had  never  harboured 
an  unkind  thought,  or  permitted  itself  in  an 
ignoble  action.  With  this  intense  love  of  men- 
tal purity  is  joined,  in  Stothard,  a  love  of  mere 
physical  smoothness  and  softness,  so  that  he 
lived  in  a  universe  of  soft  grass  and  stainless 
fountains,  tender  trees,  and  stones  at  which  no 
foot  could  stumble. 

All  this  is  very  beautiful,  and  may  sometimes 
urge  us  to  an  endeavour  to  make  the  world  it- 
self more  like  the  conception  of  the  painter. 
At  least,  in  the  midst  of  its  malice,  misery, 
and  baseness,  it  is  often  a  relief  to  glance  at 
the  graceful  shadows,  and  take,  for  momentary 
companionship,  creatures  full  only  of  love,  glad- 
ness, and  honour.  But  the  perfect  truth  will 
at  last  vindicate  itself  against  the  partial 
truth ;  the  help  which  we  can  gain  from  the  un- 
substantial vision  will  be  only  like  that  which 
we  may  sometimes  receive,  in  weariness,  from 
the  scent  of  a  flower  or  the  passing  of  a 
breeze.  For  all  firm  aid,  and  steady  use,  we 
must  look  to  harder  realities ;  and,  as  far  as  the 
painter  himself  is  regarded,  we  can  only  receive 
such  work  as  the  sign  of  an  amiable  imbecility. 
It  is  indeed  ideal;  but  ideal  as  a  fair  dream  is 
in  the  dawn  of  morning,  before  the  faculties 
are  astir.  The  apparent  completeness  of  grace 
can  never  be  attained  without  much  definite 
falsification  as  well  as  omission;  stones,  over 
which   we   cannot    stumble,    must    be    ill-drawn 

2  Thomas  Stothard  (175.'>-18.'?4).  best  known  per- 
haps for  his  painting  of  the  "Canterbury  rll- 
grims." 


JOHN  EUSKIN 


68i 


stones;  trees,  which  are  all  gentleness  and  soft- 
ness, cannot  be  trees  of  wood;  nor  companies 
without  evil  in  them,  companies  of  flesh  and 
blood.  Tlie  habit  of  falsification  (with  what- 
ever aim)  begins  always  in  dulness  and  ends 
always  in  incapacity:  nothing  can  be  more 
pitiable  than  any  endeavour  by  Stothard  to 
express  facts  beyond  his  own  sphere  of  soft 
pathos  or  graceful  mirth,  and  nothing  more 
unwise  than  the  aim  at  a  similar  ideality  by 
any  painter  who  has  power  to  render  a  sin- 
cerer  truth. 

I  remember  another  interesting  example  of 
ideality  on  this  same  root,  but  belonging  to 
another  branch  of  it,  in  the  works  of  a  young 
German  painter,  which  I  saw  some  time  ago  in 
a  London  drawing-room.  He  had  been  travel- 
ling in  Italy,  and  had  brought  home  a  port- 
folio of  sketches  remarkable  alike  for  their 
fidelity  and  purity.  Every  one  was  a  laborious 
and  accurate  study  of  some  particular  spot. 
Every  cottage,  every  cliff,  every  tree,  at  the 
site  chosen,  had  been  drawn;  and  drawn  with 
palpable  sincerity  of  portraiture,  and  yet  in 
such  a  spirit  that  it  was  impossible  to  conceive 
that  any  sin  or  misery  had  ever  entered  into 
one  of  the  scenes  he  had  represented;  and  the 
volcanic  horrors  of  Eadicofani,3  the  pestilent 
gloom  of  the  Pontines,*  and  the  boundless 
despondency  of  the  Campagnas  became,  under 
his  hand,  only  various  appearances  of  Paradise. 

It  was  very  interesting  to  observe  the  minute 
emendations  or  omissions  by  which  this  was 
effected.  To  set  the  tiles  the  slightest  degree 
more  in  order  upon  a  cottage  roof;  to  insist 
upon  the  vine  leaves  at  the  window,  and  let 
the  shadow  which  fell  from  them  naturally 
conceal  the  rent  in  the  wall;  to  draw  all  the 
flowers  in  the  foreground,  and  miss  the  weeds; 
to  draw  all  the  folds  of  the  white  clouds,  and 
miss  those  of  the  black  ones;  to  mark  the 
graceful  branches  of  the  trees,  and,  in  one 
way  or  another,  beguile  the  eye  from  those 
which  were  ungainly;  to  give  every  peasant- 
girl  whose  face  was  visible  the  expression  of  an 
angel,  and  every  one  whose  back  was  turned  the 
bearing  of  a  princess;  finally,  to  give  a  general 
look  of  light,  clear  organization,  and  serene 
vitality  to  every  feature  in  the  landscape; — 
such  were  his  artifices,  and  such  his  delights. 
It    was   impossible    not   to    sympathize    deeply 


3  A  town  in  the  province  of  Siena.  Italy,  situated 

on  a  hill  at  the  foot  of  a  basaltic  rock. 

4  A  marshy  region  in  central  Italy. 

6  The  Roman  Campagna.  In  his  preface  to  the 
second  edition  of  the  first  volume  of  Modern 
Painters,  Ruskin  has  a  remarkable  description 
of  this  "wild  and  wasted  plain." 


with  the  spirit  of  such  a  painter;  and  it  was 
just  cause  for  gratitude  to  be  permitted  to 
travel,  as  it  were,  through  Italy  with  such  a 
friend.  But  his  woik  had,  nevertheless,  its 
stern  limitations  and  marks  of  everlasting  in- 
feriority. Always  soothing  and  pathetic,  it 
could  never  be  sublime,  never  perfectly  nor 
entrancingly  beautiful;  for  the  narrow  spirit 
of  correction  could  not  east  itself  fully  into 
any  scene;  the  calm  cheerfulness  which  shrank 
from  the  shadow  of  the  cypress,  and  the  dis- 
tortion of  the  olive,  could  not  enter  into  the 
brightness  of  the  sky  that  they  pierced,  nor 
the  softness  of  the  bloom  that  they  bore:  for 
every  sorrow  that  his  heart  turned  from,  he 
lost  a  consolation;  for  every  fear  which  he 
dared  not  confront,  he  lost  a  portion  of  his 
hardiness;  the  unsceptred  sweep  of  the  storm- 
clouds,  the  fair  freedom  of  glancing  shower 
and  flickering  sunbeam,  sank  into  sweet  recti- 
tudes and  decent  formalisms;  and,  before  eyes 
that  refused  to  be  dazzled  or  darkened,  the 
hours  of  sunset  wreathed  their  rays  unheeded, 
and  the  mists .  of  the  Apennines  spread  their 
blue  veils  in  vain. 

To  this  inherent  shortcoming  and  narrow- 
ness of  reach  the  farther  defect  was  added, 
that  this  work  gave  no  useful  representation  of 
the  state  of  facts  in  the  country  which  it  pre- 
tended to  contemplate.  It  was  not  only  want- 
ing in  all  the  higher  elements  of  beauty,  but 
wholly  unavailable  for  instruction  of  any  kind 
beyond  that  which  exists  in  pleasurableness  of 
pure  emotion.  And  considering  what  cost  of 
labour  was  devoted  to  the  series  of  drawings, 
it  could  not  but  be  matter  for  grave  blame,  as 
well  as  for  partial  contempt,  that  a  man  of 
amiable  feeling  and  considerable  intellectual 
power  should  thus  expend  his  life  in  the 
declaration  of  his  own  petty  pieties  and  pleas- 
ant reveries,  leaving  the  burden  of  human  sor- 
row unwitnessed,  and  the  power  of  God's  judg- 
ments unconfessed;  and,  while  poor  Italy  lay 
wounded  and  moaning  at  his  feet,  pass  by,  in 
priestly  calm,  lest  the  whiteness  of  his  decent 
vesture  should  be  spotted  with  unhallowed 
blood. 

Of   several   other   forms   of   Purism   I   shall 
have  to  speak  hereafter,  more  especially  of  that 
exhibited    in   the   landscapes   of   the   early   re- 
ligious painters ;  but  these  examples  are  enough, 
for  the  present,  to  show  the  general  principle 
that  the  purest  ideal,  though  in  some  measure 
j  true,  in  so  far  as  it  springs  from  the  true  long- 
I  ings  of  an  earnest  mind,  is  yet  necessarily  in 
I  many  things  deficient  or  blamable,  and  always 
I  an  indication  of  some  degree  of  weakness  in 


686 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


the  iniiul  pursuing  it.  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
it  is  to  be  noted  that  entire  scorn  of  this  purist 
ideal  is  the  sign  of  a  far  greater  weakness. 
Multitudes  of  petty  artists,  incapable  of  any 
noble  sensation  whatever,  but  acquainted,  in  a 
dim  way,  with  the  technicalities  of  tlie  schools, 
mock  at  the  art  whose  depths  they  cannot 
fathom,  and  whose  motives  they  cannot  com- 
prehend, but  of  which  they  can  easily  detect 
the  imperfections,  and  deride  the  simplicities. 
Thus  poor  fumigatory  Fuseli,«  with  an  art  com- 
posed of  the  tinsel  of  the  stage  and  the  panics 
of  the  nursery,  speaks  contemptuously  of  the 
name  of  Angelico  as  "dearer  to  sanctity  than 
to  art."  And  a  large  portion  of  the  resistance 
to  the  noble  Pre-Raphaelite  movement  of  our 
own  days"  has  been  offered  by  men  who  sup- 
pose the  entire  function  of  the  artist  in  this 
world  to  consist  in  laying  on  colour  with  a 
large  brush,  and  surrounding  dashes  of  flake 
white  with  bituminous  brown;  men  whose  en- 
tire capacities  of  brain,  soul,  and  sympathy, 
applied  industriously  to  the  end  of  their  lives, 
would  not  enable  them,  at  last,  to  paint  ^o  much 
as  one  of  the  leaves  of  the  nettles,  at  the  bot- 
tom of  Hunt 's  picture  of  the  Light  of  the 
World.8 

It  is  finally  to  be  remembered,  therefore,  that 
Purism  is  always  noble  when  it  is  instinctive. 
It  is  not  the  greatest  thing  that  can  be  done, 
but  it  is  j)robably  the  greatest  thing  that  the 
man  who  does  it  can  do,  provided  it  comes  from 
his  heart.  True,  it  is  a  sign  of  weakness,  but 
it  is  not  in  our  choice  whether  we  Avill  be  weak 
or  strong;  and  there  is  a  certain  strength  which 
can  only  be  made  perfect  in  weakness.  If  he 
is  working  in  humility,  fear  of  evil,  desire  of 
beauty,  and  sincere  purity  of  purpose  and 
thought,  he  will  produce  good  and  helpful 
things;  but  he  must  be  much  on  his  guard 
against  supposing  himself  to  be  greater  than 
his  fellows,  because  he  has  shut  himself  into 
this  calm  and  cloistered  sphere.  His  only 
safety  lies  in   knowing  himself  to  be,   on  the 

«A  Swiss-English  painter  and  art-critic  (1741- 
1825).  He  had  a  powerful  but  ill-regulated 
fancy,  being  both  a  fantastic  designer  and  a 
reckless  colorlst.  Perhaps  Kuskin  means 
something  like  this  by  calling  him  "fumi- 
gatory," but  his  meaning  is  not  very  clear. 

"  The  movement  led  by  Kossetti,  Millnis,  and  Hunt. 
See  Enff.  Lit.,  pp.  .S69,  :{70.  Holman  Hunt's 
well-known  "Lignt  of  the  World"  (now  at 
Keble  College,  Oxford)  is  a  painting  repre- 
Kenting  rhrist.  with  n  lantern  In  his  hand, 
MtandiDg  at  a  door  and  knocking. 

«  "Not  that  the  Pre-Uaphaelite  Is  a  purist  move- 
ment. It  is  stern  naturalist ;  but  Its  unfor- 
tunate opposers.  who  neither  know  what  na- 
ture \h.  nor  what  purism  is,  have  mistaken 
the  Mimple  nature  for  morbid  purism,  and 
therefore  cried  out  against  It." — Kuskln's 
noli'. 


contrary,  less  than  his  fellows,  and  iu  always 
striving,  so  far  as  he  can  find  it  in  his  heart, 
to  extend  his  delicate  narrowness  toward  the 
great  naturalist  ideal.  The  whole  group  of 
modern  German  purists  have  lost  themselves, 
because  they  founded  »their  work  not  on  humil- 
ity, nor  on  religion,  but  on  small  self-conceit. 
Incapable  of  understanding  the  great  Venetians, 
or  any  other  masters  of  true  imaginative  power, 
and  having  fed  what  mind  they  had  with  weak 
poetry  and  false  philosophy,  they  thought  them- 
selves the  best  and  greatest  of  artistic  mankind, 
and  expected  to  found  a  new  school  of  painting 
in  pious  plagiarism  and  delicate  pride.  It  is 
difficult  at  first  to  decide  which  is  the  more 
worthless,  the  spiritual  affectation  of  the  petty 
German,  or  the  composition  and  chiaroscuro  of 
the  petty  Englishman;  on  the  whole,  however, 
the  latter  have  lightest  weight,  for  the  pseudo- 
religious  painter  must,  at  all  events,  pass  much 
of  his  time  in  meditation  upon  solemn  subjects, 
and  in  examining  venerable  models;  and  may 
sometimes  even  cast  a  little  useful  reflected 
light,  or  touch  the  heart  with  a  pleasant  echo. 

DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 
(1828-1882) 

THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL* 

The  blessed  damozel  leaned  out 

From  the  gold  bar  of  Heaven; 
Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 

Of  waters  stilled  at  even; 
She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand, 

And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven.  6 

Her  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem. 

No  wrought  flowers  did  adorn, 
But  a  white  rose  of  Mary's  gift, 

For  service  meetly  worn; 
Her  hair  that  lay  along  her  back 

Was  yellow  like  ripe  corn.  12 

Herseemed  she  scarce  had  been  a  day 

One  of  God's  choristers; 
The  wonder  was  not  yet  quite  gone 

From  that  still  look  of  hers; 
Albeit,  to  them  she  left,  her  day 

Had  counted  as  ten  years.  18 

♦  Slight  in  substance  as  this  poem  is.  It  has  two 
unusual  sources  of  charm — a  very  definite 
pictorial  character  which  stamps  it  as  the 
work  of  a  poet  who  was  also  a  painter, 
and  a  mystical  quality  si)ringing  from  uu 
Imagination  that  dared  to  portray  enrtlily 
love  in  heavenly  siirroimdlngs.  Those  who 
are  interested  in  sources  may  consult  Virgil, 
Eclogue  v,  r»0 ;  and  I'etrnrch.  Sonnets  In 
Morie,  74. 


DAXTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 


687 


24 


30 


36 


(To  one,  it  is  t*n  years  of  years. 

.     .     .     Yet  now,  and  in  this  place, 
Surely  she  leaned  o  'er  me — her  hair 

Fell  all  about  my  face.     .     .     . 
Nothing:  the  autumn  fall  of  leaves. 

The  whole  year  sets  apace.) 

It  was  the  rampart  of  God's  house 

That  she  was  standing  on; 
By  God  built  over  the  sheer  depth 

The  which  is  Space  begun; 
So  high,  that  looking  downward  thence 

She  scarce  could  see  the  sun. 

It  lies  in  Heaven,  across  the  flood 

Of  ether,  as  a  bridge. 
Beneath,  the  tides  of  day  and  night 

With  flame  and  darkness  ridge 
The  void,  as  low  as  where  this  earth 

Spins  like  a  fretful  midge. 

Around  her,  lovers,  newly  met 
'Mid  deathless  love 's  acclaims, 

Spoke  evermore  among  themselves 
Their  heart-remembered  names; 

And  the  souls  mounting  up  to  God 
Went  by  her  like  thin  flames. 

And  still  she  bowed  herself  and  stooped 

Out  of  the  circling  charm; 
Until  her  bosom  must  have  made 

The  bar  she  leaned  on  warm, 
And  the  lilies  lay  as  if  asleep 

Along  her  bended  arm. 


From  the  fixed  place  of  Heaven  she  saw 

Time  like  a  pulse  shake  fierce 
Through  all  the  worlds.     Her  gaze  still  strove 

Within  the  gulf  to  pierce 
Its  path;  and  now  she  spoke  as  when 

The  stars  sang  in  their  spheres.  54 


The  sun  was  gone  now;  the  curled  moon 

Was  like  a  little  feather 
Fluttering  far  down  the  gulf;  and  now 

She  spoke  through  the  still  weather. 
Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  the  stars 

Had  when  they  sang  together. 


42 


60 


(Ah  sweet !    Even  now,  in  that  bird 's  song, 

Strove  not  her  accents  there, 
Fain  to  be  hearkened?   When  those  bells 

Possessed  the  mid-day  air. 
Strove  not  her  steps  to  reach  my  side 

Down  all  the  echoing  stair?)  66 

' '  I  wish  that  he  were  come  to  me, 
For  he  will  come,"  she  said. 


"Have  I  not  prayed  in  Heaven! — on  earth, 

Lord,  Lord,  has  he  not  prayed? 
Are  not  two  prayers  a  perfect  strength? 

And  shall  I  feel  afraid?  72 

"When  round  his  head  the  aureole  clings, 

And  he  is  clothed  in  white, 
1  '11  take  his  hand  and  go  with  him 

To  the  deep  wells  of  light; 
As  unto  a  stream  we  will  step  down. 

And  bathe  there  in  God's  sight.  '<8 

' '  We  two  will  stand  beside  that  shrine. 

Occult,  w^ithheld,  untrod. 
Whose  lamps  are  stirred  continually 

With  prayer  sent  up  to  God ; 
And  see  our  old  prayers,  granted,  melt 

Each  like  a  little  cloud.  S4 

' '  We  two  will  lie  i '  the  shadow  of 

That  living  mystic  tree 
Within  whose  secret  growth  the  Dovei 

Is  sometimes  felt  to  be, 
While  every  leaf  that  His  plumes  touch 

Saith  His  Name  audiblv.  90 


"And  I  myself  will  teach  to  him, 

I  myself,  lying  so, 
The  songs  I  sing  here;  which  his  voice 

Shall  pause  in,  hushed  and  slow. 
And  find  some  knowledge  at  each  pause, 

Or  some  new  thing  to  know. ' ' 


96 


(Alas!    We  two,  we  two,  thou  say'st! 

Yea,  one  wast  thou  with  me 
That  once  of  old.    But  shall  God  lift 

To  endless  unity 
The  soul  whose  likeness  with  thy  soul 

Was  but  its  love  for  thee?)  102 

"We  two,"  she  said,  "will  seek  the  groves 

Where  the  lady  Mary  is. 
With  her  five  handmaidens,  whose  names 

Are  five  sweet  symphonies, 
Cecily,  Gertrude,  Magdalen, 

Margaret  and  Bosalys.  108 


"Circlewise  sit  they,  with  bound  locks 

And  foreheads  garlanded; 
Into  the  fine  cloth  white  like  flame 

Weaving  the  golden  thread. 
To  fashion  the  birth-robes  for  them 

Who  are  just  born,  being  dead. 


114 


"He  shall  fear,  haply,  and  be  dumb: 
Then  will  I  lay  my  cheek 

1  The  Dove  typifies  the  third  member  of  the  Trin- 
ity, the  Holy  Spirit. 


688 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


To  his,  and  tell  about  our  love, 

Not  once  abashed  or  weak: 
And  the  dear  Mother  will  approve 

My  pride,  and  let  me  speak. 

"Herself  shall  bring  us,  hand  in  hand. 

To  Him  round  whom  all  souls 
Kneel,  the  clear-ranged  unnumbered  heads 

Bowed  with  their  aureoles; 
And  angels  meeting  us  shall  sing 

To  their  citherns  and  citoles. 

' '  There  will  I  ask  of  Christ  the  Lord 
Thus  much  for  him  and  me: — 

Only  to  live  as  once  or  earth 
"With  Love,  only  to  be, 

As  then  awhile,  for  ever  now 
Together,  I  and  he." 


120 


132 


She  gazed  and  listened  and  then  said, 

Less  sad  of  speech  than  mild, — 
"All  this  is  when  he  comes."     She  ceased. 

The  light  thrilled  towards  her,  filled 
With  angels  in  strong  level  flight. 

Her  eyes  prayed,  and  she  smiled.  138 

(I  saw  her  smile.)     But  soon  their  path 

Was  vague  in  distant  spheres: 
And  then  she  east  her  arms  along 

The  golden  barriers. 
And  laid  her  face  between  her  hands, 

And  wept.     (I  heard  her  tears.)  144 

SISTER  HELEN* 

"Why  did  you  melt  your  waxen  man. 

Sister  Helen? 
To-day  is  the  third  since  you  began." 
"The  time  was  long,  yet  the  time  ran, 
Little  brother." 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Three  days  to-day,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"But  if  you  have  done  your  work  aright. 

Sister  Helen, 
You'll  let  me  play,  for  you  said  I  might."     10 
"Be  very  still  in  your  play  to-night, 

Little  brother." 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

•  Thin  ballad  Is  foundod  on  nn  old  superstition. 
Ilolinshed,  tor  example,  tolls  a  story  of  an  at- 
tempt upon  the  life  of  King  Duffe — how  cer- 
tain soldiers  breaking  into  a  house,  "found 
ene  of  the  witches  roasting  upon  a  wooden 
broach  an  image  of  wax  at  the  nre,  resembling 
in  each  feature  the  king's  person,  .  .  . 
by  the  which  means  It  should  have  come  to 
pass  that  when  the  wax  was  once  clean  con- 
sumed, the  death  of  the  king  should  imme- 
diately follow." 


TMrd     night,     to-night,     between     Hell    and 
Heaven!) 

'  *  You  said  it  must  melt  ere  vesper-bell, 
Sister  Helen; 
If  now  it  be  molten,  all  is  well." 
"Even  so, — nay,  peace!  you  cannot  tell. 
Little  brother." 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother,     20 
0  what  is  this,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

"Oh  the  waxen  knave  was  plump  to-day. 
Sister  Helen; 
How  like  dead  folk  he  has  dropped  away ! ' ' 
"Nay  now,  of  the  dead  what  can  you  say. 
Little  brother?" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  of  the  dead,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

"See,  see,  the  sunken  pile  of  wood. 

Sister  Helen,         30 

Shines  through  the  thinned  wax  red  as  blood !  ' ' 

"Nay  now,  when  looked  you  yet  on  blood. 

Little  brother?" 

(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

How  pale  she  is,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"Now    close  your   eyes,   for   they're   sick  and 

^^^^>  Sister  Helen, 

And  I  '11  play  without  the  gallery  door. ' ' 
' '  Aye,  let  me  rest, — I  '11  lie  on  the  floor. 

Little  brother."  40 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

What  rest  to-night,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

"Here  high  up  in  the  balcony, 

Sister  Helen, 
The  moon  flies  face  to  face  with  me. ' ' 
"Aye,  look  and  say  whatever  you  see. 
Little  brother." 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What     sight     to-night,     between     Hell     and 
Heaven?) 

' '  Outside  it 's  merry  in  the  wind 's  wake,  50 

Sister  Helen; 
In  the  shaken  trees  the  chill  stars  shake." 
"Hush,  heard  you  a  horse-tread  as  you  spake, 
Little  brother?" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What      found    to-night,      between    Hell     and 
Heaven?) 

' '  I  hear  a  horse-tread,  and  I  see, 

Sister  Helen, 
Three  horsemen  that  ride  terribly." 


DANTE  GABRIEL  EOSSETTI 


689 


"Little  brother,  whence  come  the  three,  60 

Little  brother?" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Whence  should   they  come,   between  Hell  and 
Heaven?) 

*  *  They  come  by  the  hill-verge  from  Boyne  Bar, 

Sister  Helen, 
And  one  draws  nigh,  but  two  are  afar." 
"Look,  look,  do  you  know  them  who  they  axe, 
Little  brother?" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Who     should     they     be,     between     Hell     and 
Heaven?)  70 

'  *  Oh,  it 's  Keith  of  Eastholm  rides  so  fast. 

Sister  Helen, 
For  1  know  the  white  mane  on  the  blast." 
' '  The  hour  has  come,  has  come  at  last. 
Little  brother!  " 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Her  hour  at  last,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

' '  He  has  made  a  sign  and  called  Halloo ! 
Sister  Helen, 
And  he  says  that  he  would  speak  with  you. ' '  80 
"Oh  tell  him  I  fear  the  frozen  dew, 

L^tle  brother." 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Why     laughs    she     thus,     between    Hell     and 
Heaven?) 

' '  The  wind  is  loud,  but  I  hear  him  cry, 

Sister  Helen, 
That  Keith  of  Ewern  's  like  to  die. ' ' 
"And  he  and  thou,  and  thou  and  I, 

Little  brother." 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother,     90 
And  they  and  we,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"Three  days  ago,  on  his  marriage-morn, 
Sister  Helen, 
He  sickened,  and  lies  since  then  forlorn." 
"For  bridegroom's  side  is  the  bride  a  thorn. 
Little  brother?" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Cold  bridal  cheer,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

* '  Three  days  and  nights  he  has  lain  abed, 

Sister  Helen,         100 
And  he  prays  in  torment  to  be  dead." 
' '  The  thing  may  chance,  if  he  have  prayed. 
Little  brother !  ' ' 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
If  he  have  prayed,  between  Hell  (ifui  Heaven!) 


"But  he  has  not  ceased  to  cry  to-day, 

Sister  Helen, 
That  you  should  take  your  curse  away." 
"My  prayer  was  heard, — he  need  but  pray, 

Little  brother!"         HO 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mothet, 
Shall     God     not     hear,     between    Hell     and 
Heaven?) 

"But  he  says,  till  you  take  back  your  ban, 

Sister  Helen, 
His  soul  would  pass,  yet  never  can." 
"Nay  then,  shall  I  slay  a  living  man, 
Little  brother?" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
A  living  soul,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"But  he  calls  for  ever  on  your  name,  120 

Sister  Helen, 
And  says  that  he  melts  before  a  flame. ' ' 
' '  My  heart  for  his  pleasure  fared  the  same. 
Little  brother." 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Fire  at  the  heart,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"Here's  Keith  of  Westholm  riding  fast, 

Sister  Helen, 
For  I  know  the  white  plume  on  the  blast." 
' '  The  hoar,  the  sweet  hour  I  forecast,  130 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Is  the  hour  sweet,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

"He  stops  to  speak,  and  he  stills  his  horse, 

Sister  Helen  j 
But    his    words    are    drowned    in    the    wind's 

course. ' ' 

"Nay  hear,  nay  hear,  you  must  hear  perforce. 

Little   brother!" 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

What    word    now    heard,    between    Hell    and 

Heaven?)  140 

"  Oh  he  says  that  Keith  of  Ewern 's  cry, 
Sister  Helen, 
Is  ever  to  see  you  ere  he  die. ' ' 
"In  all  that  his  soul  sees,  there  am  I, 
Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
The     soul's     one     sight,     between     Hell     and 
Heaven!) 

"He  sends  a  ring  and  a  broken  coin. 

Sister  Helen, 
And  bids  you  mind  the  banks  of  Boyne."    150 


690 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


' '  What  else  he  broke  will  be  ever  join, 
Little  brother!  " 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
No,  never  joined,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"He  yields  you  these  and  craves  full  fain, 

Sister  Helen, 
You  pardon  him  in  his  mortal  pain." 
' '  What  else  he  took  will  he  give  again. 
Little   brother?" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother,    160 
Not  twice  to  give,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

' '  He  calls  your  name  in  an  agony, 

Sister  Helen, 
That  even  dead  Love  must  weep  to  see." 
"Hate,  born  of  Love,  is  blind  as  he, 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Love     turned     to     hate,     between     Hell     and 
Heaven!) 

"Oh  it's  Keith  of  Keith  now  that  rides  fast, 
Sister  Helen,         170 
For  I  know  the  white  hair  on  the  blast." 
' '  The  short,  short  hour  will  soon  be  past. 
Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Will     soon     be     past,     between     Hell     and 
Heaven!) 

* '  He  looks  at  me  and  he  tries  to  speak. 
Sister  Helen, 
But  oh!  his  voice  is  sad  and  weak!" 
"What  here  should  the  mighty  Baron  seek, 

Little  brother?"         180 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Is  this  the  end,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

"Oh  his  son  still  cries,  if  you  forgive, 

Sister  Helen, 
The  body  dies,  but  the  soul  shall  live." 
* '  Fire  shall  forgive  me  as  I  forgive, 

Little   brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
As  she  forgives,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"Oh  he  prays  you,  as  his  heart  would  rive,    190 

Sister  Helen, 
To  save  his  dear  son 's  soul  alive. ' ' 
* '  Fire  cannot  slay  it,  it  shall  thrive, 

Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Alas,  aUu,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

* '  He  tries  to  you,  kneeling  in  the  road, 
Sister  Helen, 


To  go  with  him  for  the  love  of  God!" 
' '  The  way  is  long  to  his  son 's  abode,  200 

Little   brother." 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
The  way  is  long,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"A  lady's  here,  by  a  dark  steed  brought, 

Sister  Helen, 
So  darkly  clad,  I  saw  her  not." 
"See  her  now  or  never  see  aught. 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What      more     to     see,     between     Hell     and 
Heaven?)  210 

"Her   hood   falls   back,   and  the  moon  shines 

^^">  Sister  Helen, 

On  the  Lady  of  Ewern's  golden  hair." 
' '  Blest  hour  of  my  power  and  her  despair, 
Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Hour    blest    and    banned,    between    Hell    and 
Heaven!) 

"Pale,  pale  her  cheeks,  that  in  pride  did  glow. 

Sister  Helen, 
'Neath  the  bridal-wreath  three  days  ago."  220 
"One  morn  for  pride  and  three  days  for  woe, 
Little   brother!" 
^0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Three   days,   three   nights,   between  Hell   and 
Heaven!) 

"Her  clasped  hands  stretch  from  her  bending 

^®^^'  Sister  Helen; 

With  the  loud  wind's  wail  her  sobs  are  wed." 
'  *  What  wedding-strains  hath  her  bridal-bed. 

Little  brother?"         229 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What    strain    but    death's,    between   Hell   and 
Heaven?) 

"She  may  not  speak,  she  sinks  in  a  swoon. 

Sister  Helen, 
She  lifts  her  lips  and  gasps  on  the  moon." 
"Oh!  might  I  but  hear  her  soul's  blithe  tune. 
Little   brother!  " 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Her     woe's     dumb     cry,     between    Hell    and 
Heaven!) 

"They've  caught   her   to  Westholm's   sa(Jdle- 

^o"'  Sister  Helen,        240 

And  her  moonlit  hair  gleams  white  in  its  flow. ' ' 

' '  Lot  it  turn  whiter  than  winter  snow, 

Little  brother!" 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

fVoi-irithcrcd  gold,  between  UcU  ami  Ilrarcit!) 


DANTE  GABRIEL  KOSSETTI 


691 


' '  O  Sister  Helen,  you  heard  the  bell, 

Sister  Helen! 
More  loud  than  the  vesper-chime  it  fell. ' ' 
"  A'  0  vesper-ehime,  but  a  dying  knell, 

Little  brother !  "         250 

(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

His  dying  knell,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"Alas!  but  I  fear  the  heavy  sound, 

Sister  Helen; 
Is  it  in  the  sky  or  in  the  ground?" 
"Say,  have  they  turned  their  horses  round, 
Little   brother?" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What    would    she     more,     between    Hell    and 
Heaven?) 

' '  They  have  raised  the  old  man  from  his  knee, 
Sister  Helen,         -61 
And  they  ride  in  silence  hastily. ' ' 
"More  fast  the  naked  soul  doth  flee, 

Little  brother ! ' ' 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
The  naked  soul,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"Flank  to  flank  are  the  three  steeds  gone. 

Sister  Helen, 

But  the  lady 's  dark  steed  goes  alone. ' ' 

"And  lonely  her  bridegroom's  soul  hath  flown, 

Little   brother."         371 

(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

The  lonely  ghost,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"Oh  the  wind  is  sad  in  the  iron  chill. 

Sister  Helen, 
And  weary  sad  they  look  by  the  hill." 
"But  he  and  I  are  sadder  still, 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Most  sad  of  all,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!)  280 

"See,  see,  the  wax  has  dropped  from  its  place. 

Sister  Helen, 
And  the  flames  are  winning  up  apace !  ' ' 
"Yet  here  they  burn  but  for  a  space. 

Little   brother!  " 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Here  for  a  space,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

' '  Ah !  what  white  thing  at  the  door  has  crossed, 

Sister  Helen? 
Ah!  what  is  this  that  sighs  in  the  frost?"    290 
' '  A  soul  that 's  lost  as  mine  is  lost. 

Little  brother ! ' ' 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Lost,  lost,  all  lost,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 


LA  BELLA   DONNA* 

She  wept,  sweet  lady, 
And  said  in  weeping: 
' '  What  spell  is  keeping 
The  stars  so  steady? 
Why  does  the  power 
Of  the  sun's  noon-hour 
To  sleep  so  move  me? 
And  the  moon  in  heaven. 
Stained  where  she  passes 
As  a  worn-out  glass  is, — 
Why  walks  she  above  me? 

' '  Stars,  moon,  and  sun  too, 
I  'ni  tired  of  either 
And  all  together! 
Whom  speak  they  unto 
That   I   should  listen? 
For  very   surely. 

Though    my    arms    and    shoulders 
Dazzle  beholders, 
And  my  eyes  glisten, 
All 's  nothing  purely ! 
What  are.  words  said  for 
At  all  about  them, 
If  he  they  are  made  for 
Can  do  without  them?" 

She  laughed,  sweet  lady, 
And  said  in  laughing: 
"His  hand  clings  half  in 
My  own  already! 
Oh!  do  you  love  me? 
Oh!  speak  of  passion 
In  no  new  fashion. 
But  the  old  sayings 
You  once  said  of  me. 

"You  said:     'As  summer, 
Through  boughs  grown  brittle, 
Comes  back  a  little 
Ere  frosts  benumb  her, — 
So  bring 'st  thou  to  me 
All  leaves  and  flowers. 
Though  autumn's  gloomy 
To-day  in  the  bowers. ' 

"Oh!  does  he  love  me, 
When  my  voice  teaches 
The  very  speeches 
He  then  spoke  of  me? 
Alas!  what  flavour 


♦  This  is  a  translation,  by  Rossettl.  of  an  Italian 
song  (probably  also  written  by  him)  in  his 
poem.  The  Last  Confession.  Though  appar- 
ently little  more  than  a  lour  dc  force  of 
rhyme,  it  has  a  quality,  and  portrays  a  mood, 
not  common  in  our  literature. 


692 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Still  with  me  lingers — " 
(But  she  laughed  as  my  kisses 
Glowed  in  her  fingers 
With  love's  old  blisses) 
"Oh!  what  one  favour 
Eemains  to  woo  him, 
Whose  whole  poor  savour 
Belongs  not  to  him  f ' ' 

THE  WOODSPUEGE 

The  wind  flapped  loose,  the  wind  was  still, 
Shaken  out  dead  from  tree  and  hill: 
I  had  walked  on  at  the  wind 's  will, — 
I  sat  now,  for  the  wind  was  stUl. 

Between  my  knees  my  forehead  was, — 
My  lips,  drawn  in,  said  not  Alas! 
My  hair  was  over  in  the  grass. 
My  naked  ears  heard  the  day  pass. 

My  eyes,  wide  open,  had  the  run 

Of  some  ten  weeds  to  fix  upon; 

Among  those  few,  out  of  the  sun. 

The  woodspurge  flowered,  three  cups  in  one. 

From  perfect  grief  there  need  not  be 
Wisdom  or  even  memory: 
One  thing  then  learnt  remains  to  me. 
The  woodspurge  has  a  cup  of  three. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  BOWER 

Say,  is  it  day,  is  it  dusk  in  thy  bower, 

Thou  whom  I  long  for,  who  longest  for  me? 
Oh!  be  it  light,  be  it  night,   'tis  Love's  hour. 

Love 's  that  is  fettered  as  Love 's  that  is  free. 
Free  Love  has  leaped  to  that  innermost  cham- 
ber. 

Oh!  the  last  time,  and  the  hundred  before: 
Fettered  Love,  motionless,  can  but  remember. 

Yet  something  that  sighs  from  him  passes 
the  door.  8 

Nay,  but  my  heart  when  it  flies  to  thy  bower, 

What  does  it  find  there  that  knows  it  again? 
There  it  must  droop  like  a  shower-beaten  flower, 

Red  at  the  rent  core  and  dark  with  the  rain. 
Ah!  yet  what  shelter  is  still  shed  above  it, — 

What  waters  still  image  its  leaves  torn  apart! 
Thy  soul  is  the  shade  that  clings  round  it  to 
lOTB  it, 

And  tears  are  its  mirror  deep  down  in  thy 
heart.  16 

What  were  my  prize,  could  I  enter  the  bower. 
This  day,  to-morrow,  at  eve  or  at  momf 


Large  lovely  arms  and  a  neck  like  a  tower, 

Bosom  then  heaving  that  now  lies  forlorn. 
Kindled    with    love-breath,    (the    sun's   kiss   is 
colder ! ) 
Thy  sweetness  all  near  me,  so  distant  to-day; 
My  hand  round  thy  neck  and  thy  hand  on  my 
shoulder. 
My  mouth  to  thy  mouth  as  the  world  melts 
away.  24 

What    is    it    that    keeps    me    afar    from    thy 
bower, — 
My  spirit,  my  body,  so  fain  to  be  there? 
Waters  engulfing  or  fires  that  devour? — 

Earth  heaped  against  me  or  death  in  the  air? 
Nay,  but  in  day-dreams,  for  terror,  for  pity. 
The  trees  wave  their  heads  with  an  omen  to 
tell; 
Nay,  but  in  night-dreams,  throughout  the  dark 
city, 
The  hours,  clashed  together,  lose  count  in  the 
bell.  32 

Shall  I  not  one  day  remember  thy  bower, 

One  day  when  all  days  are  one  day  to  me? — 
Thinking,    'I    stirred    not,    and    yet    had    the 
power, ' 
Yearning,  *  Ah  God,  if  again  it  might  be ! ' 
Peace,  peace!    such  a  small   lamp   illumes,   on 
this  highway. 
So  dimly  so  few  steps  in  front  of  my  feet, — 
Yet  shows  me  that  her  way  is  parted  from  my 
way.     .     .     . 
Out  of  sight,  beyond  light,  at  what  goal  may 
we  meet?  40 

THE   CLOUD   CONFINES 

The  day  is  dark  and  the  night 

To  him  that  would  search  their  heart; 
No  lips  of  cloud  that  will  part 
Nor  morning  song  in  the  light: 
Only,  gazing  alone. 
To  him  wild  shadows  are  shown. 
Deep  under  deep  unknown 
And  height  above  unknown  height. 
Still  we  say  as  we  go, — 

"Strange  to  think  by  the  way, 
Whatever  there  is  to  know. 
That  shall  we  know  one  day." 

The  Past  is  over  and  fled; 

Named  new,  we  name  it  the  old; 

Thereof  some  tale  hath  been  told, 
But  no  word  comes  from  the  dead; 

Whether  at  all  they  be, 

Or  whether  as  bond  or  free, 

Or  whether  they  too  were  we, 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 


693 


Or  by  what  spell  they  have  sped. 
Still  T\e  say  as  we  go, — 

"Strange   to  think  by  the  way, 
Whatever   there   is   to    know, 

That  shall  we  know  one  day." 

What  of  the  heart  of  hate 

That  beats  in  thy  breast,  O  Time?— 
Red  strife  from  the  furthest  prime, 
And   anguish   of   fierce   debate; 
War  that  shatters  her  slain, 
And  peace  that  grinds  them  as  grain, 
And  eyes  fixed  ever  in  vain 
On  the  pitiless  eyes  of  Fate. 
Still  we  say  as  we  go, — 

"Strange   to   think   by   the    way, 
Whatever   there   is   to   know. 
That  shall  we  know  one  day." 

What  of  the  heart  of  love 

That  bleeds  in  thy  breast,  0  Man? 
Thy  kisses  snatched  'neath  the  ban 
Of  fangs  that  mock  them  above; 
Thy  bells  prolonged  unto  knells, 
Thy  hope  that  a  breath  dispels, 
Thy  bitter  forlorn  farewells 
And  the  empty  echoes  thereof? 
Still  we  say  as  we  go, — 

"Strange  to  think  by  the  way, 
Whatever  there  is  to  know, 
That  shall  we  know  one  day. ' ' 

The  sky  leans  dumb  on  the  sea, 
Aweary  with  all  its  wings; 
And  oh!  the  song  the  sea  sings 
Is  dark  everlastingly. 
Our  past  is  clean  forgot, 
Our  present  is  and  is  not. 
Our  future's  a  sealed  seedplot, 
And  what  betwixt  them  are  we? — 
We  who  say  as  we  go, — 

"Strange  to  think  by  the  way, 
Whatever  there  is  to  know. 

That  shall  we  know  one  day." 

feom  the  house  of  life* 

The  Sonnet 
A  Sonnet  is  a  moment's  monument, — 
Memorial  from  the  Soul's  eternity 
To  one  dead  deathless  hour.     Look  that  it  be, 
Whether  for  lustral  rite  or  dire  portent, 

•  The  "house  of  life"  was  the  first  of  the  twelve 
divisions  of  tlie  heavens  made  by  old  astrol- 
ogers in  casting  the  horoscope  of  a  man's  des- 
tiny. This  series  of  a  hundred  and  one  son- 
nets is  a  faithful  record,  drawn  from  Ros- 
setti's  own  inward  experience,  "of  the  myste- 
rious conjunctions  and  oppositions  wrought  by 
Love,  Change,  and  Fate  in  the  House  of 
Ute."—Eng.  Lit.,  p.   37.3. 


Of  its  own  arduous  fulness  reverent: 

Carve  it  in  ivory  or  in  ebony. 

As  Day  or  Night  may  rule;  and  let  Time  see 

Its  flowering  crest  impearled  and  orient. 

A  Sonnet  is  a  coin:   its  face  reveals 

The   Soul, — its   converse,    to   what   Power    'tis 

due: — 
Whether  for  tribute  to  the  august  appeals 
Of  Life,  or  dower  in  Love's  high  retinue, 
It  serve ;   or    'mid  the  dark  wharf 's  cavernous 

breath, 
In  Charon's  palm  it  pay  the  toll  to  Death. 

IV.      LOVESIGHT 

When  do  I  see  thee  most,  beloved  one? 
When  in  the  light  the  spirits  of  mine  eyes 
Before  thy  face,  their  altar,  solemnize 
The  worship  of  that  Love  through  thee  made 

known  ? 
Or  when  in  the  dusk  hours,  (we  two  alone,) 
Close-kissed  and  eloquent  of  still  replies 
Thy  twilight-hidden  glimmering  visage  lies. 
And  my  soul  only  sees  thy  soul  its  own? 
O  love,  my  love!. if  I  no  more  should  see 
Thyself,  nor  on  the  earth  the  shadow  of  thee, 
Nor  image  of  thine  eyes  in  any  spring, — 
How  then  should  sound  upon  Life's  darkening 

slope 
The    ground-whirl    of    the    perished    leaves    of 

Hope, 
The  wind  of  Death's  imperishable  wing? 

XIX.    Silent  Noon 
Your  hands  lie  open  in  the  long  fresh  grass. 
The  finger-points  look  through  like  rosy  blooms; 
Your  eyes  smile  peace.    The  pasture  gleams  and 

glooms 
'Neath  billowing  skies  that  scatter  and  amass. 
All  round  our  nest,  far  as  the  eye  can  pass, 
Are  golden  kingcup-fields  with  silver  edge 
Where    the    cow-parsley    skirts    the    hawthorn- 
hedge. 
'Tis  visible  silence,  still  as  the  hour-glass. 
Deep  in  the  sun-searched  growths  the  dragon-fly 
Hangs  like   a  blue   thread   loosened   from   the 

sky: — 
So  this  wing'd  hour  is  dropt  to  us  from  above. 
Oh!  clasp  we  to  our  hearts,  for  deathless  dower, 
This  close-companioned  inarticulate  hour 
When  twofold  silence  was  the  song  of  love. 

XLIX — LII.      WiLLOWWOOD 


I  sat  with  Love  upon  a  woodside  well, 
Leaning  across  the  water,  I  and  he; 
Nor  ever  did  he  speak  nor  looked  at  me. 


694 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


But  touched  his  lute  wherein  was  audible 
The  certain  secret  thing  he  had  to  tell: 
Only  our  mirrored  eyes  met  silently 
In  the  low  wave;  and  that  sound  came  to  be 
The  passionate  voice  I  knew ;  and  my  tears  fell. 
And  at  their  fall,  his  eyes  beneath  grew  hers; 
And  with  his  foot  and  with  his  wing-feathers 
He  swept  the  spring  that  watered  my  heart 's 

drouth. 
Then  the  dark  ripples  spread  to  waving  hair, 
And  as  I  stooped,  her  own  lips  rising  there 
Bubbled  with  brimming  kisses  at  my  mouth. 


And  now  Love  sang:  but  his  was  such  a  song, 
So  meshed  with  half-remembrance  hard  to  free, 
As  souls  disused  in  death's  sterility 
May  sing  when  the  new  birthday  tarries  long. 
And  I  was  made  aware  of  a  dumb  throng 
That  stood  aloof,  one  form  by  every  tree, 
All  mournful  forms,  for  each  was  I  or  she, 
The    shades    of    those    our    days    that    had    no 

tongue. 
They   looked    on   us,    and    knew    us    and    were 

known ; 
While  fast  together,  alive  from  the  abyss, 
Clung  the  soul-wrung  implacable  close  kiss; 
And  pity  of  self  through  all  made  broken  moan 
Which    said,    "For   once,    for    once,    for    once 

alone !  ' ' 
And  still   Love   sang,  and   what  he  sang  was 

this: — 

III 
"O  ye,  all  ye  that  walk  in  Willowwood, 
That  walk  with  hollow  faces  burning  white; 
What  fathom-depth  of  soul-struck  widowhood. 
What    long,   what   longer   hours,    one   life-long 

night. 
Ere  ye  again,  who  so  in  vain  have  wooed 
Your  last  hope  lost,  who  so  in  vain  invite 
Your  lips  to  that  their  unforgotten  food, 
Ere  ye,  ere  ye  again  shall  see  the  light! 
Alas!  the  bitter  banks  in  Willowwood, 
With  tear-spurge  wan,  with  blood-wort  burning 

red: 
Alas!  if  ever  such  a  pillow  could 
Steep    deep    the    soul    in    sleep    till    she    were 

dead, — 
Better  all  life  forget  her  than  this  thing, 
That  Willowwood  should  hold  her  wandering!  " 


So  sang  he:  and  as  meeting  rose  and  rose 
Together  cling  through  the  wind 's  wellawayi 
Nor  change  at  once,  yet  near  the  end  of  day 

1  An  arrhalr  oxprosslon  of  Rflof. 


The  leaves  drop  loosened  where  the  heart-stain 

glows,— 
So  when  the  song  died  did  the  kiss  unclose; 
And  her  face  fell  back  drowned,  and  was  as 

gray 
As  its  gray  eyes;  and  if  it  ever  may 
Meet  mine  again  I  know  not  if  Love  knows. 
Only  I  know  that  I  leaned  low  and  drank 
A  long  draught  from  the  water  where  she  sank, 
Her  breath  and  all  her  tears  and  all  her  soul: 
And  as  I  leaned,  I  know  I  felt  Love's  face 
Pressed   on  my  neck  with   moan  of  pity   and 

grace, 
Till  both  our  heads  were  in  his  aureole. 

LXV.    Known  in  Vain 
As  two  whose  love,  first  foolish,  widening  scope. 
Knows  suddenly,  to  music  high  and  soft. 
The  Holy  of  holies;  who  because  they  scoff 'd 
Are  now  amazed  with  shame,  nor  dare  to  cope 
With  the  whole  truth  aloud,  lest  heaven  shouki 

ope; 
Yet,    at    their    meetings,    laugh    not    as    they 

laugh  'd 
In  speech;  nor  speak,  at  length;  but  sitting  oft 
Together,  within  hopeless  sight  of  hope 
For  hours  are  silent: — So  it  happeneth 
When  Work  and  Will  awake  too  late,  to  gaze 
After  their  life  sailed  by,  and  hold  their  breath. 
Ah!  who  shall  dare  to  search  through  what  sad 

maze 
Thenceforth  their  incommunicable  ways 
Follow  the  desultory  feet  of  Death? 

LXVI.    The  Heart  of  the  Niuht 

From  child  to  youth;   from  youth  to  arduous 

man; 
From  lethargy  to  fever  of  the  heart; 
From    faithful    life    to    dream-dowered    days 

apart ; 
From  trust  to  doubt;  from  doubt  to  brink  of 

ban; — 
Thus  much  of  change  in  one  swift  cycle  ran 
Till  now.     Alas,  the  soul! — how  soon  must  she 
Accept  her  primal  immortality, — 
The  flesh  resume  its  dust  whence  it  began? 
O  Lord  of  work  and  peace!     O  Lord  of  life! 
O  Lord,  the  awful  Lord  of  will!  though  late. 
Even  yet  renew  this  soul  with  duteous  breath: 
That  when  the  peace  is  garnered  in  from  strife. 
The  work  retrieved,  the  will  regenerate, 
This  soul  may  see  thy  face,  O  Lord  of  death! 

LXVII.     The  Landmark 
Was   that   the   landmark!     What— the   foolish 
well 


CHRISTINA  EOSSETTI 


695 


Whose  wave,   low   down,   I   did   not   stoop   to 

drink, 
But  sat  and  flung  the  pebbles  from  its  brink 
In  sport  to  send  its  imaged  skies  pell-mell, 
(And  mine  own  image,  had  I  noted  well!) — 
Was  that  my  point  of  turning? — I  had  thought 
The  stations  of  my  course  should  rise  unsought, 
As  altar-stone  or  ensigned  citadel, 
But  lo!  the  path  is  missed,  I  must  go  back, 
And    thirst   to    drink   when   next    I    reach    the 

spring 
Which  once   I   stained,  which  since  may  have 

grown  black. 
Yet  though  no  light  be  left  nor  bird  now  sing 
As  here  I  turn,  I  '11  thank  God,  hastening, 
That  the  same  goal  is  still  on  the  same  track. 

LXX.    The  Hill  Summit 

This  feast-day  of  the  sun,  his  altar  there 

In  the  broad  west  has  blazed  for  vesper-song; 

And  I  have  loitered  in  the  vale  too  long 

And  gaze  now  a  belated  worshipper. 

Yet  may  I  not  forget  that  I  was  'ware, 

So  journeying,  of  his  face  at  intervals 

Transfigured  where  the  fringed  horizon  falls, — 

A  fiery  bush  with  coruscating  hair. 

And   now   that    1   have   climbed   and    won   this 

height, 
I    must   tread    downward    through    the    sloping 

shade 
And  travel  the  bewildered  tracks  till  night. 
Yet  for  this  hour  I  still  may  here  be  stayed 
And  see  the  gold  air  and  the  silver  fade 
And  the  last  bird  fly  into  the  last  light. 

LXXIX.    The   Moxochord* 

Is  it  this  sky's  vast  vault  or  ocean's  sound 

That  is  Life's  self  and  draws  my  life  from  me. 

And  by  instinct  ineffable  decree 

Holds  my  breath  quailing  on  the  bitter  bound! 

Nay,  is  it  Life  or  Death,  thus  thunder-ci'owned, 

That    'mid  the  tide  of  all  emergency 

Now  notes  my  separate  wave,  and  to  what  sea 

Its  difficult  eddies  labour  in  the  ground? 

Oh!  what  is  this  that  knows  the  road  I  came, 

The  flame  turned  cloud,  the  cloud  returned  to 

flame, 
The  lifted  shifted  steeps  and  all  the  way  ? — 
That   draws  round   me   at  last   this  wind-warm 

space, 
And  in  regenerate  rapture  turns  my  face 
Upon  the  devious  coverts  of  dismay? 

•  A  musical  instrument  of  one  strlnc.  hence,  unity, 
harmony :  here  apparently  used  to  symbolize 
the  ultimate  merging  o£  separate  lives  into 
one  Life. 


CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI  (1830-1894) 

GOBLIN  MARKET* 

Morning  and  evening 

Maids  heard  the  goblins  cry: 

*  Come  buy  our  orchard  fruits, 
Come  buy,  come  buy: 
Apples  and  quinces, 
Lemons  and  oranges, 

Plump  unpecked  cherries. 

Melons  and  raspberries, 

Bloom-down-cheeked  peaches. 

Swart-headed  mulberries,  M 

Wild  free-born  cranberries. 

Crab-apples,  dewberries. 

Pine-apples,  blackberries. 

Apricots,  strawberries  J — 

All  ripe  together 

In  summer  weather, — 

Morns  that  pass  by. 

Fair  eves  that  fly; 

Come  buy,  come  buy: 

Our  grapes  fresh  from  the  vine,  20 

Pomegranates  full  and  fine. 

Dates  and  sharp  bullaces, 

Rare  pears  and  greengages. 

Damsons  and  bilberries, 

Taste  them  and  try: 

Currants  and  gooseberries, 

Bright-fire-like  barberries. 

Figs  to  fill  your  mouth, 

Citrons  from  the  South, 

Sweet  to  tongue  and  sound  to  eye;  30 

Come  buy,  come  buy.' 

Evening  by  evening 

Among  the  brookside  rushes, 

Laura  bowed  her  head  to  hear, 

Lizzie  veiled  her  blushes: 

Crouching  close  together 

In  the  cooling  weather. 

With  clasping  arms  and  cautioning  lips, 

With  tingling  cheeks  and  finger  tips. 

'  Lie  close, '  Laura  said.  40 

Pricking  up  her  golden  head:  ,. 

*  Of  this   poem.    William   M.    Ros.setti.   Christina's 

brother,  writes :  "I  have  more  than  once 
heard  Christina  say  that  she  did  not  mean 
anything  profound  by  this  fairy  tale — it  is 
not  a  moral  apologue  consistently  carried  out 
in  detail.  Still  the  incidents  are  .  .  . 
suggestive,  and  different  minds  may  be  likely 
to  read  different  messages  into  them."  He 
remarks  further  that  the  central  point  of  the 
story,  read  merely  as  a  story,  is  often  missed. 
Lizzie's  service  to  her  sister  lies  in  procuring 
for  her  a  itecond  taste  of  the  goblin  fruits, 
such  as  those  who  have  once  tasted  them  ever 
afterward  long  for.  and  pine  away  with  long- 
ing. I>Ht  which  the  goblins  themselves  will 
not  voluntarily  accord. 


696 


THE  VICTOEIAN  AGE 


'We  must  not  look  at  goblin  men, 

"We  must  not  buy  their  fruits: 

Who  knows  upon  what  soil  they  fed 

Their  hungry  thirsty  roots?' 

'Come  buy,'  call  the  goblins 

Hobbling  down  the  glen. 

'Oh,'  cried  Lizzie,  'Laura,  Laura, 

You  should  not  peep  at  goblin  men.' 

Lizzie  covered  up  her  eyes,  50 

Covered  close  lest  they  should  look; 

Laura  reared  her  glossy  head,  , 

And  whispered  like  the  restless  brook: 

'Look,  Lizzie,  look,  Lizzie, 

Down  the  glen  tramp  little  men. 

One  hauls  a  basket. 

One  bears  a  plate. 

One  lugs  a  golden  dish 

Of  many  pounds'  weight. 

How  fair  the  vine  must  grow  60 

Whose  grapes  are  so  luscious; 

How  warm  the  wind  must  blow 

Through  those  fruit  bushes.' 

'No,'  said  Lizzie:    'No,  no,  no; 

Their  offers  should  not  charm  us, 

Their  evil  gifts  would  harm  us.' 

She  thrust  a  dimpled  finger 

In  each  ear,  shut  eyes  and  ran: 

Curious  Laura  chose  to  linger 

Wondering  at  each  merchant  man.  70 

One  had  a  cat's  face, 

One  whisked  a  tail. 

One  tramped  at  a  rat's  pace, 

One  crawled  like  a  snail, 

One  like  a  wombat^  prowled  obtuse  and  furry, 

One  like  a  ratel2  tumbled  hurry  skurry. 

She  heard  a  voice  like  voice  of  doves 

Cooing  aU  together: 

They  sounded  kind  and  full  of  loves 

In  the  pleasant  weather.  80 

Laura  stretched  her  gleaming  neck 
Like  a  rush-imbedded  swan. 
Like  a  lily  from  the  beck,3 
Like  a  moonlit  poplar  branch. 
Like  a  vessel  at  the  launch 
When  its  last  restraint  is  gone. 

Backwards  up  the  mossy  glen 

Turned  and  trooped  the  goblin  men, 

With  their  shrill  repeated  cry, 

'Come  buy,  come  buy.'  90 

When  they  reached  where  Laura  was 

They  stood  stock  still  upon  the  moss, 

1  An  Australian  marsupial,  something  like  a  small 

bear. 
3  A  booey-badger ;  a  nocturnal  animal  which  feeds 

on  rata,  birds,  and  honey, 
s brook 


Leering  at  each  other. 

Brother  with  queer  brother; 

Signalling  each  other. 

Brother  with  sly  brother. 

One  set  his  basket  down. 

One  reared  his  plate; 

One  began  to  weave  a  crown 

Of  tendrils,  leaves,  and  rough  nuts  brown      100 

(Men  sell  not  such  in  any  town) ; 

One  heaved  the  golden  weight 

Of  dish  and  fruit  to  offer  her: 

'Come  buy,  come  buy,'  was  still  their  cry. 

Laura  stared  but  did  not  stir, 

Longed  but  had  no  money. 

The  whisk-tailed  merchant  bade  her  taste 

In  tones  as  smooth  as  honey. 

The  cat-faced  purr'd. 

The  rat-paced  spoke  a  word  HO 

Of  welcome,  and  the  snail-paced  even  was  heard ; 

One  parrot-voiced  and  jolly 

Cried  'Pretty  Goblin'  still  for  'Pretty  Polly'; 

One  whistled  like  a  bird. 

But  sweet-tooth  Laura  spoke  in  haste: 

'Good  Folk,  I  have  no  coin; 

To  take  were  to  purloin: 

I  have  no  copper  in  my  purse, 

I  have  no  silver  either. 

And  all  my  gold  is  on  the  furze  120 

That  shakes  in  windy  weather 

Above  the  rusty  heather.' 

'You  have  much  gold  upon  your  head,' 

They  answered  all  together: 

'  Buy  from  us  with  a  golden  curl. ' 

She  clipped  a  precious  golden  lock. 

She  dropped  a  tear  more  rare  than  pearl. 

Then  sucked  their  fruit  globes  fair  or  red. 

Sweeter  than  honey  from  the  rock. 

Stronger  than  man-rejoicing  wine,  130 

Clearer  than  water  flowed  that  juice; 

She  never  tasted  such  before, 

How  should  it  cloy  with  length  of  usef 

She  sucked  and  sucked  and  sucked  the  more 

Fruits  which  that  unknown  orchard  bore 

She  sucked  until  her  lips  were  sore; 

Then  flung  the  emptied  rinds  away 

But  gathered  up  one  kernel  stone. 

And  knew  not  was  it  night  or  day 

As  she  turned  home  alone.  140 

Lizzie  met  her  at  the  gate 
Full  of  wise  upbraidings: 
'Dear,  you  should  not  stay  so  late, 
Twilight  is  not  good  for  maidens; 
Should  not  loiter  in  the  glen 
In  the  haunts  of  goblin  men. 
Do  you  not  remember  Jeanie, 


CHRISTINA  BOSSETTI 


697 


How  she  met  them  in  the  moonlight, 

Took  their  gifts  both  choice  and  many, 

Ate  their  fruits  and  wore  their  flowers  150 

Plucked  from  bowers 

Where  summer  ripens  at  all  hours! 

But  ever  in  the  moonlight 

She  pined  and  pined  away; 

Sought  them  by  night  and  day, 

round  them  no  more,  but  dwindled  and  grew 

grey; 
Then  fell  with  the  first  snow, 
While  to  this  day  no  grass  will  grow 
Where  she  lies  low: 

I  planted  daisies  there  a  year  ago  160 

That  never  blow. 
You  should  not  loiter  so.' 
'Nay,  hush,'  said  Laura: 
'  Nay,  hush,  my  sister : 
I  ate  and  ate  my  fill, 
Yet  my  mouth  waters  still: 
To-morrow  night  I  will 
Buy  more ; '  and  kissed  her. 
'Have  done  with  sorrow; 

I  '11  bring  you  plums  to-morrow  170 

Fresh  on  their  mother  twigs, 
Cherries  worth  getting; 
You  cannot  think  what  figs 
My  teeth  have  met  in, 
What  melons  icy-cold 
Piled  on  a  dish  of  gold 
Too  huge  for  me  to  hold, 
What  peaches  with  a  velvet  nap, 
Pellucid  grapes  without  one  seed: 
Odorous  indeed  must  be  the  mead  180 

Whereon  they  grow,  and  pure  the  wave  they 

drink 
With  inies  at  the  brink. 
And  sugar-sweet  their  sap.' 

Golden  head  by  golden  head. 

Like  two  pigeons  in  one  nest 

Folded  in  each  other's  wings, 

They  lay  down  in  their  curtained  bed: 

Like  two  blossoms  on  one  stem, 

Like  two  flakes  of  new-fall  'n  snow, 

Like  two  wands  of  ivory  190 

Tipped  with  gold  for  awful  kings. 

Moon  and  stars  gazed  in  at  them, 

Wind  sang  to  them  lullaby, 

Lumbering  owls  forebore  to  fly, 

Not  a  bat  flapped  to  and  fro 

Round  their  nest: 

Cheek  to  cheek  and  breast  to  breast 

Locked  together  in  one  nest. 

Early  in  the  morning 

When  the  first  cock  crowed  his  warning,        200 


Neat  like  bees,  as  sweet  and  busy, 

Laura  rose  with  Lizzie: 

Fetched  in  honey,  milked  the  cows. 

Aired  and  set  to  rights  the  house. 

Kneaded  cakes  of  whitest  wheat. 

Cakes  for  dainty  mouths  to  eat, 

Next  churned  butter,  whipped  up  cream. 

Fed  their  poultry,  sat  and  sewed ; 

Talked  as  modest  maidens  should: 

Lizzie  with  an  open  heart,  210 

Laura  in  an  absent  dream, 

One  content,  one  sick  in  part; 

One  warbling  for  the  mere  bright  day 's  delight, 

One  longing  for  the  night. 

At  length  slow  evening  came: 

They  went  with  pitchers  to  the  reedy  brook; 

Lizzie  most  placid  in  her  look, 

Laura  most  like  a  leaping  flame. 

They  drew  the  gurgling  water  from  its  deep. 

Lizzie  plucked  purple  and  rich  golden  flags,  220 

Then    turning    homeward    said:      'The    sunset 

flushes 
Those  furthest  loftiest  crags; 
Come,  Laura,  not  another  maiden  lags. 
No  wilful  squirrel  wags. 
The  beasts  and  birds  are  fast  asleep.* 

But  Laura  loitered  still  among  the  rushes, 

And  said  the  bank  was  steep, 

And  said  the  hour  was  early  stiU, 

The  dew  not  fallen,  the  wind  not  chill; 

Listening  ever,  but  not  catching  230 

The  customary  cry, 

'Come  buy,  come  buy,' 

With  its  iterated  jingle 

Of  sugar-baited  words: 

Not  for  all  her  watching 

Once  discerning  even  one  goblin 

Racing,  whisking,  tumbling,  hobbling — 

Let  alone  the  herds 

That  used  to  tramp  along  the  glen. 

In  groups  or  single,  240 

Of  brisk  fruit-merchant  men. 

Till  Lizzie  urged,  'O  Laura,  come; 

I  hear  the  fruit-call,  but  I  dare  not  look: 

You  should  not  loiter  longer  at  this  brook: 

Come  with  me  home. 

The  stars  rise,  the  moon  bends  her  arc, 

Each  glow-worm  winks  her  spark, 

Let  us  go  home  before  the  night  grows  dark ; 

For  clouds  may  gather 

Though  this  is  summer  weather,  260 

Put  out  the  lights  and  drench  us  through; 

Then  if  we  lost  our  way  what  should  we  dot' 


698 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Laura  turned  cold  as  stone 

To  find  her  sister  heard  that  cry  alone, 

That  goblin  cry, 

'Come  buy  our  fruits,  come  buy.' 

Must  she  then  buy  no  more  such  dainty  fruit? 

Must  she  no  more  such  succous  pasture*  find, 

Gone  deaf  and  blind? 

Her  tree  of  life  drooped  from  the  root:         260 

She  said  not  one  word  in  her  heart's  sore  ache: 

But  peering  thro'  the  dimness,  nought  discern- 
ing, 

Trudged  home,  her  pitcher  dripping  all  the 
way; 

So  crept  to  bed,  and  lay 

Silent  till  Lizzie  slept; 

Then  sat  up  in  a  passionate  yearning, 

And  gnashed  her  teeth  for  baulked  desire,  and 
wept 

As  if  her  heart  would  break. 

Day  after  day,  night  after  night, 

Laura  kept  watch  in  vain  270 

In  sullen  silence  of  exceeding  pain. 

She  never  caught  again  the  goblin  cry, 

'  Come  buy,  come  buy ; ' — 

She  never  spied  the  goblin  men 

Hawking  their  fruits  along  the  glen: 

But  when  the  noon  waxed  bright 

Her  hair  grew  thin  and  grey; 

She  dwindled,  as  the  fair  full  moon  doth  turn 

To  swift  decay  and  burn 

Her  fire  away.  280 

One  day  remembering  her  kernel-stone 

She  set  it  by  a  wall  that  faced  the  south; 

Dewed  it  with  tears,  hoped  for  a  root, 

Watched  for  a  waxing  shoot. 

But  there  came  none. 

It  never  saw  the  sun. 

It  never  felt  the  trickling  moisture  run: 

While  with  sunk  eyes  and  faded  mouth 

She  dreamed  of  melons,  as  a  traveller  sees 

False  waves  in  desert  drouth  290 

With  shade  of  leaf-crowned  trees. 

And  burns  the  thirstier  in  the  sandful  breeze. 

She  no  more  swept  the  house, 

Tended  the  fowls  or  cows. 

Fetched  honey,  kneaded  cakes  of  wheat. 

Brought  water  from   the  brook: 

But  sat  down  listless  in  the  chimney-nook 

And  would  not  eat. 


Tender  Lizzie  could  not  bear 

To  watch  her  sister's  cankerous  care, 

Yet  not  to  share. 

*  Jatcy  foaxtlnfc 


300 


She  night  and  morning 

Caught  the  goblin's  cry: 

'Come  buy  our  orchard  fruits. 

Come  buy,  come  buy : ' — 

Beside  the  brook,  along  the  glen. 

She  heard  the  tramp  of  goblin  men. 

The  voice  and  stir 

Poor  Laura  could  not  hear; 

Longed  to  buy  fruit  to  comfort  her,  310 

But  feared  to  pay  too  dear. 

She  thought  of  Jeanie  in  her  grave. 

Who  should  have  been  a  bride; 

But  who  for  joys  brides  hope  to  have 

Fell  sick  and  died 

In  her  gay  prime. 

In  earliest  winter  time. 

With  the  first  glazing  rime, 

With  the  first  snow-fall  of  crisp  winter  time. 

Till  Laura  dwindling  320 

Seemed  knocking  at  Death's  door. 

Then  Lizzie  weighed  no  more 

Better  and  worse; 

But  put  a  silver  penny  in  her  purse. 

Kissed  Laura,  crossed  the  heath  with  clumps  of 

furze 
At  twilight,  halted  by  the  brook: 
And  for  the  first  time  in  her  life 
Began  to  listen  and  look. 


Laughed  every  goblin 
When  they  spied  her  peeping: 
Came  towards  her  hobbling, 
Flying,  running,  leaping, 
Puffing  and  blowing, 
Chuckling,  clapping,  crowing, 
Clucking  and  gobbling, 
Mopping  and  mowing,^ 
Full  of  airs  and  graces. 
Pulling  wry  faces. 
Demure  grimaces. 
Cat-like  and  rat-like, 
Ratel-  and  wombat-like. 
Snail-paced  in  a  hurry. 
Parrot-voiced  and  whistler, 
Helter  skelter,  hurry  skurry. 
Chattering  like  magpies, 
Fluttering  like  pigeons, 
Gliding  like  fishes, — 
Hugged  her  and  kissed  her : 
Squeezed  and  caressed  her: 
Stretched  up  their  dishes, 
Panniers,  and  plates: 
'  Look  at  our  apples 
Russet  and  dun. 
Bob  at  our  cherries. 


340 


850 


n  See  The  Trmpriti,  IV,  I,  47.  and  noto  (paRO  184). 


CHRISTINA  ROSSETTl 


699 


Bite  at  our  peaches, 

Citrons  and  dates, 

Grapes  for  the  asking, 

Pears  red  with  basking 

Out  in  the  sun. 

Plums  on  their  twigs;  360 

Pluck  them  and  suck  them, — 

Pomegranates,  figs. ' 

*  Good  folk, '  said  Lizzie, 
Mindful  of  Jeanie: 

*  Give  me  much  and  many : ' 
Held  out  her  apron, 
Tossed  them  her  penny. 

'  Nay,  take  a  seat  with  us, 

Honour  and  eat  with  us,' 

They  answered  grinning:  370 

'Our  feast  is  but  beginning. 

Night  yet  is  early, 

Warm  and  dew-pearly. 

Wakeful  and  starry: 

Such  fruits  as  these 

No  man  can  carry; 

Half  their  bloom  would  fly. 

Half  their  dew  would  dry, 

Half  their  flavour  would  pass  by. 

Sit  down  and  feast  with  us,  380 

Be  welcome  guest  with  us, 

Cheer  you  and  rest  with  us.' — 

'Thank  you,'  said  Lizzie:    'But  one  waits 

At  home  alone  for  me: 

So  without   further  parleying. 

If  you  will  not  sell  me  any 

Of  your  fruits  though  much  and  many, 

Give  me  back  my  silver  penny 

I  tossed  you  for  a  fee. ' — 

They  began  to  scratch  their  pates,  390 

No  longer  wagging,  purring, 

But  visibly  demurring, 

Grunting  and  snarling. 

One  called  her  proud, 

Cross-grained,  uncivil ; 

Their  tones  waxed  loud. 

Their  looks  were  evil. 

Lashing  their  tails 

They  trod  and  hustled  her, 

Elbowed  and  jostled  her,  400 

Clawed  with  their  nails, 

Barking,  mewing,  hissing,  mocking, 

Tore  her  gown  and  soiled  her  stocking, 

Twitched  her  hair  out  by  the  roots, 

Stamped  upon  her  tender  feet, 

Held  her  hands  and  squeezed  their  fruits 

Against  her  mouth  to  make  her  eat. 

White  and  golden  Lizzie  stood, 
Like  a  lily  in  a  flood. — 


Like  a  rock  of  blue- veined  stone  410 

Lashed  by  tides  obstreperously, — 

Like  a  beacon  left  alone 

In  a  hoary  roaring  sea. 

Sending  up  a  golden  fire, — 

Like  a  fruit-crowned  orange-tree 

White  with  blossoms  honey-sweet 

Sore  beset  by  wasp  and  bee, — 

Like  a  royal  virgin  town 

Topped  with  gilded  dome  and  spire 

Close  beleaguered  by  a  fleet  420 

Mad  to  tug  her  standard  down. 

One  may  lead  a  horse  to  water, 

Twenty  cannot  make  him  drink. 

Though  the  goblins  cuffed  and  caught  her, 

Coaxed  and  fought  her. 

Bullied  and  besought  her, 

Scratched  her,  pinched  her  black  as  ink, 

Kicked  and  knocked  her. 

Mauled  and  mocked  her, 

Lizzie  uttered  not  a  word;  430 

Would  not  open  lip  from  lip 

Lest  they  should  cram  a  mouthful  in: 

But  laughed  in  heart  to  feel  the  drip 

Of  juice  that  syruped  all  her  face, 

And  lodged  in  dimples  of  her  chin. 

And  streaked  her  neck  which  quaked  like  curd. 

At  last  the  evil  people. 

Worn  out  by  her  resistance, 

Flung  back  her  penny,  kicked  their  fruit 

Along  whichever  road  they  took,  440 

Not  leaving  root  or  stone  or  shoot; 

Some  writhed  into  the  ground. 

Some  dive«l  into  the  brook 

With  ring  and  ripple, 

Some  scudded  on  the  gale  without  a  sound. 

Some  vanislied  in  tlie  distance. 

In  a  smart,  ache,  tingle, 

Lizzie  went  her  way; 

Knew  not  was  it  night  or  day; 

Sprang  up  the  bank,  tore  thro'  the  furze,      450 

Threadetl  copse  and  dingle, 

And  heard  her  penny  jingle 

Bouncing  in  her  purse, — 

Its  bounce  was  music  to  her  ear. 

She  ran  and  ran 

As  if  she  feared  some  goblin  man 

Dogged  her  with  gibe  or  curse 

Or  something  worse: 

But  not  one  goblin  skurried  after, 

Nor  was  she  pricked  by  fear;  460 

The  kind  heart  made  her  windy-paced 

That  urged  her  home  quite  out  of  breath  with 

haste 
And  inward  laughter. 


700 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


She  cried,  'Laura,'  up  the  garden, 

'Did  you  miss  mef 

Come  and  kiss  me. 

Never  mind  my  bruises, 

Hug  me,  kiss  me,  suck  my  juices 

Squeezed  from  goblin  fruits  for  you, 

Goblin  pulp  and  goblin  dew.  470 

Eat  me,  drink  me,  love  mej 

Laura,  make  much  of  me; 

For  your  sake  I  have  braved  the  glen 

And  had  to  do  with  goblin  merchant  men.' 

Laura  started  from  her  chair, 

Flung  her  arms  up  in  the  air. 

Clutched  her  hair: 

'Lizzie,  Lizzie,  have  you  tasted 

For  my  sake  the  fruit  forbidden! 

Must  your  light  like  mine  be  hidden,  480 

Your  young  life  like  mine  be  wasted. 

Undone  in  mine  undoing, 

And  ruined  in  my  ruin. 

Thirsty,  cankered,  goblin-ridden?' — 

She  clung  about  her  sister. 

Kissed  and  kissed  and  kissed  her: 

Tears  once  again 

Refreshed  her  shrunken  eyes. 

Dropping  like  rain 

After  long  sultry  drouth;  490 

Shaking  with  aguish  fear,  and  pain. 

She  kissed  and  kissed  her  with  a  hungry  mouth. 

Her  lips  began  to  scorch, 

That  juice  was  wormwood  to  her  tongue. 

She  loathed  the  feast: 

Writhing  as  one  possessed  she  leaped  and  sung, 

Bent  all  her  robe,  and  wrung 

Her  hands  in  lamentable  haste, 

And  beat  her  breast. 

Her  locks  streamed  like  the  torch  500 

Borne  by  a  racer  at  full  speed, 

Or  like  the  mane  of  horses  in  their  flight. 

Or  like  an  eagle  when  she  stems  the  light 

Straight  toward  the  sun, 

Or  like  a  caged  thing  freed, 

Or  like  a  flying  flag  when  armies  run. 

Swift  fire  spread  through  her  veins,  knocked 

at  her  heart, 
Met  the  fire  smouldering  there 
And  overbore  its  lesser  flame; 
She  gorged  on  bitterness  without  a  name:     510 
Ah  fool,  to  choose  such  part 
Of  soul-consuming  care! 
Sense  failed  in  the  mortal  strife: 
Like  the  watch-tower  of  a  town 
Which  an  earthquake  shatters  down, 


Like  a  lightning-stricken  mast, 

Like  a  wind-uprooted  tree 

Spun  about. 

Like  a  foam-topped  waterspout 

Cast  down  headlong  in  the  sea,  620 

She  fell  at  last; 

Pleasure  past  and  anguish  past. 

Is  it  death  or  is  it  life! 

Life  out  of  death. 

That  night  long,  Lizzie  watched  by  her, 

Counted  her  pulse's  flagging  stir. 

Felt  for  her  breath. 

Held  water  to  her  lips,  and  cooled  her  face 

With  tears  and  fanning  leaves. 

But  when   the  first  birds  chirped  about  their 

eaves,  530 

And  early  reapers  plodded  to  the  place 
Of  golden  sheaves. 
And  dew-wet  grass 

Bowed  in  the  morning  winds  so  brisk  to  pass. 
And  new  buds  with  new  day 
Opened  of  cup-like  lilies  on  the  stream, 
Laura  awoke  as  from  a  dream, 
Laughed  in  the  innocent  old  way, 
Hugged  Lizzie  but  not  twice  or  thrice; 
Her  gleaming  locks  showed  not  one  thread  of 

grey,  540 

Her  breath  was  sweet  as  May, 
And  light  danced  in  her  eyes. 

Days,  weeks,  months,  years 

Afterwards,  when  both  were  wives 

With  children  of  their  own; 

Their  mother-hearts  beset  with  fears. 

Their  lives  bound  up  in  tender  lives; 

Laura  would  call  the  little  ones 

And  tell  them  of  her  early  prime, 

Those  pleasant  days  long  gone  660 

Of  not-returning  time: 

Would  talk  about  the  haunted  glen. 

The  wicked  quaint  fruit-merchant  men, 

Their  fruits  like  honey  to  the  throat 

But  poison  in  the  blood 

(Men  sell  not  such  in  any  town): 

Would  tell  them  how  her  sister  stood 

In  deadly  peril  to  do  her  good. 

And  win  the  fiery  antidote: 

Then  joining  hands  to  little  hands  560 

Would  bid  them  cling  together, — 

'  For  there  is  no  friend  like  a  sister 

In  calm  or  stormy  weather; 

To  cheer  one  on  the  tedious  way, 

To  fetch  one  if  one  goes  astray, 

To  lift  one  if  one  totters  down, 

To  strengthen  whilst  one  stands.' 


CHRISx'lNA  ROSSETTI 


701 


THE  THBEE  ENEMIES 

THE   FLESH 

'Sweet,  thou  art  pale.' 

'More  pale  to  see, 
Christ  hung  upon  the  cruel  tree 
And  bore  His  Father's  wrath  for  me.' 

'Sweet,  thou  art  sad.' 

'Beneath  a  rod 
More  heavy,  Christ  for  my  sake  trod 
The  winepress  of  the  wrath  of  God.'  6 

'Sweet,  thou  art  weary.' 

'Not  so  Christ; 
Whose  mighty  love  of  me  suflBced 
For  Strength,  Salvation,  Eucharist.' 

'Sweet,  thou  art  footsore.' 

'If  I  bleed. 
His  feet  have  bled;  yea  in  my  need 
His  Heart  once  bled  for  mine  indeed.'  12 

THE  "WOBLD 

'Sweet,  thou  art  young.' 

'  So  He  was  young 
Who  for  my  sake  in  silence  hung 
Upon  the  Cross  with  Passion  wrung.' 


'Look,  thou  art  fair.' 

'He  was  more  fair 
Than  men.  Who  deigned  for  me  to  wear 
A  visage  marred  beyond  compare.' 

'And  thou  hast  riches.' 

'Daily  bread: 
All  else  is  His:  Who,  living,  dead. 
For  me  lacked  where  to  lay  His  Head. ' 


18 


'And  life  is  sweet,' 

'It  was  not  so 
To  Him,  Whose  Cup  did  overflow 
With  mine  unutterable  woe.'  24 

THE   DEVHi 

'Thou  drinkest  deep.' 

'When  Christ  would  sup 
He  drained  the  dregs  from  out  my  cup: 
So  how  should  I  be  lifted  upf ' 

'Thou  shalt  win  Glory.' 

'In  the  skies, 
Lord  Jesus,  cover  up  mine  eyes 
Lest  they  should  look  on  vanities.'  30 

'Thou  shalt  have  Knowledge,* 

'Helpless  dust! 


In  Thee,  O  Lord,  I  put  my  trust: 
Answer  Thou  for  me,  Wise  and  Just.* 

'And  Might.'— 

'Get  thee  behind  me.    Lord, 
Who  hast  redeemed  and  not  abhorred 
My  soul,  oh  keep  it  by  Thy  Word.'  36 

AN   APPLE   GATHEBING 

I  plucked  pink  blossoms  from  mine  apple-tree 
And  wore  them  all  that  evening  in  my  hair: 
Then  in  due  season  when  I  went  to  see 
I  found  no  apples  there. 

With  dangling  basket  all  along  the  grass 

As  I  had  come  I  went  the  selfsame  track: 
My  neighbours  mocked  me  while  they  saw  me 
pass 
So  empty-handed  back.  8 

Lilian  and  Lilias  smiled  in  trudging  by. 

Their    heaped-up    basket    teased    me    like    a 

jeer; 
Sweet-voiced  they  sang  beneath  the  sunset  sky, 

Their  mother's  home  was  near. 

Plump  Gertrude  passed  me  with  her  basket  full, 

A  stronger  hand  than  hers  helped  it  along; 
A  voice  talked  with  her  through  the  shadows 

cool 

More  sweet  to  me  than  song.  16 

Ah  Willie,  Willie,  was  my  love  less  worth 
Than   apples   with   their   green   leaves   piled 

above  ? 
I  counted  rosiest  apples  on  the  earth 

Of  far  less  worth  than  love. 

So  once  it  was  with  me  you  stooped  to  talk 

Laughing  and  listening  in  this  very  lane; 
To  think  that  by  this  way  we  used  to  walk 

We  shall  not  walk  again!  24 

I  let  my  neighbours  pass  me,  ones  and  twos 
And  groups;   the  latest  said  the  night  grew 

chill. 
And  hastened:  but  I  loitered;  while  the  dews 

Fell  fast  I  loitered  still. 

MONNA    INNOMINATA* 
1 

Come   back  to   me,   who   wait   and   watch   for 

you: — 
Or  come  not  yet,  for  it  is  over  then, 
And  long  it  is  before  you  come  again. 
So  far  between  my  pleasures  are,  and  few. 

•  "Lady  Unnamed" ;  a  series  of  fourteen  sonnets 
In  which  the  personal  utterance,  as  In  Mrs. 
Browning's  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese, 
wears  a  titular  disguise. 


702 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


While,  when  you  come  not,  what  1  do  I  do 
Thinking  'Now  when  he  comes,'  my  sweetest 

'  when ' : 
For  one  man  is  my  world  of  all  the  men 
This  wide  world  holds;  O  love,  my  world  is  you. 
Howbeit,  to  meet  you  grows  almost  a  pang 
Because  the  pang  of  parting  comes  so  soon; 
My   hope  hangs  waning,   waxing,   like   a   moon 
Between  the  heavenly  days  on  which  we  meet: 
Ah  me,  but  where  are  now  the  songs  I  sang 
When  life  was  sweet  because  you  called  them 

sweet? 

2 

I  wish  I  could  remember  that  first  day. 
First  hour,  first  moment  of  your  meeting  me, 
If  bright  or  dim  the  season, — it  might  be 
Summer  or  Winter  for  aught  I  can  say; 
So  unrecorded  did  it  slip  away. 
So  blind  was  I  to  see  and  to  foresee. 
So  dull  to  mark  the  budding  of  my  tree 
That  would  not  blossom  yet  for  many  a  May. 
If  only  I  could  recollect  it,  such 
A  day  of  days!    I  let  it  come  and  go 
As  traceless  as  a  thaw  of  bygone  snow; 
It  seemed  to  mean  so  little,  meant  so  much; 
If  only  now  I  could  recall  that  touch. 
First    touch    of    hand    in   hand — Did    one    but 
know ! 

11 

Many  in  aftertimes  will  say  of  you 

'He  loved   her' — while  of   me  what   will   they 

say? 
Not  that  I  loved  you  more  than  just  in  play. 
For  fashion's  sake  as  idle  women  do. 
Even  let  them  prate;   who  know  not  what  we 

knew 
Of  love  and  parting  in  exceeding  pain, 
Of  parting  hopeless  here  to  meet  again. 
Hopeless  on  earth,  and  heaven  is  out  of  view. 
But  by  my  heart  of  love  laid  bare  to  you, 
My  love  that  you  can  make  not  void  nor  vain, 
Love  that  foregoes  you  but  to  claim  anew 
Beyond  this  passage  of  the  gate  of  death, 
I  charge  you  at  the  Judgment  make  it  plain 
My  love  of  you  was  life  and  not  a  breath. 

UP-HILL 

Does  the  road  wind  up-bill  all  the  way? 

Yes,  to  the  very  end. 
Will   the   day's  journey   take   the   whole   long 
day? 

From  morn  to  night,  my  friend. 

But  is  there  for  the  night  a  resting-place? 
A  roof  for  when  the  slow  dark  hours  begin. 


May  not  the  darkness  hide  it  from  my  face? 
You  cannot  miss  that  inn. 

Shall  I  meet  other  wayfarers  at  night? 

Those  who  have  gone  before. 
Then  must  I  knock,  or  call  when  just  in  sight? 

They  will  not  keep  you  standing  at  that  door. 

Shall  I  find  comfort,  travel-sore  and  weak? 

Of  labour  you  shall  find  the  sum. 
Will  there  be  beds  for  me  and  all  who  seek? 

Yea,  beds  for  all  who  come. 


WILLIAM  MORRIS   (1834-1896) 

THE    GILLIFLOWER    OF    GOLD. 

A  golden  gilliflower  to-day 
I  wore  upon  my  helm  alvvay. 
And  won  the  prize  of  this  tourney. 
Hah!  hah!  la  belle  jaune  girofleeA 

However  well  Sir  Giles  might  sit, 
His  sun  was  weak  to  wither  it; 
Lord  Miles 's  blood  was  dew  on  it: 

Hah!  hah!  la  belle  jaune  giroflee.  8 

Although  my  spear  in  splinters  flew. 
From  John's  steel-coat,  my  eye  was  true- 
I  wheeled  about,  and  cried  for  you, 
Hah!  hah!  la  belle  jaune  giro/Ice. 

Yea,  do  not  doubt  my  heart  was  good. 
Though  my  sword  flew  like  rotten  wood. 
To  shout,  although  I   scarcely  stood. 

Hah!  hah!  la  belle  jaune  giroflee.  16 

My  hand  was  steady,  too,  to  take 
My  axe  from  round  my  neck,  and  break 
John 's  steel-coat  up  for  my  love 's  sake. 
Hah!  hah!  la  belle  jaune  giroflee. 

When  I  stood  in  my  tent  again. 
Arming  afresh,  I  felt  a  pain 
Take  liold  of  me,  I  was  so  fain — 

Hah!  hah!  la  belle  jaune  giroflee — 

To  hear:    "Honneur  aux  fits  des  prenx!^'* 
Right  in  my  ears  again,  and  shew 
The  gilliflower  blossomed  new. 

Hah!  hah!  la  belle  jaune  giroflee. 

The  Sieur  Guillaume  against  me  came, 
His  tabard  bore  three  points  of  flame 
From  a  red  heart;  with  little  blame^ — 
Hah!  hah!  la  belle  jaune  giroflee — 

1  "Flah  !  hah  !  the  beautiful  yellow  sllllflowor  !" 

2  "Honor  to  the  sona  of  the  brave !" 
8  hurt 


24 


32 


WILLIAM  MORBIS 


703 


40 


Our  tough  spears  crackled  up  like  straw; 
He  was  the  first  to  turn  and  draw 
His  sword,  that  had  nor  speck  nor  flaw; 
Hah!  hah!  la  belle  jaune  giroflee. 

But  I  felt  weaker  than  a  maid, 
And  my  brain,  dizzied  and  afraid, 
Within  my  helm  a  fierce  tune  played, 
Hah!   hah!   la   belle  jaune  giroflee, 

Until  I  thought  of  your  dear  head. 
Bowed   to   the  gilliflower  bed. 
The  yellow  flowers  stained  with  red; 
Hah!  hah!  la  belle  jaune  giroflee. 


Crash!  how  the  swords  met;  "giroflee!" 
The  fierce  tune  in  my  helm  would  play, 
' '  La  belle  !  la  belle  jaune  giroflee  ! ' ' 

Hah!   hah!   la   belle   jaune   giroflee.        48 

Once  more  the  great  swords  met  again: 
"La  belle!  la  belle!"  but  who  fell  then? 
Le  Sieur  Guillaume,  who  struck  down  ten; 
Hah!  hah!  la  belle  jaune  giroflee. 

And  as  with  mazed  and  unarmed  face, 
Toward  my  own  crown  and  the  Queen's  place, 
They  led  me  at  a  gentle  pace, — 

Hah!  hah!  la  belle  jaune  giroflee, —        56 

I  almost  saw  your  quiet  head 
Bowed  o'er  the  gilliflower  bed, 
The  yellow  flowers  stained  with  red. 
Hall!  hah!  la  belle  jaune  giroflee. 

THE  SAILING  OF  THE  SWORD. 

Across  the  empty  garden-beds. 

When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea, 
I  scarcely  saw  my  sisters'  heads 

Bowed  each  beside  a  tree. 
I  could  not  see  the  castle  leads. 

When  the  Sword  tcent  out  to  sea.  6 


Alicia  wore  a  scarlet  gown, 

When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea, 

But  Ursula  's  was   russet   brown : 
For  the  mist  we  could  not  see 

The  scarlet  roofs  of  the  good  town. 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea. 


12 


Green  holly  in  Alicia's  hand, 

When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea; 

AVith  sere  oak-leaves  did  Ursula  stand; 
Oh!   yet  alas  for  me! 

I  did  but  bear  a  peeled  white  wand. 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea. 


18 


O,  russet  brown  and  scarlet  bright, 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea, 

My  sisters  wore;   I  wore  but  white; 
Red,  brown,  and  white,  are  three; 

Three  damozels;  each  had  a  knight. 

When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea.  24 

Sir  Robert  shouted  loud,  and  said, 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea, 

''Alicia,  while  I  see  thy  head. 
What  shall  I  bring  for  thee?" 

' '  O,  my  sweet  Lord,  a  ruby  red :  * ' 

2'he  Sword  went  out  to  sea.  30 

Sir  Miles  said,  while  the  sails  hung  down. 

When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea, 
"O,  Ursula!   while  I  see  the  town, 

What  shall  I  bring  for  thee?" 
' '  Dear  knight,  bring  back  a  falcon  brown : ' ' 

The  Sword  tcent  out  to  sea.  36 

But  my  Roland,  no  word  he  said. 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea, 

But  only  turned  away  his  head; 
A  quick  shriek  came  from  me: 

' '  Come  back,  dear  lord,  to  your  white  maid ! ' ' 
The  Sicord  tcent  out  to  sea.  42 


The  hot  sun  bit  the  garden-beds 

When  the  Sward  came  back  from  sea; 

Beneath  an  apple-tree  our  heads 
Stretched   out   toward  the  sea; 

Gray  gleamed  the  thirsty  castle-leads, 
When  the  Sword  came  back  from  sea. 


48 


Lord  Robert  brought  a  ruby  red, 

When  the  Sword  came  back  from  sea; 

He  kissed  Alicia  on  the  head: 
'  *  1  am  come  back  to  thee ; 

'Tis  time,  sweet  love,  that  we  were  wed. 
Now  the  Sword  is  back  from  sea!" 

Sir  Miles  he  bore  a  falcon  brown, 

When  the  Sword  came  back  from  sea; 

His  arms  went  round  tall  Ursula's  gown: 
"What  joy,  O  love,  but  thee? 

Let  us  be  wed  in  the  good  town, 

Now  the  Stvord  is  back  from  sea!" 

My  heart  grew  sick,  no  more  afraid, 
When  the  Sword  came  back  from  sea; 

Upon  the  deck  a  tall  white  maid 
Sat  on  Lord  Roland 's  knee ; 

His  chin  was  pressed  upon  her  head, 
When  the  Stcord  came  back  from  sea! 


54 


CO 


704 


THE  VICTOBIAN  AGE 


10 


THE  BLUE  CLOSET.* 

The  DamoseU. 

Lady  Alice,  lady  Louise, 
Between  the  wash  of  the  tumbling  seas 
We  are  ready  to  sing,  if  so  ye  please: 
So  lay  your  long  hands  on  the  keys; 
Sing,  " Laudate  pueri."^ 

And  ever  the  great  tell  overhead 
Boomed  in  the  wind  a  knell  for  the  dead, 
Though  no  one  tolled  it,  a  knell  for  the  dead. 

Lady  Louise. 

Sister,  let  the  measure  swell 
Not  too  loud;  for  you  sing  not  well 
If  you  drown  the  faint  boom  of  the  bell; 
He  is  weary,  so  am  I. 

And  ever  the  chevron-  overhead 
Flapped  on  the  banner  of  the  dead; 
(Was  he  asleep,  or  was  he  dead?) 

Lady  Alice 

Alice  the  Queen,  and  Louise  the  Queen, 
Two  damozels  wearing  purple  and  green, 
Four  lone  ladies  dwelling  here 
From  day  to  day  and  year  to  year; 
And  there  is  none  to  let  us  go,  20 

To  break  the  locks  of  the  doors  below. 
Or  shovel  away  the  heaped-up  snow; 
And  when  we  die  no  man  will  know 
That  we  are  dead;  but  they  give  us  leave, 
Once  every  year  on   Christmas-eve, 
To  sing  in  the  Closet  Blue  one  song; 
And  we  should  be  so  long,  so  long. 
If  we  dared,  in  singing;  for  dream  on  dream, 
They  float  on  in  a  happy  stream; 
Float    from   the    gold    strings,   float   from   the 
keys,  30 

Float  from  the  opened  lips  of  Louise; 
But,  alas!   the  sea-salt  oozes  through 
The  chinks  of  the  tiles  of  the  Closet  Blue; 

And  ever  the  great  bell  overhead 
Booms  in  the  wind  a  knell  for  the  dead, 
The  wind  plays  on  it  a  knell  for  the  dead. 

They  Sing  All  Together 

How  long  ago  was  it,  how  long  ago. 

He  came  to  this  tower  with  hands  full  of  snowf 

1  "Praise  ye,  youths."     The  beginning  of   the   so- 

called  Irlsb  version  of  the  familiar  hymn,  Te 
Deum  Laudamua. 

2  A  V-shaped  device. 

•  Written  for  a  picture  (a  water-color)  by  Dante 
Gabriel  Rossetti.  The  romantic  theme,  the 
mediaeval  remoteness,  the  color  and  sound, 
the  sharpness  of  detail  with  the  vagueness 
of  general  outline  and  setting,  are  all  In  the 
early  Pre-Rnphaollfe  manner.  See  Eiig.  Lit., 
pp.  370,  374. 


' '  Kneel  down,  O  love  Louise,  kneel  down !  "  he 

said. 
And  sprinkled  the  dusty  snow  over  my  head.  40 

He  watched  the  snow  melting,  it  ran  through  my 

hair, 
Ean   over   my   shoulders,   white   shoulders   and 

bare. 

"I  cannot  weep  for  thee,  poor  love  Louise, 
For  my  tears  are   all   hidden  deep  under  the 

seas; 
In   a  gold  and  blue   casket   she  keeps  all  my 

tears. 
But   my   eyes   are   no    longer   blue,    as   in   old 

years; 

"Yea,  they  grow  gray  with  time,  grow  small 

and  dry, 
I  am  so  feeble  now,  would  I  might  die." 

And  in  truth  the  great  bell  overhead 

Left  off  his  pealing  for  the  dead,  50 

Perchance,  because  the  wind  was  dead. 

Will  he  come  back  again,  or  is  he  dead? 
O!  is  he  sleeping,  my  scarf  round  his  head? 

Or  did  they  strangle  him  as  he  lay  there. 
With  the  long  scarlet  scarf  I  used  to  wear? 

Only  I  pray  thee.  Lord,  let  him  come  here! 
Both   his   soul  and  his  body  to  me   are   most 
dear. 

Dear  Lord,  that  loves  me,  I  wait  to  receive 
Either  body  or  spirit  this  wild  Christmas-eve. 

Through  the  floor  shot  up  a  lily  red,  60 

With  a  patch  of  earth  from  the  land  of  the 

dead. 
For  he  was  strong  in  the  land  of  the  dead. 

What  matter  that  his  cheeks  were  pale. 

His  kind  kissed  lips  all  gray? 
"0,  love  Louise,  have  you  waited  long?" 

' '  O,  my  lord  Arthur,  yea. ' ' 

What  if  his  hair  that  brushed  her  cheek 

Was  stiff  with  frozen  rime? 
His  eyes  were  grown  quite  blue  again. 

As  in  the  happy  time.  70 

"O,  love  Louise,  this  is  the  key 

Of  the  happy  golden  land! 
O,  sisters,  cross  the  bridge  with  me, 

.My  eyes  are  full  of  sand. 
What  matter  that  I  cannot  see. 

If  ye  take  me  by  the  hand?" 


WILLIAM  MORRIS 


705 


And  ever  the  great  bell  overhead, 

And  the  tumbling  seas  mourned  for  the  dead; 

For  their  song  ceased,  and  they  were  dead! 

From  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE 

An  Apology 

Of  Heaven  or  Hell  I  have  no  power  to  sing, 
I  cannot  ease  the  burden  of  your  fears, 
Or  make  quick-coming  death  a  little  thing, 
Or  bring  again  the  pleasure  of  past  years. 
Nor  for  my  words  shall  ye  forget  your  tears. 
Or  hope  again  for  aught  that  I  can  say, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day.  7 

But  rather,  when  aweary  of  your  mirth. 
From  full  hearts  still  unsatisfied  ye  sigh, 
And,  feeling  kindly  unto  all  the  earth, 
Grudge  every  minute  as  it  passes  by. 
Made  the   more  mindful  that  the  sweet   days 

die— 
— Remember  me  a  little  then  I  pray. 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day.  14 

The  heavy  trouble,  the  bewildering  care 

That  weighs  us  down  who  live  and  earn  our 

bread, 
These  idle  verses  have  no  power  to  bear; 
So  let  me  sing  of  names  remembered. 
Because  they,  living  not,  can  ne'er  be  dead. 
Or  long  time  take  their  memory  quite  away 
From  us  poor  singers  of  an  empty  day.  21 

Dreamer  of  dreams,  born  out  of  my  due  time, 
Why  should  I  strive  to  set  the  crooked  straight? 
Let  it  suffice  me  that  my  murmuring  rhyme 
Beats  with  light  wing  against  the  ivory  gate,i 
Telling  a  tale  not  too  importunate 
To  those  who  in  the  sleepy  region  stay. 
Lulled  by  the  singer  of  an  empty  day.  28 

Folk  say,  a  wizard  to  a  northern  king 

At    Christmas-tide    such   wondrous    things    did 

show,    ■ 
That    through    one    window    men    beheld    the 

spring, 
And  through  another  saw  the  summer  glow, 
And  through  a  third  the  fruited  vines  a-row. 
While  still,  unheard,  but  in  its  wonted  way. 
Piped  the  drear  wind  of  that  December  day.    35 

So  with  this  Earthly  Paradise  it  is, 
If  ye  will  read  aright,  and  pardon  me, 
Who  strive  to  build  a  shadowy  isle  of  bliss 
Midmost  the  beating  of  the  steely  sea. 
Where  tossed  about  all  hearts  of  men  must  be; 


1  According  to  Greek  legend,  false  dreams  come 
through  the  gate  of  ivory,  true  dreams 
through  the  gate  of  horn. 


Whose    ravening    monsters    mighty    men    shall 

slay. 
Not  the  poor  singer  of  an  empty  day.  42 

Peom  LOVE  IS  ENOUGH 

Song  foe  Music 

Love  is  enough:  though  the  world  be  a- waning. 
And  the  woods  have  no  voice  but  the  voice  of 

complaining, 
Though  the  sky  be  too  dark  for  dim  eyes  to 

discover 
The  gold-cups  and  daisies  fair  blooming  there- 
under. 
Though  the  hills  be  held  shadows,  and  the  sea 

a  dark  wonder, 
And  this  day  draw  a  veil  over  all  deeds  passed 

over, 
Yet  their  hands  shall  not   tremble,   their   feet 

shall  not  falter, 
The  void   shall  not   weary,  the   fear   shall   not 

alter 
These  lips  and  these  eyes  of  the  loved  and 

the  lover. 

From  SIGURD  THE  VOLSUNG* 
Of  the  Passing  Away  of  Brynhild 

Once     more     on     the     morrow-morning     fair 

shineth  the  glorious  sun, 
And  the  Niblung  children  labour  on  a  deed  that 

shall  be  done; 
For  out  in  the  people's  meadows  they  raise  a 

bale2  on  high, 
The  oak  and  the  ash  together,  and  thereon  shall 

the  Mighty  lie; 

♦  The  Volsunga  Saga  is  an  older,  Norse  version  of 
the  legend  which  appears  in  German  literature 
as  the  A'ibelungenlied,  and  which  has  been 
made  familiar  in  modern  times  by  Wagner's 
opera  Der  Ring  des  yibelungen.  It  is  the 
great  Teutonic  race  epic.  Sigurd  (Siegfried, 
in  the  German  version)  is  the  grandson  of  Vol- 
sung,  who  was  a  descendant  of  Odin.  Bryn- 
hild was  originally  a  Valkyrie,  one  of  Odin's 
"Choosers  of  the  Slain,"  maidens  who  rode 
on  white  cloud-horses  and  visited  battle-fields 
to  select  heroes  for  Odin's  great  hall,  Valhalla. 
Sigurd  wakened  Brynhild  from  an  enchanted 
sleep  to  the  doom  of  mortal  life  and  love,  and 
they  plighted  troth.  But  their  love  was 
thwarted  at  the  court  of  the  Niblung  princes, 
Gunnar,  Hogni,  and  Guttorm.  and  their  sister 
Gudrun,  the^  children  of  Ginki.  Through  the 
witchcraft  of  Grlmhild,  Gudrun's  mother, 
Sigurd  is  made  to  lose  all  memory  of  Bryn- 
hild and  to  marry  Gudrun.  Moreover,  he  Is 
made  to  assist  in  bringing  about  the  marriage 
of  Brynhild  to  Gunnar.  Later,  as  a  result 
of  rivalry,  Guttorm  surprises  and  slays 
Sigurd,  but  Is  him.self  slain  by  Sigurd's  sword, 
the  "Wrath."  Then  follows  the  portion  of  the 
tale  here  given — the  pathetic  story  of  the 
means  taken  by  Brynhild  to  rejoin  Sigurd. 
MdVris's  metrical  rendering  of  the  entire 
legend  extends  to  about  ten  thousand  lines. 

-'  funeral  pile 


706 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Nor  gold  nor  steel  shall  be  lacking,  nor  savour 

of  sweet  spice, 
Nor  cloths  in  the  Southlands  woven,  nor  webs 

of  untold  price: 
The  work  grows,  toil  is  as  nothing;  long  blasts 

of  the  mighty  horn 
From  the  topmost  tower  out-wailing   o  'er  the 

woeful  world  are  borne. 

But  Brynhild  lay  in  her  chamber,  and   her 

women  went  and  came, 
And  they  feared  and  trembled  before  her,  and 

none  spake  Sigurd's  name;  iO 

But    whiles^    they    deemed    her    weeping,    and 

whiles  they  deemed  indeed 
That  she  spake,  if  they  might  but  hearken,  but 

no  words  their  ears  might  heed; 
Till  at  last  she  spake  out  clearly :     "I  know  not 

what  ye  would; 
For  ye  come  and  go  in  my  chamber,  and  ye 

seem  of  wavering  mood 
To  thrust  me  on,  or  to  stay  me;   to  help  my 

heart  in  woe, 
Or  to  bid  my  days  of  sorrow  midst  nameless 

folly  go." 

None  answered  the  word   of  Brynhild,  none 

knew  of  her  intent; 
But  she  spake:    "Bid  hither  Gunnar,  lest  the 

sun  sink  o'er  the  bent,* 
And  leave  the  words  unspoken  I  yet  have  will 

to  speak." 

Then  her  maidens  go  from  before  her,  and 

that  lord  of  war  they  seek,  20 

And  he   stands   by  the   bed   of   Brynhild   and 

strives  to  entreat  and  beseech, 
But  her  eyes  gaze  awfully  on  him,  and  his  lips 

may  learn  no  speech. 
And  she  saith:     "I  slept  in  the  morning,  or  1 

dreamed  in  the  \^aking-hour, 
And  my  dream  was  of  thee,  O  Gunnar,  and  the 

bed  in  thy  kingly  bower, 
And  the  house  that  I  blessed  in  my  sorrow,  and 

cursed  in  my  sorrow  and  shame, 
The  gates  of  an  ancient  people,  the  towers  of 

a  mighty  name; 
King,  cold  was  the  hall  I  have  dwelt  in,  and 

no  brand  burned  on  the  hearth ; 
Dead-cold  was  thy  bed,  O  Gunnar,  and  thy  land 

was  parched  with  dearth: 
But  I  saw  a  great  King  riding,  and  a  master 

of  the  harp, 
And  he  rode  amidst  of  the  foemen,  and    the 

swords  were  bitter-sharp,  30 

But  his  hand  in  the  hand-gyves  8mot«  not,  and 

his  feet  in  the  fetters  were  fast. 


s  at  times 


4  heath,  field 


While  many  a  word  of  mocking  at  his  speech- 
less face  was  cast.  "-^ 
Then  I  heard  a  voice  in  the  world :     '  0  woe 

for  the  broken  troth, 
And  the  heavy  Need  of  the  Niblungs,"  and  the 

Sorrow  of  Odin  the  Goth !  '^ 
Then  I  saw  the  halls  of  the  strangers,  and  the 

hills,  and  the  dark-blue  sea, 
Xor  knew  of  their  names  and  their  nations,  for 

earth  was  afar  from  me. 
But  brother  rose  up  against  brother,  and  blootl 

swam  over  the  board, 
And  women  smote  and  spared  not,  and  the  fire 

was  master  and  lord. 
Then,  then  was  the  moonless  mid-mirk,  and  1 

woke  to  the  day  and  the  deed — 
The  deed  that  earth  shall  name  not,  the  day  of 

its  bitterest  need.  40 

Many  words  have  I  said  in  my  life-days,  and 

little  more  shall  I  say; 
Ye  have  heard  the  dream  of  a  woman,  deal  with 

it  as  ye  may; 
For  meseems  the  world-ways  sunder,  and   the 

dusk  and  the  dark  is  mine, 
Till  I  come  to  the  hall  of  Freyia,^  where  the 

deeds  of  the  Mighty  shall  shine. ' ' 

So  hearkened  Gunnar  the  Niblung,  that  her 

words  he  understood. 
And  he  knew  she  was  set  on  the  death-stroke, 

and  he  deemed  it  nothing  good; 
But  he  said:     "I  have  hearkened,  and  heeded 

thy  death  and  mine  in  thy  words: 
I  have  done  the  deed  and  abide  it,  and  my  face 

shall  laugh  on  the  swords; 
But  thee,  woman,  I  bid  thee  abide  here  till  thy 

grief  of  soul  abate; 
Meseems  nought  lowly  nor  shameful  shall  be  the 

Niblung  fate;  50 

And  here  shalt  thou  rule  and  be  mighty,  and 

be  Queen  of  the  measureless  Gold," 
And  abase  the  Kings  and  upraise  them;   and 

anew  shall  thy  fame  be  told. 
And  as  fair  shall  thy  glory  blossom  as  the  fresh 

fields  under  the  spring. ' ' 

Then  he  casteth  his  arms  about  her,  and  hot 
is  the  heart  of  the  King 
For  the  glory  of  Queen  Brynhild  and  the  hopo 
of  her  days  of  gain, 

5  A   prophecy  of   Gunnar's   fate   nt    the   hands   of 

Atir  the  Eastern  King,  who  afterward  mar- 
ried Qudrun. 

6  That   is,    their    lime   of   need,    when    punishment 

began  to  overtalce  them. 

7  Tlie  sorrows  of  the  race  of  Odin. 

8  Tlie  goddess  of  love. 

9  The     lioard    of    the     Nibhings,     won    from     the 

Dwarfs,  or  smiths  who  dwelt  in  the  caverns 
of  the  earth.  The  curse  attached  to  this  treas- 
ure brought  sorrow  on  all  who  shared  in  it. 


WILLIAM  MORBIS 


707 


And  he  clean  forgetteth  Sigurd  and  the  foster- 
brother  slain; 

But  she  shrank  aback  from  before  him,  and 
cried :      ' '  Woe   worth   the   whileio 

For  the  thoughts  ye  drive  back  on  me,  and  the 
memory  of  your  guile! 

The  Kings  of  Earth  were  gathered,  the  wise  of 
men  were  met; 

On  the  death  of  a  woman's  pleasure  their  glo- 
rious hearts  were  set,"  60 

And  I  was  alone  amidst  them — ah,  hold  thy 
peace  hereof! 

Lest  the  thought  of  the  bitterest  hours  this  little 
hour  should  move. ' ' 

He  rose  abashed  from  before  her,  and  y€t  he 

lingered  there; 
Then   she   said:      "O   King   of   the   Niblungs, 

what  noise  do  I  hearken  and  hear? 
Why  ring  the  axes  and  hammers,  while  feet  of 

men  go  past. 
And   shields   from   the  walls   are    shaken,  and 

swords  on  the  pavement  cast, 
And  the  door  of  the  treasure  is  opened,  and  the 

horn  cries  loud  and  long, 
And  the  feet  of  the  Niblung  children  to  the 

people's  meadows  throng?" 

His  face  was  troubled  before  her,  and  again 

she  spake  and  said: 
"Meseemeth  this  is  the  hour  when  men  array 

the  dead;  "0 

Wilt   thou   tell   me   tidings,    Gunnar,   that   the 

children  of  thy  folk 
Pile  up  the  bale   for  Guttorm,  and   the  hand 

that  smote  the  stroke?" 

He  said:     "It  is  not  so,  Brynhild:  for  that 
Giuki's  soni2  was  burned 
When  the  moon  of  the  middle  heaven  last  night 
toward  dawning  turned." 

They  looked  on  each  other  and  spake  not; 

but  Gunnar  gat  him  gone, 
And  came  to  his  brother  Hogni,  the  wise-heart 

Giuki's  son. 
And  spake:     "Thou  art  wise,  O  Hogni;  go  in 

to  Brynhild  the  Queen, 
And  stay  her  swift  departing ;  or  the  last  of  her 

days  hath  she  seen. ' ' 

"  It  is  nought,  thy  word, ' '  said  Hogni ;  ' '  wilt 
thou  bring  dead  men  aback, 

10  woe  betide  the  time 

11  When  Sigurd.   In   the  guise   of  Gunnar.  walked 

through    the    flame    and    won    Brynhild    for 
Gunnar. 

12  Guttorm. 


Or  the  souls  of  Kings  departed  midst  the  battle 
and  the  wrack?  80 

Yet  this  shall  be  easier  to  thee  than  the  turn- 
ing Brynhild 's  heart; 

She  came  to  dwell  among  us,  but  in  us  she  had 
no  part; 

Let  her  go  her  ways  from  the  Niblungs,  with 
her  hand  in  Sigurd's  hand. 

Will  the  grass  grow  up  henceforward  where  her 
feet  have  trodden  the  land?" 

'  *  0    evil    day ! ' '    said    Gunnar,    ' '  when    my 

Queen  must  perish  and  die !  ' ' 
"Such  oft  betide,"  saith  Hogni,  "as  the  lives 

of  men  flit  by; 
But   the  evil  day  is   a   day,   and   on   each   day 

groweth  a  deed. 
And  a  thing  that  never  dieth;  and  the  fateful 

tale  shall  speed. 
Lo,  now,  let  us  harden  our  hearts  and  set  our 

brows  as  the  brass, 
Lest  men  say  it,  '  They  loathed  the  evil  and  they 

brought  the  evil  to  pass ' . "  90 

So  they  spake,  and  their  hearts  were  heavy, 
and  they  longed  for  the  morrow  morn, 
And  the  morrow  of  tomorrow,  and  the  new  day 
yet  to  be  born. 

But  Brynhild  cried  to  her  maidens:  "Now 
open  ark  and  chest, 

And  draw  forth  queenly  raiment  of  the  loveliest 
and  the  best; 

Red  rings  that  the  Dwarf-lords  fashioned,  fair 
cloths  that  Queens  have  sewed. 

To  array  the  bride  for  the  Mighty,  and  the  trav- 
eller for  the  road. ' ' 

They  wept  as  they  wrought  her  bidding  and 

did  on  her  goodliest  gear; 
But  she  laughed   'mid  the  dainty  linen,  and  the 

gold-rings   fashioned   fair; 
She  arose  from  the  bed  of  the  Niblungs,  and 

her  face  no  more  was  wan; 
As  a  star  in  the  dawn-tide  heavens,    'mid  the 

dusky  house  she  shone;  100 

And    they  that   stood   about   her,  their   hearts 

were  raised  aloft 
Amid  their  fear  and  wonder.     Then  she  spake 

them  kind  and  soft: 

"Now  give  me  the  sword,  O  maidens,  where- 
with I  sheared  the  wind 
When  the   Kings   of   Earth  were   gathered   to 
know  the  Chooser's  mind,  "is 

i:;  See  introductory  note,  p.  705. 


W8 


THE   VICTORIAN   AGE 


All   sheathed   the    maidens   brought    it,    and 

feared  the  hidden  blade, 
But  the  naked  blue-white  edges  across  her  knees 

she  laid, 
And  spake :     ' '  The  heaped-up  riches,  the  gear 

my  fathers  left. 
All  dear-bought  woven  wonders,  all  rings  from 

battle  reft, 
All  goods  of  men  desired,  now  strew  them  on 

the  floor. 
And  so  share  among  you,  maidens,  the  gifts  of 

Brynhild's  store."  110 

They  brought  them    'mid  their  weeping,  but 

none  put  forth  a  hand 
To  take  that  wealth  desired,  the  spoils  of  many 

a  land: 
There   they   stand   and  weep   before    her,   and 

some  are  moved  to  speech. 
And  they  cast  their  arms  about  her  and  strive 

with  her  and  beseech 
That  she  look  on  her  loved-ones'  sorrow  and  the 

glory  of  the  day. 
It  was  nought;  she  scarce  might  see  them^  and 

she  put  their  hands  away. 
And  she  said:     "Peace,  ye  that  love  m.e!    and 

take  the  gifts  and  the  gold 
In  remembrance  of  my  fathers  and  the  faith- 
ful deeds  of  old." 

Then  she  spake:      "Where  now  is  Guniiar, 

that  I  may  speak  Avith  him? 
For  new  things  are  mine  eyes  beholding  and 

the   Niblung  house  grows  dim,  120 

And   new   sounds   gather   about  me,   that   may 

hinder  me  to  speak 
When  the  breath  is  near  to  flitting,  and  the 

voice   is  waxen   weak." 

Then   upright   by  the  bed   of  the   Niblungs 

for  a   moment   doth   she   stand. 
And  the  blade  flasheth  bright  in  the  chamber, 

but   no  more  they  hinder  her  hand 
Than  if  a  god  were  smiting  to  rend  the  world 

in   two; 
Then  dulled  are  the  glittering  edges,  and  the 

bitter    point   cleaves    through 
The  breast  of  the  all-wise  Brynhild,  and  her 

feet    from  the  pavement   fail, 
And  the  sigh  of  her  heart  is  hearkened    'mid 

the  hush  of  the  maidens'  wail. 
Chill,   deep   is   the   fear  upon   them,   but  they 

bring  her  aback  to  the  bed, 
And  her  hand  is  yet  on  the  hilts,  and  sidelong 

droopeth    her   head.  130 

Then   there   cometh   a   cry    from   withoutward, 
and    Gunnar's   hurrying   feet 


Are  swift  on  the  kingly  threshold,  and  Bryn 

hild's  bleed  they  meet. 
Low  down  o  'er  the  bed  he  hangeth  and  beark 

eneth  for  her  word. 
And  her  heavy  lids  are  opened  to  look  on  th« 

Niblung  lord, 
And  she  saith :    *  *  I  pray  thee  a  prayer,  the  last 

word  in  the  world  I  speak. 
That  ye  bear  me  forth  to  Sigurd,  and  the  hand 

my  hand  would  seek; 
The  bale  for  the  dead  is  builded,  it  is  wrought 

full  wide  on  the  plain, 
It  is  raised  for  Earth 's  best  Helper,  and  there- 
on is  room  for  twain: 
Ye  have   hung   the   shields   about   it,   and   the 

Southland  hangings  spread; 
There  lay  me  ado.vn  by  Sigurd  and  my  head 

beside  his  head;  140 

But  ere  ye  leave  us  sleeping  draw  his  Wrath 

from,  out  the  sheath. 
And  lay  that  Light  of -the  Branstock*  and  the 

blade  that  frighted  death 
Betwixt  my  side  and  Sigurd's,  as  it  lay  that 

while  agone. 
When  once  in  one  bed  together  we  twain  were 

laid  alone: 
How  then  when  the  flamea  flare  upward  may  I 

be  left  behind? 
How  then  may  the  road  he  wendeth  be  hard 

for  my  feet  to  find? 
How  then  in  the  gates  of  Valhall  may  the  door 

of    the    gleaming    ring 
Clash  to  on  the  heel  of  Sigurd,  as  I  follow  on 

my  King?" 

Then   she  raised  herself  on  her   elbow,  but 

again   her   eyelids   sank. 
And  the  wound  by  the  sword-edge  whispered, 

as  her  heart  from  the  iron  shrank,       150 
And  she  moaned:      "0  lives  of  man-folk,  for 

unrest  all  overlong 
By  the   Father  were   ye   fashioned;    and   what 

hope   amendeth   wrong? 
Now  at  last,  0  my  beloved,  all  is  gone;  none 

else  is  near. 
Through  the  ages  of  all  ages,  never  sundered, 

shall  we  wear." 

Scarce  more  than  a  sigh  was  the  word,  as 
back  on  the  bed  she  fell, 
Nor  was  there  need  in  the  chamber  of  the  pass- 
ing of  Brynhild  to  tell; 

♦  Another  name  for  Sigurd's  sword.  The  Brin- 
Btock  was  a  groat  oak  tree  about  which  was 
built  the  ancestral  home  of  the  Volsungs.  The 
Hword,  sent  bv  Odin,  was  drawn  from  the 
Hranstock  by  Sigurd's  father.  It  was  later 
broken  into  pieces,  but  reforged  as  Dram,  or 
the  Wrath  of  Sigurd. 


WILLIAM  MORRIS 


709 


And  no  more  their  lamentation  might  the  maid- 
ens hold  aback, 

But  the  sound  of  their  bitter  mourning  was  as 
if  red-handed  wrack 

Ran  wild  in  the  Burg  of  the  Niblungs,  and  the 
fire  were  master  of  all. 

Then  the  voice  of  Gunnar,  the  war-king,  cried 
out  o  'er  the  weeping  hall :  160 

* '  Wail  on,  O  women  forsaken,  for  the  mightiest 
woman  born! 

Now  the  hearth  is  cold  and  joyless,  and  the 
waste  bed  lieth  forlorn. 

Wail  on,  but  amid  your  weeping  lay  hand  to 
the  glorious  dead, 

That  not  alone  for  an  hour  may  lie  Queen 
Brynhild's  head: 

For  here  have  been  heavy  tidings,  and  the 
Mightiest  under  shield 

Is  laid  on  the  bale  high-builded  in  the  Ni- 
blungs'  hallowed   field. 

Fare  forth!  for  he  abideth,  and  we  do  All- 
father   wrong 

If  the  shining  Valhall's  pavement  await  their 
feet  o'erlong. " 

Then  they  took  the  body  of  Brynhild  in  the 
raiment  that  she  wore, 

And  out  through  the  gate  of  the  Niblungs 
the  holy  corpse  they  bore,  170 

And  thence  forth  to  the  mead  of  the  people, 
and   the   high-built   shielded   bale: 

Then  afresh  in  the  open  meadows  breaks  forth 
the  women's  wail 

When  they  see  the  bed  of  Sigurd  and  the  glit- 
tering of  his  gear; 

And  fresh  is  the  wail  of  the  people  as  Bryn- 
hild draweth  anear, 

And  the  tidings  go  before  her  that  for  twain 
the  bale  is  built. 

That  for  twain  is  the  oak-wood  shielded  and 
the  pleasant  odours  spilt. 

There  is  peace  on  the  bale  of  Sigurd,  and 

the  gods  look  down  from  on  high, 
And  they  see  the  lids  of  the  Volsung  close  shut 

against    the    sky. 
As  he  lies   with   his   shield   beside   him   in  the 

hauberk  all  of  gold. 
That  has  not  its  like   in  the  heavens,  nor  has 

earth  of  its  fellow  told;  ISO 

And  forth  from  the  Helm  of  Aweingi*  are  the 

sunbeams   flashing  wide, 


14  Or  the  Helm  of  Dread,   won  by  the  slaying  of 
the  dragon  Fafnir. 


And   the  sheathed  Wrath  of  Sigurd  lies  still 

by  his  mighty  side. 
Then  cometh  an  elder  of  days,  a  man  of  the 

ancient  times, 
Who    is    long    past    sorrow    and    joy,    and    the 

steep  of  the  bale  he  climbs; 
And  he  kneeleth  down  by  Sigurd,  and  bareth 

the   Wrath   to   the   sun 
That    the    beams   are   gathered   about   it,    and 

from  hilt  to  blood-point  run, 
And  wide  o'er  the  plain  of  the  Niblungs  doth 

the  Light  of  the  Branstock  glare. 
Till  the  wondering  mountain-shepherds  on  that 

star  of  noontide  stare. 
And   fear   for  many   an  evil;    but  the   ancient 

man  stands  still 
With  the  war-flame  on  his  shoulder,  nor  thinks 

of  good  or  of  ill,  190 

Till  the  feet  of  Brynhild  's  bearers  on  the  top- 
most bale  are  laid, 
And  her  bed  is  dighti"-   by  Sigurd's;   then  he 

sinks   the  pale   white  blade 
And  lays  it  'twixt  the  sleepers,  and  leaves  them 

there  alone — 
He,  the  last  that  shall  ever  behold  them, — and 

his  days  are  well-nigh  done. 

Then  is  silence  over  the  plain;   in  the  noon 

shine  the  torches  pale, 
As  the  best  of  the  Niblung  Earl-folkis  bear  fire 

to   the   builded  bale: 
Then  a  wind  in  the  west  ariseth,  and  the  white 

flames  leap  on  high. 
And  with  one  voice  crieth  the  people  a  great 

and  mighty  cry, 
And  men  cast   up  hands  to  the   Heavens,  and 

pray  without  a  word. 
As  they  that  have  seen  God 's  visage,  and  the 

voice  of  the  Father  have  heard.  200 

They  are  gone — the  lovely,  the  mighty,  the 

hope   of   the   ancient   Earth: 
It  shall  labour  and  bear  the  burden  as  before 

that  day  of  their  birth; 
It  shall  groan  in  its  blind  abiding  for  the  day 

that  Sigurd  hath  sped, 
And  the  hour  that  Brynhild  hath  hastened,  and 

the  dawn  that  waketh  the  dead ; 
It   shall   yearn,   and   be   oft-times   holpen,   and 

forget   their   deeds   no  more, 
Till   the  new  sun   beams   on  Baldur,   and    the 

happy  sealess  shore.* 

15  prepared 

10  The  nobles,  or  warriors,  as  opposed  to  the  churls. 

*  Alluding  to  the  new  heaven,  that  is  to  arise 
after  the  Twilight  of  the  Gods,  when  Baldur 
the  Good  shall  be  released  from  Hel  and 
I  reign  in  the  seats  of  the  old  gods. 


710 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


THE  VOICE  OF  TOIL* 

I  heard  men  saying,  Leave  hope  and  praying, 
All  days  shall  be  as  all  have  been; 
To-day  and  to-morrow  bring  fear  and  sorrow, 
The  never-ending  toil  between. 

When  Earth  was  younger  mid  toil  and  hunger, 
In  hope  we  strove,  and  our  hands  were  strong; 
Then  great  men  led  us,  with  words  they  fed  us. 
And  bade  us  right  the  earthly  wrong.  8 

Go  read  in  story  their  deeds  and  glory. 
Their  names  amidst  the  nameless  dead; 
Turn  then  from  lying  to  us  slow-dying 
In  that  good  world  to  which  they  led; 

Where  fast  and  faster  our  iron  master, 
The  thing  we  made,  for  ever  drives, 
Bids  us  grind  treasure  and  fasliion  pleasure 
For  other  hopes  and  other  lives.  16 

W^here  home  is  a  hovel  and  dull  we  grovel, 

Forgetting  that  the  world  is  fair; 

Where   no  babe  we  cherish,  lest  its  very  soul 

perish ; 
Where  mirth  is  crime,  and  love  a  snare. 

Who  now  shall  lead  us,  what  god  shall  heed  us 
As  we  lie  in  the  hell  our  hands  have  won? 
For  us  are  no  rulers  but  fools  and  befoolers, 
The  great  are  fallen,  the  wise  men  gone.       24 

I  heard  men  saying,  Leave  tears  and  praying. 

The  sharp  knife  heedeth  not  the  sheep; 

Are   we    not    stronger   than    the   rich    and    the 

wronger. 
When  day  breaks  over  dreams  and  sleep! 

Come,  shoulder  to  shoulder  ere  the  world  grows 

older ! 
Help  lies  in  nought  but  thee  and  me; 
Hope  is  before  us,  the  long  years  that  bore  us 
Bore  leaders  more  than  men  may  be.  32 

Let  dead  hearts  tarry  and  trade  and  marry. 
And  trembling  nurse  their  dreams  of  mirth, 
While  we  the  living  our  lives  are  giving 
To  bring  the  bright  new  world  to  birth. 

Come,   shoulder   to   shoulder   ere   earth    grows 

older ! 
The  Cause  spreads  over  land  and  sea; 
Now  the  world  shaketh,  and  fear  awaketh, 
And  joy  at  last  for  thee  and  me.  40 

•  This  poem,  now  printed  \n  Morris's  Poema  hy 
thi-  Way,  was  tirst  published.  In  188r»,  In  a 
paniphlft  railed  Chants  for  HoclallntH.  'Tin* 
CauM*-"  mentioned  In  the  last  Htany.a  Is  of 
coiifc  Hoelaliom.  in  which  MoitIb  whh  much 
InliTfsted  In  hlH  later  life. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWIN- 
BURNE (1837-1909) 

From  AT AL ANT A  IN  CALYDON 

Choeus 

When   the   hounds   of   spring   are   on    winter's 
traces. 

The  mother  of  monthsf  in  meadow  or  plain 
Fills  the  shadows  and  windy  places 

With  lisp  of  leaves  and  ripple  of  rain; 
And    the    brown    bright    nightingale    amorous 
Is  half  assuaged  for  Itylus,i 
For  the  Thracian  ships  and  the  foreign  faces, 

The  tongueless  vigil,  and  all  the  pain.  8 

Come   with   bows  bent  and  with   emptying  of 
quivers, 
Maiden  most  perfect,  lady  of  light. 
With  a  noise  of  winds  and  many  rivers, 

With  a  clamour  of  waters,  and  with  miglit; 
Bind  on  thy  sandals,   O   thou  most  fleet, 
0\-er  the  splendour  and  speed  of  thy  feet; 
For    the    faint    east    quickens,    the    wan    west 
shivers. 
Round  the  feet  of  the  day  and  the  feet  of 
the  night.  16 

Where   shall    we    find    her,   how   shall   we   sing 
to  her, 
Fold  our  hands  round  her  knees,  and  cling  f 
O    that    man's   heart    were    as    fire   and   could 
spring  to  her, 
Fire,    or    the   strength   of   the    streams   that 
spring! 
For  the  stars  and  the  winds  are  unto  her 
As  raiment,  as  songs  of  the  harp-player; 
For  the  risen  stars  and  the  fallen  cling  to  her, 
And   the  southwest-wind   and   the  west-wind 
sing.  24 

For  winter's  rains  and  ruins  are  over. 

And  all  the  season  of  snows  and  sins; 
The   days  dividing   lover  and   lover. 

The   light    that   loses,   the   night   that   wins; 
And  time  remembered  is  grief  forgotten, 
And  frosts  are  slain  and  flowers  begotten, 
And  in  green  underwood  and  cover 

Blossom  by  blossom  the  spring  begins.       32 

The  full  streams  feed  on  flower  of  rushes, 
Ripe  grasses  trammel  a  travelling  foot,    ' 

t  Artemlg,  or  Diana,  the  goddess  of  the  moon ; 
also  the  goddess  of  the  hunt — see  next  stanza. 
<^ompare  Shelley's  Promcfhctm  T'nboiiii<l.  Iv, 
•-'07. 

1  Alluding  to  the  old  Thracian  Icijcnd  of  Philo- 
mela and  I'roino. 


ALGERNON  CHAKLES  SWINBUBNE 


711 


The    faint    fresh    flame    of    the    young    year 
flushes 

From  leaf  to  flower  and  flower  to  fruit ; 
And  fruit  and  leaf  are  as  gold  and  fire, 
And  the  oat  is  heard  above  the  lyre,t 
And  the  hoof&d  heel  of  a  satyr  crushes 

The  chestnut-husk  at  the  chestnut-root.         40 

And  Pan  by  noon  and  Batchus  by  night, 
Fleeter  of  foot  than  the  fleet-foot  kid, 
Follows  with  ilancing  and  fills  with  deligh'. 

The   Maenad  and   the  Bassarid;^ 
And  soft  as  lips  that  laugh  and  hide, 
The  laughing  leaves  of  the  trees  divide, 
And  screen  from  seeing  and  leave  in  sight 
The  god  pursuing,  the  maiden  hid.  4S 

The  ivy  falls  with  the  Bacchanal's  hair 
Over  her  eyebrows  hiding  her  eyes; 

The  wild  vine  slipping  down  leaves  bare 
Her  bright  breast  shortening  into  sighs; 

The    wild    vine    slips    with    the    weight    of    its 
leaves, 

But  the  berried  ivy  catches  and  cleaves 

To  the  limbs  that  glitter,  the  feet  that  scare 
The  wolf  that  follows,  the  fawn  that  flies.  50 

A  LEAVE-TAKING 

Let  us  go  hence,  my  songs;   she  will  not  hear. 
Let  us  go  hence  together  without  fear; 
Keep   silence  now,   for   singing-time   is   over. 
And  over  all  old  things  and  all  things  dear. 
She  loves  not  jou  nor  me  as  all  we  love  her. 
Yea,  though  we  sang  as  angels  in  her  ear, 

She  would   not  hear.  7 

Let  us  rise  up  and  part ;  she  will  not  know. 
Let  us  go  seaward  as  the  great  winds  go, 
Full  of  blown  sand  and  foam;   what   help   is 

here? 
There  is  no  help,  for  all  these  things  are  so. 
And  all  the  world  is  bitter  as  a  tear; 
And  how  these  things  are,  though  ye  strove  to 

show, 

She  would  not  know.  14 

Let  us  go  home  and  hence;  she  will  not  weep. 
We  gave  love  many  dreams  and  days  to  keep, 
Flowers  without   scent,   and   fruits  that   would 

not  grow, 
Saying,  "If  thou  wilt,  thrust  in  thy  sickle  and 

reap. '  * 

s  Names    for   bacchanals,    or   frenzied   votaries   of 

Bacchus. 
t  That    is.    pastornl.    ont-of-door    music    takes    the 

place   of   indoor,   festal   song :    Pan   supplants 

Apollo.     An  oat  Is  a  shepherd's  pipe  madi-  of 

an  oat  stem. 


All  is  reaped  now;  no  grass  is  left  to  mow; 
And    we    that    sowed,    though    all    we    fell    on 
sleep, 
She  would  not  weep.  21 

Let  us  go  hence  and  rest ;  she  will  not  love. 
She  shall  not  hear  us  if  we  sing  hereof. 
Nor   see  love's  ways,  how   sore  they  are  and 

steep. 
Come  hence,  let  be,  lie  still;  it  is  enough. 
Love  is  a  barren  sea,  bitter  and  deep; 
And  though  she  saw  all  heaven  in  flower  above. 
She  would  not  love.  28 

Let  us  give  up,  go  down;  she  will  not  care. 
Tliough  all  the  stars  made  gold  of  all  the  air. 
And  the  sea  moving  saw  before  it  move 
One   moon-flower   making   all   the   foam-flowers 

fair, 
Though  all  those  waves  went  over  us,  and  drove 
Deep  down  the  stifling  lips  and  drowning  hair, 
She  would  not  care.  35 

Let  us  go  hence,  go  hence;  she  will  not  see. 
Sing  all  once  more  together;   surely  she, 
She,    too,    remembering    days   and    words    that 

were, 
Will  turn  a  little  toward  us,  sighing;   but  we. 
We  are  hence,  we  are  gone,  as  though  we  had 

not  been  there. 
Nay,  and  though  all  men  seeing  had  pity  on  me. 
She   would   not   see.  42 

HYMN   TO   PROSERPINE* 

(After  the  Proclamation  in  Rome  of  thb 
Christian  Faith) 

Vicisti,  Galilcee 

I  have  lived  long  enough,  having  seen  one  thing, 
that  love  hath  an  end; 

Goddess  and  maiden  and  queen,  be  near  me 
now  and  befriend. 

Thou  art  more  than  the  day  or  the  morrow,  the 
seasons  that  laugh  or  that  weep ; 

For  these  give  joy  and  sorrow ;  but  thou,  Pros- 
erpina, sleep. 

Sweet  is  the  treading  of  wine,  and  sweet  the 
feet  of  the  dove; 

♦  Proserpine,  or  Proserpina,  was  the  Roman  god- 
dess of  death  and  the  under  world.  The 
Latin  motto  set  before  this  poem  means 
"Thou  hast  conquered,  Galilean."  The  words 
are  traditionally  ascribed  to  the  dyinj?  Em- 
peror .Julian — Julian  "the  apostate,"  who  had 
been  brought  up  as  a  Christian  but  who  re- 
verted to  paganism  after  his  accession  to  the 
throne.  The  poem  attempts  to  portray  the 
sentiment  of  expiring  paganism ;  Swinburne 
called  it  "tho  death-song  of  spiritual  deca- 
dence." 


712 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


But  a  goodlier  gift  is  thine  than  foam  of  the 
grapes  or  love. 

Yea,  is  not  even  Apollo,  with  hair  and  harp- 
string  of  gold, 

A  bitter  God  to  follow,  a  beautiful  God  to 
behold  t 

I  am  sick  of  singing;  the  bays  burn  deep  and 
chafe;  I  am  fain 

To  rest  a  little  from  praise  and  grievous  pleas- 
ure and  pain.  10 

For  the  Gods  we  know  not  of,  who  give  us  our 
daily  breath. 

We  know  they  are  cruel  as  love  or  life,  and 
lovely  as  death. 

0  Gods    dethroned    and    deceased,    cast    forth, 

wiped  out  in  a  day! 

From  your  wrath  is  the  world  released,  re- 
deemed from  your  chains,  men  say. 

New  Gods  are  crowned  in  the  city,  their  flow- 
ers have  broken  your  rods; 

They  are  merciful,  clothed  with  pity,  the  young 
compassionate    Gods. 

But  for  me  their  new  device  is  barren,  the  days 
are  bare; 

Things  long  past  over  suflSce,  and  men  forgot- 
ten that  were. 

Time  and  the  Gods  are  at  strife:  ye  dwell  in 
the  midst  thereof. 

Draining  a  little  life  from  the  barren  breasts 
of  love.  20 

1  say  to  you,  cease,  take  rest ;  yea,  I  say  to  you 

all,  be  at  peace. 
Till  the  bitter  milk  of  her  breast  and  the  bar- 
ren bosom  shall  cease. 
Wilt  thou  yet  take  all,  Galilean?  but  these  thou 

shalt  not  take, 
The  laurel,  the  palms,  and  the  paean,  the  breasts 

of  the  nymphs  in  the  brake; 
Breasts  more  soft  than  a  dove 's,  that  tremble 

with  tenderer  breath; 
And  all  the  wings  of  the  Loves,  and  all  the  joy 

before  death; 
All  the  feet  of  the  hours  that  sound  as  a  single 

lyre, 
Dropped  and  deep  in  the  flowers,  with  strings 

that  flicker  like  fire. 
More  than  these  wilt  thou  give,  things  fairer 

than  all  these  things? 
Nay,  for  a  little  we  live,  and  life  hath  mutable 

wings.  30 

A  little  while  and  we  die;  shall  life  not  thrive 

as  it  mayf 
For  no  man  under  the  sky  lives  twice,  outliving 

his  day. 
And  grief  is  a  grievous  thing,  and  a  man  hath 

enough  of  bis  tears: 


Why  should  he  labour  and  bring  fresh  grief  to 

blacken  his  years? 
Thou  hast  conquered,  O  pale  Galilean ;  the  world 

has  grown  gray  from  thy  breath; 
We  have  drunken  of  things  Lethean,  and  fed 

on  the  fulness  of  death. 
Laurel  is  green  for  a  season,  and  love  is  sweet 

for  a  day; 
But  love  grows  bitter  with  treason,  and  laurel 

outlives  not  May. 
Sleep,  shall  we  sleep  after  all?  for  the  world 

is  not  sweet  in  the  end; 
For   the   old   faiths  loosen  and   fall,   the   new- 
years  ruin  and  rend.  40 
Fate  is  a  sea  without  shore,  and  the  soul  is  a 

rock  that  abides; 
But  her  ears  are  vexed  with  the  roar  and  her 

face  with  the  foam  of  the  tides. 
O  lips  that  the  live  blood  faints  in,  the  leavings 

of  racks  and  rods! 

0  ghastly  glories  of  saints,  dead  limbs  of  gib- 

beted Gods! 
Though    all    men    abase    them    before    you    in 
spirit,  and  all  knees  bend, 

1  kneel  not,  neither  adore  you,  but   standing, 

look  to  the  end. 
All  delicate  days  and  pleasant,  all  spirits  and 

sorrows  are  cast 
Far   out   with   the   foam    of   the   present   that 

sweeps  to  the  surf  of  the  past; 
Where  beyond   the   extreme   sea-wall,   and    be- 
tween the  remote  sea-gates. 
Waste  water   washes,   and   tall  shipi   founder, 

and  deep  death  waits:  50 

Where,  mighty  with  deepening  sides,  clad  about 

with  the  seas  as  with  wings, 
And   impelled   of  invisible   tides,   and   fulfilled 

of  unspeakable  things. 
White-eyed  and  poisonous-finned,  shark-toothed 

and  serpentine-curled. 
Rolls,  under  the  whitening  wind  of  the  future, 

the  wave  of  the  world. 
The  depths  stand  naked  in  sunder  behind   it, 

the  storms  flee  away; 
In  the  hollow  before  it  the  thunder  is  taken 

and  snared  as  a  prey; 
In  its  sides  is  the  north-wind  bound;  and  its 

salt  is  of  all  men's  tears; 
With  light  of  ruin,  and  sound  of  changes,  and 

pulse  of  years; 
With  travail  of  day  after  day,  and  with  trouble 

of  hour  upon  hour; 
And    bitter    as   blood    is   the    spray;    and    the 

crests  are  as  fangs  that  devour:  60 

And  its  vapour  and  storm  of  its  steam  as  the 

sighing  of  spirits  to  be; 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 


713 


And  its  noise  as  the  noise  in  a  dream;  and  its 

depth  as  the  roots  of  the  sea: 
And  the  height  of  its  heads  as  the  height  of  the 

utmost  stars  of  the  air; 
And  the  ends  of  the  earth  at  the  might  thereof 

tremble,  and  time  is  made  bare. 
Will  ye  bridle  the  deep  sea  with  reins,  will  ye 

chasten  the  high  sea  with  rods? 
Will  ye  take  her  to  chain  her  with  chains,  who 

is  older  than  all  ye  Gods? 
All  ye  as  a  wind  shall  go  by,  as  a  fire  shall  ye 

pass  and  be  past; 
Ye  are  Gods,  and  behold  ye  shall  die,  and  the 

waves  be  upon  you  at  last. 
In  the  darkness  of  time,  in  the  deeps  of  the 

years,  in  the  changes  of  things, 
Ye  shall  sleep  as  a  slain  man  sleeps,  and  the 

world  shall  forget  you  for  kings.  70 

Though   the   feet   of   thine   high   priests   tread 

where  thy  lords  and  our  forefathers  trod, 
Though   these   that   were   Gods   are   dead,   and 

thou  being  dead  art  a  God, 
Though  before  thee  the  throned  Cytherean  be 

fallen,  and  hidden  her  head. 
Yet  thy  kingdom  shall  pass,  Galilean,  thy  dead 

shall  go  down  to  thee  dead. 
Of  the  maiden  thy  mother,  men  sing  as  a  god- 
dess with  grace  clad  around; 
Thou    art    throned    where    another    was    king; 

where  another  was  queen  she  is  crowned. 
Yea,  once  we  had  sight  of  another;   but  now 

she  is  queen,  say  these. 
Not  as  thine,  not  as  thine  was  our  mother,  a 

blossom  of  flowering  seas,i 
Clothed  round  with  the  world 's  desire  as  with 

raiment,  and  fair  as  the  foam. 
And  fleeter  than  kindled  fire,  and   a  goddess 

and  mother  of  Rome.  80 

For  thine  came  pale  and  a  maiden,  and  sister 

to  sorrow;  but  ours, 
Her  deep  hair  heavily  laden  with  odour  and 

colour  of  flowers, 
White   rose   of  the   rose-white   water,   a   silver 

splendour,  a  flame. 
Bent  down  unto  us  that  besought  her,  and  earth 

grew  sweet  with  her  name. 
For  thine  came  weeping,  a  slave  among  slaves, 

and  rejected;  but  she 
Came  flushed  from  the  full-flushed  wave,  and 

imperial,  her  foot  on  the  sea, 
And  the  wonderful  waters  knew  her,  the  winds 

and  the  viewless  ways. 
And  the  roses  grew  rosier,  and  bluer  the  sea- 
blue  stream  of  the  bays. 
Ye  are  fallen,  our  lords,  by  what  token?  we  wist 

that  ye  should  not  fall. 

1  Vcnas,  bom  of  the  foam. 


Ye  were  all  so  fair  that  are  broken;  and  one 
more  fair  than  ye  all.  90 

But  I  turn  to  her  still,  having  seen  she  shall 
surely  abide  in  the  end; 

Goddess  and  maiden  and  queen,  be  near  me 
now  and  befriend. 

0  daughter  of  earth,  of  my  mother,  her  crown 

and  blossom  of  birth, 

1  am  also,  I  also,  thy  brother;  I  go  as  I  came 

unto  earth. 
In  the  night  where  thine  eyes  are  as  moons  are 

in  heaven,  the  night  where  thou  art, 
Where  the  silence  is  more  than  all  tunes,  where 

sleep  overflows  from  the  heart. 
Where  the  poppies  are  sweet  as  the  rose  in  our 

world,  and  the  red  rose  is  white. 
And  the  wind  falls  faint  as  it  blows  with  the 

fume  of  the  flowers  of  the  night. 
And  the  murmur  of  spirits  that  sleep   in  the 

shadow  of  Gods  from  afar 
Grows  dim  in  thine  ears  and  deep  as  the  deep 

dim  soul  of  a  star,  100 

In  the    sweet  low  light  of  thy  face,  under  heav- 
ens untrod  by  the  sun. 
Let   my   soul   with   their   souls   find   place,   and 

forget  what  is  done  and  undone. 
Thou  art  more  than  the  Gods  who  number  the 

days  of  our  temporal  breath; 
For  these  give  labour  and  slumber;   but  thou, 

Proserpina,   death. 
Therefore  now  at  thy  feet  I  abide  for  a  season 

in  silence.     I  know 

1  shall  die  as  my  fathers  died,  and  sleep  as  they 

sleep;  even  so. 
For  the  glass  of  the  years  is  brittle  wherein  we 

gaze  for  a  span; 
A  little  soul  for  a  little  bears  up  this  corpse 

which  is  man.2 
So   long   I   endure,   no   longer;    and   laugh   not 

again,  neither  weep. 
For  there  is  no  God  found  stronger  than  death; 

and  death  is  a  sleep.  HO 

PRELUDE  OF  SONGS  BEFORE  SUNRISE* 

Between  the  green  bud  and  the  red 
Youth  sat  and  sang  by  Time,  and  shed 
From  eyes  and  tresses  flowers  and  tears. 
From  heart  and  spirit  hopes  and  fears, 

2  Adapted  from  Epictetus. 

•  Swinburne's  Songs  Before  Sunrise,  published  In 
1871.  and  dedicated  to  .Joseph  Mazzini,  the 
Italian  patriot,  are  a  noteworthy  contribution 
to  the  poetry  of  political  and  religious  free- 
dom. They  were  mainly  inspired  by  the  long 
struggle  for  a  free  and  united  Italy.  The  par- 
tial union  of  Italy,  effected  in  1861,  was  com- 
pleted by  the  occupation  of  Rome  in  1870, 
but  the  government  was  monarchical,  and 
not  republican,  as  the  more  ardent  revolu- 
tionists had  hoped. 


714 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Upou  the  hollow  stream  whose  bed 
Is  channelled  by  the  foamless  years; 

And  with  the  white  the  gold-haired  head 
Mixed  running  locks,  and  in  Time's  ears 

Youth 's  dreams  hung  singing,  and  Time 's  truth 

Was  half  not  harsh  in  the  ears  of  Youth.       10 

Between  the  bud  and  the  blown  flower 
Youth  talked  with  joy  and  grief  an  hour, 

With  footless  joy  and  wingless  grief 

And  twin-born  faith  and  disbelief 
Who  share  the  seasons  to  devour; 

And  long  ere  these  made  up  their  sheaf 
Felt  the  winds  round  him  shake  and  shower 

The  rose-red  and  the  blood-red  leaf, 
Delight  whose  germ  grew  never  grain. 
And  passion  dyed  in  its  own  pain.  ^0 

Then  he  stood  up,  and  trod  to  dust 
Fear  and  desire,  mistrust  and  trust. 

And  dreams  of  bitter  sleep  and  sweet, 

And  bound  for  sandals  on  his  feet 
Knowledge  and  patience  of  what  must 

And  what  things  may  be,  in  the  heat 
And  cold  of  years  that  rot  and  rust 

And  alter;  and  his  spirit's  meat 
Was  freedom,  and  his  staff  was  wrought 
Of  strength,  and  his  cloak  woven  of  thought.  30 

For  what  has  he  whose  will  sees  clear 
To  do  with  doubt  and  faith  and  fear, 

Swift  hopes  and  slow  despondencies? 

His  heart  is  equal  with  the  sea's 
And  with  the  sea-wind's,  and  his  ear 

Is  level  to  the  speech  of  these. 
And  his  soul  communes  and  takes  cheer 

With  the  actual  earth's  equalities, 
Air,  light,  and  night,  hills,  winds,  and  streams. 
And     seeks    not    strength     from     strength  less 
dreams.  40 

His  soul  is  even  with  the  sun 
Whose  spirit  and  whose  eyes  are  one, 

Who  seeks  not  stars  by  day  nor  light 

And  heavy  heat  of  day  by  night. 
Him  can  no  God  cast  down,  whom  none 

Can  lift  in  hope  beyond  the  height 
Of  faith  and  nature  and  things  done 

By  the  calm  rule  of  might  and  right 
That  bids  men  be  and  bear  and  do, 
And  die  beneath  blind  skies  or  blue.  50 

To  him  the  lights  of  even  and  morn 
Speak  no  vain  things  of  love  or  s<'orn, 

Fancies  and  passions  miscreate 

By  man  in  things  dispasnionate. 
Nor  holds  he  fellowship  forlorn 

With  souls  that  pray  and  hope  and  hate, 


And  doubt  they  had  better  not  been  born, 

And  fain  would  lure  or  scare  off  fate 
And  charm  their  doomsman  from  their  doom 
And  make  fear  dig  its  own  false  tomb.  60 

He  builds  not  half  of  doubts  and  half 
Of  dreams  his  own  soul's  cenotaph. 

Whence  hopes  and  fears  with  helpless  eyes, 

Wrapt  loose  in  cast-off  cerecloths,  rise 
And  dance  and  wring  their  hands  and  laugh, 

And  weep  thin  tears  and  sigh  light  sighs. 
And  without  living  lips  would  quaff 

The  living  spring  in  man  that  lies, 
And  drain  his  soul  of  faith  and  strength 
It  might  have  lived  on  a  life's  length.  70 

He  hath  given  himself  and  hath  not  sold 
To  God  for  heaven  or  man  for  gold, 

Or  grief  for  comfort  that  it  gives, 

Or  joy  for  grief's  restoratives. 
He  hath  given  himself  to  time,  whose  fold 

Shuts  in  the  mortal  flock  that  lives 
On  its  plain  pasture's  heat  and  cold 

And  the  equal  year's  alternatives. 
Earth,  heaven,  and  time,  death,  life,  and  he. 
Endure  while  they  shall  be  to  be.  80 

"Yet  between  death  and  life  are  hours 
To  flush  with  love  and  hide  in  flowers; 

What  profit  save  in  these f"  men  cry: 

"Ah,  see,  between  soft  earth  and  sky. 
What  only  good  things  here  are  ours !  ' ' 

They  say,  "What  better  wouldst  thou  try, 
What  sweeter  sing  of?  or  what  powers 

Serve,  that  will  give  thee  ere  thou  die 
More  joy  to  sing  and  be  less  sad. 
More  heart  to  play  and  grow  more  glad?"     90 

Play  then  and  sing;  we  too  have  played, 
We  likewise,  in  that  subtle  shade. 

We  too  have  twisted  through  our  hair 

Such  tendrils  as  the  wild  Loves  wear. 
And  heard  what  mirth  the  Ma?nadsi  made, 

Till  the  wind  blew  our  garlands  bare 
And  left  their  roses  disarrayed. 

And  smote  the  summer  with  strange  air, 
And  disengirdled  and  discrowned  99 

Tlie  limbs  and  locks  that  vine-wreaths  bound. 

We  too  have  tracked  by  star-proof  trees 
The  tempest  of  the  Thyiadesi 

Scare  the  lou<l  night  on  hills  that  hid 

The  blood-feasts  of  the  Bassarid.i 
Heard  their  song's  iron  cadences 

Fright  the  wolf  hungering  from  the  kid, 
Outroar  the  lion-throated  seas, 

Outchide  the  north-wind  if  it  chid, 
And  hush  the  torrent-tongued  ravines 
With  thunders  of  their  tambourines.  110 

t  Anclont  names  of  votaries  of  Bacchus. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 


715 


120 


130 


But  the  fierce  flute  whose  notes  acclaim 
Dim  goddesses  of  fiery  fame, 

(  vmbal  and  clamorous  kettledrum, 

Timbrels  and  tabrets,  all  are  dumb 
That  turned  the  high  chill  air  to  flame; 

The  singing  tongues  of  fire  are  numb 
That  called  on  Cotyss  by  her  name 

Edonian,-till  they  felt  her  come 
And  maddened,  and  her  mystic  face 
Lightened  along  the  streams  of  Thrace. 

For  Pleasure  slumberless  and  pale, 
And  Passion  with  rejected  veil, 

Pass,  and  the  tempest-footed  throng 

Of  hours  that  follow  them  with  song 
Till  their  feet  flag  and  voices  fail, 

And  lips  that  were  so  loud  so  long 
Learn  silence,  or  a  wearier  wail; 

So  keen  is  change,  and  time  so  strong, 
To  weave  the  robes  of  life  and  rend 
Ami  weave  again  till  life  have  end. 

But  weak  is  change,  but  strengthless  time, 
To  take  the  light  from  heaven,  or  climb 

The  hills  of  heaven  with  wasting  feet. 

Songs  they  can  stop  that  earth  found  meet, 
But  the  stars  keep  their  ageless  rhyme; 

Flowers   they   can   slay   that   spring   thought 
sweet, 
But  the  stars  keep  their  spring  sublime; 

Passions  and  pleasures  can  defeat. 
Actions  and  agonies  control. 
And  life  and  death,  but  not  the  soul.  140 

Because  man 's  soul  is  man 's  God  still. 
What  wind  soever  waft  his  will 

Across  the  waves  of  day  and  night 

To  port  or  shipwreck,  left  or  right, 
By  shores  and  shoals  of  good  and  ill; 

And  still  its  flame  at  mainmast  height 
Through  the  rent  air  that  foam-flakes  fill 

Sustains  the  indomitable  light 
Whence  only  man  hath  strength  to  steer 
Or  helm  to  handle  without  fear.  150 

Save  his  own  soul 's  light  overhead. 
None  leads  him,  and  none  ever  led, 

Across  birth  's  hidden  harbour-bar. 

Past  youth  where  shoreward  shallows  are. 
Through  age  that  drives  on  toward  the  red 

Vast  void  of  sunset  hailed  from  far. 
To  the  equal  waters  of  the  dead; 

Save  his  own  soul  he  hath  no  star, 
And  sinks,  except  his  own  soul  guide, 
Helmless  in  middle  turn  of  tide. 

No  blast  of  air  or  fire  of  sun 
Puts  out  the  light  whereby  we  run 

2  An    Edonian.    or    Thraolan, 
with   liofntloiif;   revelry. 


160 


dlvlnltj,    worshiped 


With  girdled  loins  our  lampUt  race,^ 

And  each  from  each  takes  heart  of  grace 
And  spirit  till  his  turn  be  done, 

And  light  of  face  from  each  man's  face 
In  whom  the  light  of  trust  is  one; 

Since  only  souls  that  keep  their  place 
By  their  own  light,  and  watch  things  roll. 
And  stand,  have  light  for  any  soul.  170 


A  little  time  we  gain  from  time 
To  set  our  seasons  in  some  chime, 

For  harsh  or  sweet  or  loud  or  low, 

With  seasons  played  out  long  ago 
And  souls  that  in  their  time  and  prime 

Took  part  with  summer  or  with  snow. 
Lived  abject  lives  out  or  sublime. 

And  had  their  chance  of  seed  to  sow 
For  service  or  disservice  done 
To  those  days  dead  and  this  their  son. 


ISO 


A  little  time  that  we  may  fill 

Or  with  such  good  works  or  such  ill 

As  loose  the  bonds  or  make  them  strong 

Wherein  all  manhood  suffers  wrong. 
By  rose-hung  river  and  light-foot  rill 

There  are  who  rest  not;  who  think  long 
Till  they  discern  as  from  a  hill 

At  the  sun 's  hour  of  morning  song. 
Known  of  souls  only,  and  those  souls  free. 
The  sacred  spaces  of  the  sea. 


190 


LINES    ON    THE    ilONUMENT    OF    GIU- 
SEPPE MAZZINI* 

Italia,  mother  of  the  souls  of  men, 

Motlier  divine. 
Of  all  that  served  thee  best  with  sword  or  pen, 

All  sons  of  thine. 

Thou  knowest  that  here  the  likeness  of  the  best 

Before  thee  stands: 
The   head    most   high,   the   heart   found   faith- 
fullest, 

The  purest  hands. 

Above  the  fume  and  foam  of  time  that  flits, 

The  soul,  we  know,  10 

Now  sits  on  high  where  Alighieri  sits 
With  Angelo. 

Not   his    own    heavenly    tongne   hath   heavenly 
speech 

Enough  to  say 

3  In  allusion  to  the  ancient  torch  race. 

•  .Joseph  Mazzini,  the  Italian  patriot,  died  in 
1872.  A  monumont  was  erected  to  him  at 
Genoa  (Genoa  "La  Superba").  where  there 
is  also  a  monument  to  Columbus.  Alighieri 
(line  11)  Is  Dante,  Angelo  Is  Michelangelo. 


ne 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


What  this  man  was,  whose  praise  no  thought 
may  reach, 

No  words  can  weigh. 

Since    man's    first    mother    brought    to    mortal 
birth 

Her  first-born  son, 
Such  grace  befell  not  ever  man  on  earth 

As  crowns  this  One.  20 

Of  God  nor  man  was  ever  this  thing  said: 

That  he  could  give 
Life  back  to  her  who  gave  him,  whence  his  dead 

Mother  might  live. 

But  this  man  found  his  mother  dead  and  slain, 

With  fast-sealed  eyes. 
And  bade  the  dead  rise  up  and  live  again. 

And  she  did  rise: 

And  all  the  world  was  bright  with  her  through 
him: 

But  dark  with  strife,  30 

Like   heaven's    own    sun   that    storming   clouds 
bedim. 

Was  all  his  life. 

Life  and  the  clouds  are  vanished;  hate  and  fear 

Have  had  their  span 
Of  time  to  hurt  and  are  not:    He  is  here. 

The  sunlike  man. 

City  superb,  that  hadst  Columbus  first 

For  sovereign  son. 
Be  prouder  that  thy  breast  hath  later  nurst 

This  mightier   One.  40 

Glory  be  his  for  ever,  while  his  land 

Lives  and  is  free, 
As  with  controlling  breath  and  sovereign  hand 

He  bade  her  be. 

Earth  shows  to  heaven  the  names  by  thousands 
told 

That  crown  her  fame. 
But  highest  of  all  that  heaven  and  earth  be- 
hold, 

Mazzini's  name. 

THE  PILGRIMS* 

Who  is  your  lady  of  love,  O  ye  that  pass 
Singing?  and  is  it  for  sorrow  of  that  which  was 
That  ye  sing  sadly,  or  dream  of  what  shall  be? 
For   gladly  at   once   and   sadly   it  seems  ye 
sing. 

♦  Tho  poem  Is  in  the  form  of  a  dialogue,  an  indi- 
rntpd  by  the  dsHhes, — a  speecli  and  a  reply 
In  each  Rtanza.  For  form,  compare  with  it 
Tennyson's  The  Two  Voices ;  for  thought, 
Wordsworth's  Ode  to  Duty,  Tennyson's 
Waoen,  and  Browning's  Rabhi  Ben  EerQ. 


— Our  lady  of  love  by  you  is  unbeholden; 

For  hands  she  hath  none,  nor  eyes,  nor  lips,  nor 
golden 

Treasure  of  hair,  nor  face  nor  form;  but  we 
That  love,  we  know  her  more  fair  than  any- 
thing. 8 

— Is  she  a  queen,  having  great  gifts  to  give? 
— Yea,  these :  that  whoso  hath  seen  her  shall  not 

live 
Except   he  serve   her   sorrowing,   with    strange 

pain, 
Travail  and  bloodshedding  and  bitterer  tears; 
And  when  she  bids  die  he  shall  surely  die. 
And  he  shall  leave  all  things  under  the  sky. 
And  go  forth  naked  under  sun  and  rain. 

And  work  and  wait  and  watch  out   all   his 

years.  16 

— Hath  she  on  earth  no  place  of  habitation? 
— Age  to  age  calling,  nation  answering  nation'. 
Cries  out.  Where  is  she?  and  there  is  none  to 

say;  ,; 

For  if  she  be  not  in  the  spirit  of  men,  ^ 

For  if  in  the  inward  soul  she  hath  no  place, 
In  vain  they  cry  unto  her,  seeking  her  face, 
In  vain  their  mouths  make  much   of  her;   for 

they 
Cry   with   vain   tongues,   till   the   heart   lives 

again.  24 

— O  ye  that  follow,  and  have  ye  no  repentance? 
For  on  your  brows  is  written  a  mortal  sentence. 
An  hieroglyph  of  sorrow,  a  fiery  sign. 

That  in  your  lives  ye  shall  not  pause  or  rest. 
Nor  have  the  sure  sweet  common  love,  nor  keep 
Friends   and    safe    days,    nor    joy    of    life    nor 

sleep. 
— These  have  we  not,  who  have  one  thing,  the 

divine 
Face   and   clear   eyes   of   faith    and    fruitful 

breast.  32 

— And  ye  shall  die  before  your  thrones  be  won. 
— Yea,  and  the  changed  world  and  the  liberal 
sun  •< 

Shall  move  and  shine  without  us,  and  we  lie 

Dead ;  but  if  she  too  move  on  earth,  and  live, 
But  if  the  old  world  with  all  the  old  irons  rent 
Laugh  and  give  thanks,  shall  we  not  be  content? 
Nay,  we  shall  rather  live,  we  shall  not  die, 

Life  being  so  little,  and  death  so  good  to 
give.  40 

— And  these  men  shall  forget  you. — Yea,  but  we 
Shall  be  a  part  of  the  earth  and  the  ancient  sea. 
And  heaven-high  air  august,  and  awful  fire. 
And   all   things  good ;    and   no   man 's  heart 
shall  beat 


ALGERNON  CHAELES  SWINBUENE 


717 


But  somewhat  in  it  of  our  blood  once  shed 
Shall  quiver  and  quicken,  as  now  in  us  the  dead 
Blood  of  men  slain  and  the  old  same  life's  de- 
sire 
Plants    in    their    fiery    footprints    our    fresh 
feet.  48 

— But  ye  that  might  be  clothed  with  all  things 

pleasant, 
Ye  are  foolish  that  put  off  the  fair  soft  present, 
That    clothe    yourselves    with    the    cold    future 
air; 
When  mother  and  father,  and  tender  sister 
and  brother 
And  the  old  live  love  that  was  shall  be  as  ye, 
Dust,  and  no  fruit  of  loving  life  shall  be. 
— She  shall  be  yet  who  is  more  than  all  these 
were. 
Than   sister    or   wife   or    father   unto   us    or 
mother.  56 

— Is  this  worth  life,  is  this,  to  win  for  wages? 
Lo,  the  dead  mouths  of  the  awful  grey-grown 

ages. 
The  venerable,  in  the  past  that  is  their  prison. 
In    the    outer    darkness,    in    the    unopening 

grave. 
Laugh,  knowing  how  many  as  ye  now  say  have 

said. 
How  many,  and  all  are  fallen,  are  fallen  and 

dead: 
Shall  ye  dead  rise,   and  these  dead  have  not 

risen  ? 
— Not  we  but  she,  who  is  tender,  and  swift  to 

save.  64 

— Are  ye  not  weary  and  fai*t  not  by  the  way, 
Seeing  night  by  night  devoured  of  day  by  day, 
Seeing  hour  by  hour  consumed  in  sleepless  fire? 
Sleepless;    and    ye   too,   when    shall   ye    too 
sleep  ? 
— We  are  weary  in  heart  and  head,  in  hands  and 

feet, 
And    surely    more    than   all    things    sleep    were 

sweet, — 
Than  all  things  save  the  inexorable  desire 
Which  whoso  knoweth  shall  neither  faint  nor 
* :        weep.  72 

— Is  this  so  sweet  that  one  were  fain  to  follow? 

Is  this  so  sure  where  all  men 's  hopes  are  hol- 
low, 

Even  this  your  dream,  that  by  much  tribulation 
Ye  shall  make  whole  flawed  hearts,  and 
bowed  necks  straight? 

— Nay,  though  our  life  were  blind,  our  death 
were  fruitless, 


Not  therefore  were  the  whole  world's  high  hope 

rootless ; 
But  man  to  man,  nation  would  turn  to  nation, 
And  the  old  life  live,  and  the  old  great  word 
be  great.  80 

— Pass  on,  then,  and  pass  by  us,  and  let  us  be, 
For  what  light  think  ye  after  life  to  seel 
And  if  the  world  fare  better  will  ye  know? 

And  if  man  triumph  who  shall  seek  you  and 
say? 
— Enough  of  light  is  this  for  one  life 's  span, 
That  all  men   born  are  mortal,  but  not   man; 
And  we  men  bring  death  lives  by  night  to  sow, 

That   men    may   reap   and   eat   and   live    by 
day.  88 

A    FOESAKEN   GARDEN 

In  a  coign  of  the  clilT  between  lowland  and 
highland, 
At  the   sea-down's  edge   between   windward 
and  lee, 
Walled  round  with  rocks  as  an  inland  island, 

The  ghost  of  a  garden  fronts  the  sea. 
A  girdle  of  brushwood  and  thorn  encloses 

The  steep  square  slope  of  the  blossomless  bed 
Where   the   weeds   that   grew   green   from   the 
graves  of  its  roses 

Now  lie  dead.  8 

The  fields  fall  southward,  abrupt  and  broken. 
To  the  low  last  edge  of  the  long  Ion  3  land. 
If  a  step  should  sound  or  a  word  be  spoken. 
Would  a  ghost  not  rise  at  the  strange  guest's 
hand? 
So  long  have  the  grey  bare  walks  lain  guestless, 
Through  branches  and  briars  if  a  man  make 
way. 
He  shall  find  no  life  but  the  sea-wind 's,  rest- 
less 

Night  and  day.  16 

The  dense  hard  passage  is  blind  and  stifled 

That  crawls  by  a  track  none  turn  to  climb 
To  the  straight  waste  place  that  the  years  have 
rifled 
Of  all  but  the  thorns  that  are  touched  not  of 
time. 
The  thorns  he  spares  when  the  rose  is  taken ; 

The  rocks  are  left  when  he  wastes  the  plain; 

The  wind  that  wanders,  the  weeds  wind-shaken, 

These  remain.  24 

Not  a  flower  to  be  pressed  of  the  foot  that  falls 
not; 
As  the  heart  of  a  dead  man  the  seed-plots  are 
dry; 


718 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


32 


From  the  thicket  of  thorns  whence  the  night  in-  | 

gale  calls  not,  i 

Could   she  call,  there  were  never   a  rose   to  i 

reply. 

Over  the  meadows  that  blossom  and  wither, 

Rings  but  the  note  of  a  sea-bird's  song. 

Only  the  sun  and  the  rain  come  hither 

All  year  long. 

The  sun  burns  sere,  and  the  rain  dishevels 

One  gaunt  bleak  blossom  of  scentless  breath. 
Only  the  wind  here  hovers  and  revels 

In  a  round  where  life  seems  barren  as  death. 
Here   there   was    laughing    of    old,    there    was 
weeping, 
Haply,  of  lovers  none  ever  will  know, 
Whose  eyes  went  seaward  a  hundred  sleeping 

Years  ago.  40 

Heart  handfast  in  heart  as  they  stood,  "Look 
thither," 
Did  he  whisper?    "Look  forth  from  the  flow- 
ers to  the  sea; 
For   the    foam-flowers   endure    when   the   rose- 
blossoms  wither. 
And    men    that    love    lightly    may    die — But 
we?" 
And  the  same  wind  sang,  and  the  same  waves 
whitened, 
And   or  ever  the  garden's  last   petals   were 
shed, 
In  the  lips  that  had  whispered,  the  eyes  that 
had  lightened. 

Love  was  dead.  48 

Or  they  loved  their  life  through,  and  then  went 
whither? 
And  were  one  to  the  end — but  what  end  who 
knows  ? 
Love  deep  as  the  sea  as  a  rose  must  wither. 

As  the  rose-red  seaweed  that  mocks  the  rose. 

Shall  the  dead  take  thought  for  the  dead  to 

love  them? 

What  love  was  ever  as  deep  as  a  grave? 

They  are  loveless  now  as  the  grass  above  them 

Or  the  wave.  56 

All  are  at  one  now,  roses  and  lovers, 

Not  known  of  the  cliffs  and  the  fields  and  the 
sea. 
Not  a  breath  of  the  time  that  has  been  hovers 

In  the  air  now  soft  with  a  summer  to  be. 
Not  a  breath  shall   there  sweeten   the   seasons 
hereafter 
Of  the  flowers  or  the  lovers  that  laugh  now 
or  weep, 
When,  as  they  that  are  free  now  of  weeping 
and  laughter, 

We  shall  sleep.  64 


Here  death  may  deal  not  again  forever; 
Here  change  may  come  not   till   all  change 
end. 
P'rom  the  graves  they  have  made  they  shall  rise 
up  never. 
Who  have  left  naught  living  to  ravage  and 
rend. 
Earth,  stones,  and  thorns  of  the  wild  ground 
growing, 
While  the  sun  and  the  rain  live,  these  shall 
be; 
Till  a  last  wind 's  breath  upon  all  these  blow- 
ing 

Roll  the  sea.  72 

Till  the  slow  sea  rise  and  the  sheer  cliff  crum- 
ble. 
Till  terrace  and  meadow  the  deep  gulfs  drink, 
Till  the  strength  of  the  waves  of  the  high  tides 
humble 
The  fields  that  lessen,  the  rocks  that  shrink. 
Here  now  in  his  triumph  where  all  things  falter, 
Stretched  out  on  the  spoils  that  his  own  hand 
spread,  ^.j, 

As  a  god  self -slain  on  his  own  strange  altar. 

Death  lies  dead.  80 


A  BALLAD  OF  DREAMLAND 

T  hid  my  heart  in  a  nest  of  roses. 

Out  of  the  sun's  way,  hidden  apart; 
In  a  softer  bed  than  the  soft  white  snow 's  is. 

Under  the  roses  I  hid  my  heart. 

Why  would  it  sleep  not?  why  should  it  start. 
When  never  a  leaf  of  the  rose-tree  stirred? 

What  made  sleep  flutter  his  wings  and  part? 
Only  the  song  of  a  secret  bird.  8 

Lie  still,  I  said,  for  the  wind 's  wing  closes, 

And  mild  leaves  muffle  the  keen  sun's  dart; 
Lie  still,  for  the  wind  on  the  warm  sea  dozes, 

And  the  wind  is  unquieter  yet  than  thou  art. 

Does   a    thought    in   thee   still    as   a    thorn's 
wound  smart? 
Does  the  fang  still  fret  thee  of  hope  deferred? 

What  bids  the  lids  of  thy  sleep  dispart? 
Only  the  song  of  a  secret  bird.  16 

The  green  land 's  name  that  a  charm  encloses. 

It  never  was  writ  in  the  traveller's  chart. 
And  sweot  on  its  trees  as  the  fruit  that  grows  is, 

It  never  was  sold  in  the  merchant's  mart. 

The  swallows  of  dreams  through  its  dim  fields 
dart, 
And  sleep's  are  the  tunes  in  its  tree-tops  heard; 

No  hound 's  note  wakens  the  wildwood  hart, 
Only  the  song  of  a  secret  bird.  24 


ALGERXOX  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 


719 


ENVOI* 

In  the  world  of  dreams  I  have  chosen  my  part, 
To  sleep  for  a  season  and  hear  no  word 

Of  true  love's  truth  or  of  light  love's  art, 
Only  the  song  of  a  secret  bird. 

UPON   A   CHILD 

Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

No  glory  that  ever  was  shed 
From  the  crowning  star  of  the  seven 

That  crown  the  north  world's  head, 

No  word  that  ever  was  spoken 

Of  human  or  godlike  tongue, 
Gave  ever  such  godlike  token 

Since  human  harps  were  strung. 

No  sign  that  ever  was  given 

To  faithful  or  faithless  eyes 
Showed  ever  beyond  clouds  riven 

So  clear  a  Paradise. 

Earth's  creeds  may  be  seventy  times  seven 
And  blood  have  defiled  each  creed: 

If  of  such  be  the  kingdom  of  heaven, 
It  must  be  heaven  indeed. 

A    CHILD'S    LAUGHTER 

All  the  bells  of  heaven  may  ring, 
All  the  birds  of  heaven  may  sing, 
All  the  wells  on  earth  may  spring. 
All  the  winds  on  earth  may  bring 

All  sweet  sounds  together; 
Sweeter  far  than  all  things  heard. 
Hand  of  harper,  tone  of  bird, 
Sound  of  woods  at  sundawn  stirr'd. 
Welling  water 's  winsome  word, 

Wind  in  warm  wan  weather. 

One  thing  yet  there  is,  that  none 
Hearing  ere  its  chime  be  done 
Knows  not  well  the  sweetest  one 
Heard  of  man  beneath  the  sun. 

Hoped  in  heaven  hereafter; 
Soft  and  strong  and  loud  and  light. 
Very  sound  of  very  light 
Heard  from  morning's  rosiest  height, 
When  the  soul  of  all  delight 

Fills  a  child's  clear  laughter. 

Golden  bells  of  welcome  roU'd 
Never  forth  such  notes,  nor  told 

*  L'envoi,  or  "the  despatch,"  was  the  name  for- 
merly given  to  the  closing  lines  of  a  ballade.  ' 
containing  an  address  to  some  prince,  or  j 
poet's  patron ;  see  The  Compleynt  of  Chaucer 
to  his  Purse,  p.  62.  In  modern  imitations, 
this  address  can  be  only  a  formula  and  is 
frequently  omitted,  the  e«i;ot  being  merely  a 
summary,  or  an  appended  stanza  completing 
the  metrical  scheme. 


Hours  so  blithe  in  tones  so  bold, 
As  the  radiant  mouth  of  gold 

Here  that  rings  forth  heaven. 
Jf  the  golden-crested  wren 
Were  a  nightingale — why,  then 
Something  seen  and  heard  of  men 
Might  be  half  as  sweet  as  when 

Laughs  a  child  of  seven. 

A  BABY'S  DEATH* 
I 

A  little  soul  scarce  fledged  for  earth 
Takes  wing  with  heaven  again  for  goal 
Even  while  we  hailed  as  fresh  from  birth 
A  little  soul. 

Our  thoughts  ring  sad  as  bells  that  toll. 
Not  knowing  beyond  this  blind  world's  girth 
What  things  are  writ  in  heaven's  full  scroll. 

Our  fruitfulness  is  there  but  dearth. 
And  all  things  held  in  time's  control 
Seem  there,  perchance,  ill  dreams,  not  worth 
A  little  soul. 


The  little  feet  that  never  trod 
Earth,  never  strayed  in  field  or  street, 
What  hand  leads  upward  back  to  God 
The  little  feet? 

A  rose  in  June's  most  honied  heat. 
When  life  makes  keen  the  kindling  sod, 
Was  not  so  soft  and  warm  and  sweet. 

Their  pilgrimage's  period 
A  few  swift  moons  have  seen  complete 
Since  mother's  hands  first  clasped  and  shod 
The  little  feet. 


The  little  hands  that  never  sought 
Earth  's  prizes,  worthless  all  as  sands. 
What  gift  has  death,  God's  servant,  brought 
The  little  hands? 

We  ask:  but  love's  self  silent  stands, 
Love,  that  lends  eyes  and  wings  to  thought 
To  search  where  death's  dim  heaven  expands. 

Ere  this,  perchance,  though  love  knew  nought. 
Flowers  fill  them,  grown  in  lovelier  lands. 
Where  hands  of  guiding  angels  caught 
The  little  hands, 

*  From  A  Century  of  Roundels.  Of  the  poem 
here  given  in  part  there  are  seven  sections, 
each  In  the  form  of  a  roundel  with  regularly 
recurring  refrain.  The  last  three  soctlons, 
however,  vary  in  length  of  line,  and  being  of 
a  personal  nature  detract  from  the  universal 
appeal  of  the  first  four. 


no 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


The  little  eyes  that  never  knew 
Light  other  than  of  dawning  skies, 
What  new  life  now  lights  up  anew 
The  little  eyes! 

Who  knows  but  on  their  sleep  may  rise 
Such  light  as  never  heaven  let  through 
To  lighten  earth  from  Paradise? 

No  storm,  we  know,  may  change  the  blue 
Soft  heaven  that  haply  death  descries; 
No  tears,  like  these  in  ours,  bedew 
The   little   eyes. 

From  TRISTRAM  OF  LYONESSEf 

Prelude.     Tristram  and  Iseult 

Love,  that  is  first  and  last  of  all  things  made, 
The  light  that  has  the  living  world  for  shade, 
The  spirit  that  for  temporal  veil  has  on 
The  souls  of  all  men  woven  in  unison, 
One  fiery  raiment  with  all  lives  inwrought 
And    lights    of    sunny    and    starry    deed    and 

thought. 
And  alway  through  new  act  and  passion  new 
Shines    the     divine    same    body    and    beauty 

through. 
The  body  spiritual  of  fire  and  light 
That  is  to  worldly  noon  as  noon  to  night;       10 
Love,  that  is  flesh  upon  the  spirit  of  man 
And  spirit  within  the  flesh  whence  breath  be- 
gan; 
Love,  that  keeps  all  the  choir  of  lives  in  chime; 
Love,  that  is  blood  within  the  veins  of  time; 
That  wrought  the  whole  world  without  stroke  of 

hand. 
Shaping  the  breadth  of  sea,  the  length  of  land, 
And  with  the  pulse  and  motion  of  his  breath 
Through  the  great  heart  of  the  earth  strikes  life 

and  death. 
The  sweet  twain  chords  that  make  the  sweet 

tune  live 
Through  day  and  night  of  things  alternative,  20 
Through   silence  and   through   sound   of  stress 

and  strife, 

t  In  the  long  lyrical  epic  thus  named,  Swinburne 
tells  again  the  story  of  Tristram  and  Iseult, 
which  shares  with  that  of  Siegfried  and 
Brunhild  the  distinction  of  being  one  of  the 
greatest  love  stories  of  the  world.  "The 
world  of  Swinburne,"  says  Professor  Wood- 
berry,  "is  well  symbolized  by  that  Zodiac  of 
the  burning  signs  of  love  that  he  named  in 
the  prelude  to  Trintram  of  LyoncHne, — the 
signs  of  Helen,  Hero,  Alcyone,  Iseult,  Rosa- 
mond, Dido,  .Tuliet,  Cleopatra,  Francesca, 
Thlsbe,  Angelica.  Ouenevere ;  under  the 
heavens  of  these  starry  names  the  poet  moves 
In  his  place  apart  and  sees  bis  visions  of 
woe  and  wrath  and  weaves  his  dream  of  the 
loves  and  the  fates  of  men." 


And  ebb  and  flow  of  dying  death  and  life; 
Love,  that   sounds   loud   or   light   in   all  men's 

ears. 
Whence  all  men 's  eyes  take  fire  from  sparks  of 

tears. 
That  binds  on  all  men 's  feet  or  chains  or  wings ; 
Love,  that  is  root  and  fruit  of  terrene  things; 
Love,  that  the  whole  world's  waters  shall  not 

drown, 
The  whole  world's  fiery  forces  not  burn  down; 
Love,  that  what  time  his  own  hands  guard  his 

head 
The  whole  world's  wrath  and  strength  shall  not 

strike  dead ;  30 

Love,  that  if  once  his  own  hands  make  his  grave 
The  whole  world's  pity  and  sorrow  shall  not 

save ; 
Love,  that  for  very  life  shall  not  be  sold. 
Nor  bought  nor  bound  with  iron  nor  with  gold; 
So  strong  that  heaven,  could  love  bid  heaven 

farewell. 
Would  turn  to  fruitless  and  unflowering  hell; 
So  sweet  that  hell,  to  hell  could  love  be  given. 
Would  turn  to  splendid  and  sonorous  heaven ; 
Love  that  is  fire  within  thee  and  light  above. 
And  lives  by  grace  of  nothing  but  of  love;     40 
Through  many  and  lovely  thoughts  and  much 

desire 
Led  these  twain  to  the  life  of  tears  and  fire; 
Through  many  and  lovely  days  and  much  de- 
light 
Led  these  twain  to  the  lifeless  life  of  night. 

Yea,  but  what  then?  albeit  all  this  were  thus, 
And  soul  smote  soul  and  left  it  ruinous. 
And  love  led  love  as  eyeless  men  lead  men. 
Through  chance  by  chance  to  deathward — Ah, 

what  then? 
Hath  love  not  likewise  led  them  further  yet. 
Out  through  the  years  where  memories  rise  and 

set,  50 

Some  large  as  suns,  some  moon-like  warm  and 

pale. 
Some  starry-sighted,  some  through  clouds  that 

sail 
Seen   as   red    flame   through    spectral   float   of 

fume. 
Each  with  the  blush  of  its  own  special  bloom 
On  the  fair  face  of  its  own  coloured  light. 
Distinguishable  in  all  the  host  of  night. 
Divisible  from  all  the  radiant  rest 
And  separable  in  splendour!     Hath  the  best 
Light  of  love's  all,  of  all  that  burn  and  move, 
A   better  heaven   than   heaven   is?     Hath  not 

love  60 

Made  for  all  these  their  sweet  particular  air 
To  shine  in,  their  own  beams  and  names  to  bear, 
Their  ways  to  wander  and  their  wards  to  keep, 


ALGERNON  CHAELES  SWINBURNE 


721 


Till  story  and  song  and   glory  and  all  things 

sleep  ? 
Hath  he  not  plucked  from  death  of  lovers  dead 
Their  musical  soft  memories,  and  kept  red 
The  rose  of  their  remembrance  in  men 's  eyes, 
The  sunsets  of  their  stories  in  his  skies, 
The  blush  of  their  dead  blood  in  lips  that  speak 
Of  their  dead  lives,  and  in  the  listener's  cheek 
That  trembles  with  the  kindling  pity  lit  "1 

In  gracious  hearts  for  some  sweet  fever-fit, 
A  fiery  pity  enkindled  of  pure  thought 
By  tales  that  make  their  honey  out  of  nought, 
The  faithless  faith  that  lives  without  belief 
Its  light   life   through,   the  griefless  ghost    of 

grief? 
Yea,  as  warm  night  refashions  the  sere  blood 
In  storm-struck  petal  or  in  sun-struck  bud, 
With  tender  hours  and  tempering  dew  to  cure 
The  hunger  and  thirst  of  day's  distemperature 
And  ravin  of  the  dry  discolouring  hours,         81 
Hath  he  not  bid  relume  their  flameless  flowers 
With  summer  fire  and  heat  of  lamping  song 
And  bid  the  short-lived  things,  long  dead,  live 

long, 
And  thought  remake  their  wan  funereal  fames, 
And  the  sweet  shining  signs  of  women 's  names, 
That  mark  the  months  out  and  the  weeks  anew 
He    moves    in    changeless    change    of    seasons 

through 
To  fill  the  days  up  of  his  dateless  year, 
Flame  from  Queen  Helen  to  Queen  Guenevere? 
For  first  of  all  the  sphery  signs  whereby         91 
Love  severs  light  from  darkness,  and  most  high. 
In  the  white  front  of  January  there  glows 
The  rose-red  sign  of  Helen  like  a  rose:i 
And  gold-eyed  as  the  shore-flower  shelterless 
Whereon  the  sharp-breathed  sea  blows  bitter- 
ness, 
A  storm-star  that  the  seafarers  of  love 
Strain  their  wind-wearied  eyes  for  glimpses  of. 
Shoots  keen  through  February's  grey  frost  and 

damp 
The  lamp-like  star  of  Hero  for  a  lamp;         100 
The  star  that  Marlowe2  sang  into  our  skies 
With  mouth  of  gold,  and  morning  in  his  eyes; 
And  in  clear  March  across  the  rough  blue  sea 
The  signal  sapphire  of  Alcyones 
Makes  bright  the  blown  brows  of  the  wind-foot 

year; 
And  shining  like  a  sunbeam-smitten  tear 
Full  ere  it  fall,  the  fair  next  sign  in  sight 
Burns  opal-wise  with  April-coloured  light 
When  air  is  quick  with  song  and  rain  and  flame. 
My  birth-month  star  that  in  love's  heaven  hath 

name  110 

1  Homer  :  The  Iliad. 

2  In  his  Hero  and  Lcander. 

3  Ovid's  Metamorphoses,  xi. 


Iseult,*    a    Ught    of    blossom    and    beam    and 

shower. 
My    singing    sign    that    makes    the    song-tree 

flower ; 
Next  like  a  pale  and  burning  pearl  beyond 
The    rose-white   sphere   of   flower-named    Rosa- 
monds 
Signs  the  sweet  head  of  Maytime ;  and  for  June 
Flares    like    an   angered    and    storm-reddening 

moon 
Her  signal  sphere,  whose  Carthaginian  pyre 
Shadowed  her  traitor's  flying  sail  with  fire;6 
Next,    glittering    as    the    wine-bright    jacinth - 

stone, 
A  star  south-risen  that  first  to  music  shone,    1-0 
The  keen  girl-star  of  golden  Juliet^  bears 
Light  northward  to  the  month  whose  forehead 

wears 
Her  name  for  flower  upon  it,  and  his  trees 
Mix  their  deep  English  song  with  Veronese; 
And  like  an  awful  sovereign  chrysolite 
Burning,  the  supreme  fire  that  blinds  the  night. 
The  hot  gold  head  of  Venus  kissed  by  Mars, 
A   sun-flower   among   small  sphered   flowers   of 

stars, 
The  light  of  Cleopatras  fills  and  burns 
The   hollow   of   heaven   whence   ardent  August 

yearns;  130 

And  fixed  and  shining  as  the  sister-shed 
Sweet  tears  for  Phaethon  disorbed  and  dead,9 
The     pale     bright     autumn's     amber-coloured 

sphere, 
That    through    September    sees    the    saddening 

year 
As  love   sees   change   through   sorrow,   hath   to 

name 
Francesca's;  and  the  star  that  watches  flame 
The  embers  of  the  harvest  overgone 
Is  Thisbe's,  slain  of  love  in  Babylon,io 
Set  in  the  golden  girdle  of  sweet  signs 
A  blood-bright  ruby;  last  save  one  light  shines 
An  eastern  wonder  of  sphery  chrysopras,        141 
The  star  that  made  men  mad,  Angelica 's;ii 
And  latest  named  and  lordliest,  with  a  sound 


4  Her   story   has  been    told  by  Malory.   Tennyson 

{Idylls  of  the  King.  "The  Last  Tournament"), 
Arnold,   Wagner,  etc. 

5  The  "Fair  Rosamond"  of  Henry  II.     See  Scott's 

The  Talisman  and  ^yoodstock. 

6  Virgil :  Aeneid,  iv. 

"  Shakespeare  :  Romeo  and  Juliet. 

8  Shakespeare  :  Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

9  Alluding  to  the  story  that  after  Phaethon's  fatal 

fall  with  the  chariot  of  the  sun,  his  sisters, 
the  Ileliades,  mourned  for  him  until  they 
were  changed  into  poplars  and  their  tears 
into  amber.  The  story  of  Paolo  and  Fran- 
cesca  is  immortalized  in  Dante's  Inferno. 

10  Chaucer :  Legend  of  Oood  Women   (see  p.  60). 

11  Boiardo  :  Orlando  Innamorafo ;  Ariosto  :  Orlando 

Furioso.  Angelica's  coquetry  drove  Orlando 
mad. 


722 


THE   \  ICTUKIAN   ACiE 


Of   swords   aiul    liarps   in   lioaveu   that    ring   it 

round, 
Last  loYc-light  and  last  love-song  of  the  year  's, 
Lileains  like  a  glorious  emerald  Guenevere's.i^ 
These  are  the  signs  wherethrough  the  year  sees 

move, 
I'ull  of  the  sun,  the  sun-god  which  is  love, 
A  fiery  body  blooil-red  from  the  heart 
Outward,  with  fire-white  wings  made  wide  apart. 
That  close  not  and  unclose  not,  but  upright    151 
Steered   without  wind   by   their  own  light   and 

might, 
Sweep    through   the   flameless   fire    of   air   tliat 

rings 
I'rom  heaven  to  heaven  with  tliunder  of  wheels 

and  wings 
And  antiphones  of  motion-moulded  rhyme 
Through  spaces  out  of  space  aud  timeless  time. 
So   shine   above  dead   chance   and   conquered 

change 
The    sphered    sif;us,    aud    leave    without    their 

range 
Doubt  and  desire,  anil  hope  with  fear  for  wife, 
Pale  pains,  and  pleasures  long  worn  out  of  life. 
Yea,  even  the  shadows  of  them  spiritless,         161 
Through  the  dim  door  of  sleep  that  seem  to 

press, 
Forms    without    form,    a    piteous    people    and 

blind, 
Alen  and  no  men,  whose  lamentable  kind 
The  shadow  of  death  and  shadow  of  life  compel 
Through  semblances  of  heaven  and  false-faced 

hell. 
Through  dreams  of  light  and  dreams  of  dark- 
ness tost 
On  waves  innavigable,  are  these  so  lost! 
Shapes  tliat  wax  pale  and  shift  in  swift  strange 

wise, 
Void  faces  with  unspeculative  eyes,  170 

Dim  things  that   gaze  and   glare,  dead  mouths 

that  move, 
Featureless  heads  discrowned  of  hate  and  love. 
Mockeries    and    masks    of    motion    and    mute 

breath. 
Leavings  of  life,  the  superflux  of  death — 
If  these  things  and  no  more  than  these  things  be 
Left  when  man  ends  or  changes,  who  can  see? 
Or  who  can  say  with  what  more  subtle  sense 
Their  subtler  natures  taste  in  air  less  dense 
A  life  less  thick  and  palpable  than  ours, 
Warme«l   with    faint  fires  and   sweetened   with 

dea<l  flowers  180 

And  measured  by  low  music?  how  time  fares 
In  that  wan  time-forgotten  world  of  theirs, 
Their  pale  poor  worhl  to<»  deep  for  sun  or  star 
To  live  in,  where  the  eyes  of  Helen  are, 

isCf.  Mallory,  Tennyson,  etc. 


And    hers'^    who   made   as   God's   owu   eyes   to 

shine 
The  eyes  that  met  them  of  the  Florentine, 
Wherein  the  godhead  thence  transfigured  lit 
All  time  for  all  men  with  the  shadow  of  it; 
Ah,  and  these  too  felt  on  them  as  God's  grace 
The   pity   and   glory   of   this   man 's    breathing 

face;  190 

Kor  these  too,  these  my  lovers,  these  my  twain. 
Saw  Dunte,"  saw  God  visible  by  pain. 
With   lips   that   thundered   and   with   feet   tiiat 

trod 
Before  men's  eyes  incognisable  God; 
Saw  love  and  wrath  and  light  and  night  and  fire 
Live  with  one  life  and  at  one  mouth  respire, 
And  ill  one  golden  sound  tiieir  whole  soul  heard 
Sounding,  one  sweet  immitigable  word. 

They   have    the   night,   who   had   like   us   the 

day;* 
AV^e,  whom   day  binds,  shall  have  the  night   as 

they.  200 

We,  from  the  fetters  of  the  ligiit  unbound, 
Healed    of    our    wound    of    living,    shall    sleep 

sound. 
All  gifts  but  one  the  jealous  God  may  keep 
From  our  soul 's  longing,  one  he  cannot— sleep. 
This,    though    he    grudge    all    other    grace    to 

prayer. 
This  grace  his  closed   hand  cannot   choose  but 

spare. 
This,  though  his  ear  be  sealed  to  all  that  live,. 
Be  it  lightly  given  or  lothly.  God  must  give.        " 
We,  as  the  men  whose  name  on  earth  is  none, 
We  too  shall  surely  pass  out  of  the  sun ;         210 
Out  of  the  sound  and  eyeless  light  of  things, 
Wide  as  the  stretch   of  life's  time-wandering 

wings. 
Wide  as  the  naked  world  and  shadowless, 
.\nd  long-lived  as  the  w  orld  's  own  weariness. 
Us  too,  when  all  the  fires  of  time  are  cold. 
The  heights  shall  hide  us  and  the  depths  shall 

hold. 
Us  too,  when  all  the  tears  of  time  are  dry, 
The  night  shall  lighten  from  her  tearless  eye. 
Blind  is  the  day  and  eyeless  all  its  light, 
But  the  large  unbewildered  eye  of  night       220 
Hatii  sense  and  speculation;  and  the  sheer 
Limitless  length  of  lifeless  life  and  clear. 
The    timeless    space   wherein    the    brief    worlds 

move 


13  Dante's  Beatrice. 

14  Inferno,  v,  7. 

*  In  this  passage,  with  its  rapt  contemplation  and 
solemn  nuislc.  Swinburne  lius  surely  attained 
to  that  "hlnh  Moriousnt'ss"  which  Matthew 
Arnold  rcKnrdi'd  as  the  mark  of  the  Krcatcst 
poetry.  A  portion  of  it  reads  not  unlike  an 
i-xpanslon  of  I'oraitisc  Lo^t,  Hook  tl,  lines 
I  »lt.    I.-.O. 


WALTER  PATER 


723 


Clothed  with  light  life  ami  fruitful  with  light 

love, 
With  hopes  that  threaten,  and  witli  fears  that 

cease, 
Past  fear  and  hope,  hath  in  it  only  peace. 
Yet    of    these    lives    inlaid    with    hopes    and 

fears. 
Spun  fine  as  fire  and  jewelleu  thick  with  tears, 
These  lives  made  out  of  loves  that  long  since 

were, 
Lives  wrought   as   ours   of   earth   and   burning 

air,  230 

Fugitive  flame,  and  water  of  secret  springs. 
And    clothed    with    joys    and    sorrows    as    with 

wings. 
Some  yet  are  good,  if  aught  be  good,  to  save 
Some  while  from  washing  wreck  and  wrecking 

wave. 
Was  such  not  theirs,  the  twain  I  take,  and  give 
Out  of  my  life  to  make  their  dead  life  live 
Some  days  of  mine,  and  blow  my  living  breath 
Between  dead  lips  forgotten  even  of  death? 
So  many  and  many  ere  me  have  given  my  twain 
Love  and  live  song  and  honey-hearted  pain,   240 
Whose   root    is    sweetness   and    whose    fruit    is 

sweet. 
So  many  and  with  such  joy  have  tracked  their 

feet. 
What  should  I  do  to  follow?  yet  I  too, 
1  have  the  heart  to  follow,  many  or  few- 
Be  the  feet  gone  before  me;  for  the  way, 
Rose-red  with  remnant  roses  of  the  day 
Westward,  and  eastward  white  with  stars  that 

break, 
Between  the  green  and  foam  is  fair  to  take 
For  any  sail  the  sea-wind  steers  for  me 
I'^om  morning  into  morning,  sea  to  sea.         -50 


WALTER  PATER   (1839-1894) 

THE   CHILD   IN    THE   HOUSE* 

As  Florian  Deleal  walked,  one  hot  afternoon, 
he  overtook  by  the  wayside  a  poor  aged  man, 
and,  as  he  seemed  weary  with  the  road,  helped 
him  on  with  the  burden  which  he  carried,  a 
certain  distance.  And  as  the  man  told  his 
story,  it  chanc-ed  that  he  named  the  place,  a 
little  place  in  the  neighbourhood  of  a  great  city, 
where  Florian  had  passed  his  earliest  years, 
but  which  he  had   never  since  seen,  and,  the 

•  When  originally  piiMisluHl  In  1878  this  essay 
was  denominatod  an  •ImaRinary  rortrait." 
thouEth  it  is  dor.l3tless  iu  some  measure  auto- 
Idograpliical.  As  an  account  of  tlie  <level<)i)- 
ment  of  an  extremely  sensiti\'e  and  iiiipn-s- 
sionable  youtli.  it  liolds  a  unique  place  in  our 
literature.  On  I'ater's  pliilosopliy  and  style, 
see  Etiy.  Lit.,  \i.  ^82. 


story  told,i  went  forward  on  his  journey  com- 
forted. And  that  night,  like  a  reward  for  his 
pity,  a  dream  of  that  place  came  to  Florian,  a 
dream  which  did  for  him  the  oflice  of  the  finer 
sort  of  memory,  bringing  its  object  to  n\ind 
with  a  great  clearness,  yet,  as  sometimes  liap- 
pens  in  dreams,  raised  a  little  above  itself,  and 
above  ordinary  retrospect.  The  true  aspect  of 
the  place,  especially  of  the  house  there  in  which 
he  had  lived  as  a  child,  the  fashion  of  its  doors, 
its  hearths,  its  windows,  the  very  scent  upon 
the  air  of  it,  was  with  him  in  sleep  for  a  sea- 
son; only,  with  tints  more  musically-  blent  on 
wall  and  floor,  and  some  finer  light  and  shadow- 
running  in  and  out  along  its  curves  and  angles, 
and  with  all  its  little  carvings  daintier.  He 
awoke  with  a  sigh  at  the  thought  of  almost 
thirty  years  which  lay  between  him  and  that 
place,  yet  with  a  flutter  of  pleasure  still  within 
him  at  the  fair  light,  as  if  it  were  a  smile,  upon 
it.  And  it  happened  that  this  accident  of  his 
dream  was  just  the  thing  needed  for  the  begin- 
ning of  a  certain  design  he  then  had  in  view, 
the  noting,  namely,  of -some  things  in  the  story 
of  his  spirit — in  that  process  of  brain-building 
by  which  we  are,  each  one  of  us,  what  we  are. 
With  the  image  of  the  place  so  clear  and 
favourable  upon  him,  he  fell  to  tliinking  of 
himself  therein,  and  how  his  thoughts  had 
grown  up  to  him.  In  that  half-spiritualiseil 
house  he  could  watch  the  better,  over  again, 
the  gradual  expansion  of  the  soul  which  had 
come  to  be  there — of  which  indeed,  through 
the  law  which  makes  the  material  objects  about 
them  so  large  an  element  in  children's  lives,  it 
had  actually  become  a  part;  inward  and  out- 
ward being  woven  through  and  through  each 
other  into  one  inextricable  texture — half,  tint 
and  trace  and  accident  of  homely  colour  and 
form,  from  the  wood  and  the  bricks;  half, 
meres  soul-stuff,  floated  thither  from  who  knows 
how  far.  In  the  house  and  garden  of  his  dream 
he  saw-  a  child  moving,  and  could  divide  the 
main  streams  at  least  of  the  winds  that  had 
])layed  on  him,  and  study  so  the  first  stage  in 
that  mental  journey. 

The  old  house,  as  when  Florian  talked  of  it 
afterwards  he  always  called  it,  (as  all  children 
do,  who  can  recollect  a  change  of  home,  soon 
enough  but  not  too  soon  to  mark  a  period  in 
their  lives)  really  was  an  old  house;  and  an 
element    of    French    descent    in    its    inmates — 

1  Pater's  fondness  for  participles  partakes  rather 
more  of  Latin  than  of  English  style.  Note, 
too,  the  difficulty  of  resuming,  in  the  close  of 
this  sentence,  the  grammatical  subject  of  the 
lieifinnimr. 
•.;  harmoniously 

i  pure,   unmixed 


724 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


descent  from  Watteau,  the  old  court-painter,* 
one  of  whose  gallant  pieces  still  hung  in  one 
of  the  rooms — might  explain,  together  with 
some  other  things,  a  noticeable  trimness  and 
comely  whiteness  about  everything  there — the 
curtains,  the  couches,  the  paint  on  the  walls 
with  which  the  light  and  shadow  played  so  deli- 
cately; might  explain  also  the  tolerance  of  the 
great  poplar  in  the  garden,  a  tree  most  often 
despised  by  English  people,  but  which  French 
people  love,  having  observed  a  certain  fresh 
way  its  leaves  have  of  dealing  with  the  wind, 
making  it  sound,  in  never  so  slight  a  stirring  of 
the  air,  like  running  water. 

The  old-fashioned,  low  wainscoting  went 
round  the  rooms,  and  up  the  staircase  with 
carved  balusters  and  shadowy  angles,  landing 
half-way  up  at  a  broad  window,  with  a  swal- 
low's nest  below  the  sill,  and  the  blossom  of  an 
old  pear-tree  showing  across  it  in  late  April, 
against  the  blue,  below  which  the  perfumed 
juice  of  the  find  of  fallen  fruit  in  autumn  was 
so  fresh.  At  the  next  turning  came  the  closet 
which  held  on  its  deep  'shelves  the  best  china. 
Little  angel  faces  and  reedy  flutings  stood  out 
round  the  fireplace  of  the  children's  room.  And 
on  the  top  of  the  house,  above  the  large  attic, 
where  the  white  mice  ran  in  the  twilight — an 
infinite,  unexplored  wonderland  of  childish 
treasures,  glass  beads,  empty  scent-bottles  still 
sweet,  thrum  of  coloured  silks,  among  its  lum- 
ber— a  flat  space  of  roof,  railed  round,  gave  a 
view  of  the  neighbouring  steeples;  for  the 
house,  as  I  said,  stood  near  a  great  city,  which 
sent  up  heavenwards,  over  the  twisting  weather- 
vanes,  not  seldom,  its  beds  of  rolling  cloud 
and  smoke,  touched  with  storm  or  sunshine. 
But  the  child  of  whom  I  am  writing  did  not 
hate  the  fog,  because  of  the  crimson  lights 
which  fell  from  it  sometimes  upon  the  chimneys, 
and  the  whites  which  gleamed  through  its  open- 
ings, on  summer  mornings,  on  turret  or  pave- 
ment. For  it  is  false  to  suppose  that  a  child 's 
Bense  of  beauty  is  dependent  on  any  choiceness 
or  special  fineness,  in  the  objects  which  present 
themselves  to  it,  though  this  indeed  comes  to 
be  the  rule  with  most  of  us  in  later  life ;  earlier, 
in  some  degree,  we  see  inwardly;  and  the  child 
finds  for  itself,  and  with  unstinted  delight,  a 
diflference  for  the  sense,  in  those  whites  and 
rerls  through  the  smoke  on  very  homely  build- 
ings, and  in  the  gold  of  the  dandelions  at  the 
road  side,  just  beyond  the  houses,  where  not  a 
handful  of  earth   is  virgin  and  untouched,  in 

•  Theff  may  have  Ix'cn  Homo  family  connootion 
betw«M>n  I'ntcr  and  Joan  Uapttntp  Patrr,  a 
French  painter  of  Watteau's  tlmo. 


the  lack  of  better  ministries  to  its  desire  of 
beauty.f 

This  house  then  stood  not  far  beyond  the 
gloom  and  rumours  of  the  town,  among  high 
garden-walls,  bright  all  summer-time  with 
Golden-rod,  and  brown-and-golden  Wall-flower 
— Flos  Parietis,  as  the  children's  Latin-reading 
father  taught  them  to  call  it,  while  he  was 
with  them.  Tracing  back  the  threads  of  his 
complex  spiritual  habit,  as  he  was  used  in  after 
years  to  do,  Florian  found  that  he  owed  to  the 
place  many  tones  of  sentiment  afterwards  cus- 
tomary with  him,  certain  inward  lights  under 
which  things  most  naturally  presented  them- 
selves to  him.  The  coming  and  going  of  travel- 
lers to  the  town  along  the  way,  the  shadow  of 
the  streets,  the  sudden  breath  of  the  neigh- 
bouring gardens,  the  singular  brightness  of 
bright  weather  there,  its  singular  darknesses 
which  linked  themselves  in  his  mind  to  certain 
engraved  illustrations  in  the  old  big  Bible  at 
home,  the  coolness  of  the  dark,  cavernous  shops 
round  the  great  church,  with  its  giddy  winding 
stair  up  to  the  pigeons  and  the  bells — a  citadel 
of  peace  in  the  heart  of  the  trouble — all  this 
acted  on  his  childish  fancy,  so  that  ever  after- 
wards the  like  aspects  and  incidents  never 
failed  to  throw  him  into  a  well-recognised 
imaginative  mood,  seeming  actually  to  have 
become  a  part  of  the  texture  of  his  mind. 
Also,  Florian  could  trace  home  to  this  point  a 
pervading  preference  in  himself  for  a  kind  of 
comeliness  and  dignity,  an  urbanity  literally,  in 
modes  of  life,  which  he  connected  with  the 
pale  people  of  towns,  and  which  made  him  sus- 
ceptible to  a  kind  of  exquisite  satisfaction  in 
the  trimness  and  well-considered  grace  of  cer- 
tain things  and  persons  he  afterwards  met 
with,  here  and  there,  in  his  way  through  the 
world. 

So  the  child  of  whom  I  am  writing  lived  on 
there  quietly;  things  without  thus  ministering 
to  him,  as  he  sat  daily  at  the  window  with  the 
birdcage  hanging  below  it,  and  his  mother 
taught  him  to  read,  wondering  at  the  ease  with 
which  he  learned,  and  at  the  quickness  of  his 
memory.  The  perfume  of  the  little  flowers  of 
the  lime-tree  fell  through  the  air  upon  them 
like  rain;  while  time  seemed  to  move  ever  more 
slowly  to  the  murmur  of  the  bees  in  it,  till  it 
almost  stood  still  on  June  afternoons.  How 
insignificant,  at  the  moment,  seem  the  in- 
fluences of  the  sensible  things  which  are  tossed 
and    fall   and   lie   about  us,  so,   or  so,  in  the 

t  This  last  clause  is  to  be  attached  to  the  sub- 
ject, "child."  Pnter'8  sentences  often  wind 
thuH,  l>y  a  devious  route,  to  an  unexpected 
end. 


WALTER  PATEE 


725 


environment  of  early  childhood.  How  indelibly, 
as  we  afterwards  discover,  they  affect  us;  with 
what  capricious  attractions  and  associations 
they  figure  themselves  on  the  white  paper,t  the 
smooth  wax,  of  our  ingenuous  souls,  as  "with 
lead  in  the  rock  for  ever,  "i  giving  form  and 
feature,  and  as  it  were  assigned  house-room  in 
our  memory,  to  early  experiences  of  feeling 
and  thought,  which  abide  with  us  ever  after- 
wards, thus,  and  not  otherwise.  The  realities 
and  passions,  the  rumours  of  the  greater  world 
without,  steal  in  upon  us,  each  by  its  own 
special  little  passage-way,  through  the  wall  of 
custom  about  us;  and  never  afterwards  quite 
detach  themselves  from  this  or  that  accident, 
or  trick,  in  the  mode  of  their  first  entrance  to 
us.  Our  susceptibilities,  the  discovery  of  our 
powers,  manifold  experiences — our  various  ex- 
periences of  the  coming  and  going  of  bodily 
pain,  for  instance — belong  to  this  or  the  other 
well-remembered  place  in  the  material  habita- 
tion— that  little  white  room  with  the  window 
across  which  the  heavy  blossoms  could  beat  so 
peevishly  in  the  wind,  with  just  that  particular 
catch  or  throb,  such  a  sense  of  teasing  in  it, 
on  gusty  mornings;  and  the  early  habitation 
thus  gradually  becomes  a  sort  of  material  shrine 
or  sanctuary  of  sentiment;  a  system  of  visible 
symbolism  interweaves  itself  through  all  our 
thoughts  and  passions;  and  irresistibly,  little 
shapes,  voices,  accidents — the  angle  at  which 
the  sun  in  the  morning  fell  on  the  pillow — 
become  parts  of  the  great  chain  wherewith  we 
are  bound. 

Thus  far,  for  Florian,  what  all  this  had  de- 
termined was  a  peculiarly  strong  sense  of  home 
— so  forcible  a  motive  with  all  of  us — prompt- 
ing to  us  our  customary  love  of  the  earth,  and 
the  larger  part  of  our  fear  of  death,  that  revul- 
sion we  have  from  it,  as  from  something 
strange,  untried,  unfriendly;  though  life-long 
imprisonment,  they  teU  you,  and  final  banish- 
ment from  home  is  a  thing  bitterer  still;  the 
looking  forward  to  but  a  short  space,  a  mere 
childish  gouter^  and  dessert  of  it,  before  the 
end,  being  so  great  a  resource  of  effort  to  pil- 
grims and  wayfarers,  and  the  soldier  in  dis- 
tant quarters,  and  lending,  in  lack  of  that,  some 
power  of  solace  to  the  thought  of  sleep  in  the 
home  churchyard,  at  least — dead  cheek  by  dead 
cheek,  and  with  the  rain  soaking  in  upon  one 
from  above. 

iJoft.  xlx,  24. 

2  a  slight  repast,  a  taste 

t  Referring  to  Locke's  familiar  figure  for  the  state 
of  mind  at  birth  (Locke  did  not  believe  in 
innate  ideas).  The  next  figure  is  derived 
from  the  ancient  practice  of  writing  on  tab- 
lets of  wax. 


So  powerful  is  this  instinct,  and  yet  accidents 
like  those  I  have  been  speaking  of  so  mechan- 
ically determine  it;  its  essence  being  indeed  the 
early  familiar,  as  constituting  our  ideal,  or 
typical  conception,  of  rest  and  security.  Out 
of  so  many  possible  conditions,  just  this  for 
you  and  that  for  me,  brings  ever  the  unmistak- 
able realisation  of  the  delightful  chez  sot;3  this 
for  the  Englishman,  for  me  and  you,  with  the 
closely-drawn  white  curtain  and  the  shaded 
lamp;  that,  quite  other,  for  the  wandering 
Arab,  who  folds  his  tent  every  morning,  and 
makes  his  sleeping-place  among  haunted  ruins, 
or  in  old  tombs. 

With  Florian  then  the  sense  of  home  became 
singularly  intense,  his  good  fortune  being  that 
the  special  character  of  his  home  was  in  itself 
so  essentially  home-like.  As  after  many  wan- 
derings I  have  come  to  fancy  that  some  parts 
of  Surrey  and  Kent  are,  for  Englishmen,  the 
true  landscape,  true  home-counties,  by  right, 
partly,  of  a  certain  earthy  warmth  in  the  yellow 
of  the  sand  below  their  gorse-bushes,  and  of  a 
certain  gray-blue  mist  after  rain,  in  the  hollows 
of  the  hills  there,  welcome  to  fatigued  eyes,  and 
never  seen  farther  south;  so  I  think  that  the 
sort  of  house  I  have  described,  with  precisely 
those  proportions  of  red-brick  and  green,  and 
with  a  just  perceptible  monotony  in  the  sub- 
dued order  of  it,  for  its  distinguishing  note,  is 
for  Englishmen  at  least  typically  •  home-like. 
And  so  for  Florian  that  general  human  instinct 
was  reinforced  by  this  special  home-likeness  in 
the  place  his  wandering  soul  had  happened  to 
light  on,  as,  in  the  second  degree,  its  body  and 
earthly  tabernacle;  the  sense  of  harmony  be- 
tween his  soul  and  its  physical  environment 
became,  for  a  time  at  least,  like  perfectly 
played  music,  and  the  life  led  there  singularly 
tranquil  and  filled  with  a  curious  sense  of  self- 
possession.  The  love  of  security,  of  an  habit- 
ually undisputed  standing-ground  or  sleeping- 
place,  came  to  count  for  much  in  the  generation 
and  correcting  of  his  thoughts,  and  afterwards 
as  a  salutary  principle  of  restraint  in  all  his 
wanderings  of  spirit.  The  wistful  yearning 
towards  home,  in  absence  from  it,  as  the 
shadows  of  evening  deepened,  and  he  followed 
in  thought  what  was  doing  there  from  hour  to 
hour,  interpreted  to  him  much  of  a  yearning 
and  regret  he  experienced  afterwards,  towards 
he  knew  not  what,  out  of  strange  ways  of  feel- 
ing and  thought  in  which,  from  time  to  time, 
his  spirit  found  itself  alone;  and  in  the  tears 
shed  in  such  absences  there  seemed  always  to 

3  at  home 


726 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


be   some   soul-subduing   foretaste   of   what   his 
last  tears  might  be. 

And  the  sense  of  security  could  hardly  have 
been  deeper,  the  quiet  of  the  child's  soul  being 
one  with  the  quiet  of  its  home,  a  place  * '  in- 
closed" and  "sealed."  But  upon  this  assured 
place,  upon  the  child's  assured  soul  which 
resembled  it,  there  came  floating  in  from  the 
larger  world  without,  as  at  windows  left  ajar 
unknowingly,  or  over  the  high  garden  walls,  two 
streams  of  impressions,  the  sentiments  of 
beauty  and  pain — recognitions  of  the  visible, 
tangible,  audible  loveliness  of  things,  as  a  very 
real  and  somewhat  tyrannous  element  in  them 
— and  of  the  sorrow  of  the  world,  of  grown 
people  and  children  and  animals,  as  a  thing 
not  to  be  put  by  in  them.  From  this  point  he 
could  trace  two  predominant  processes  of  men- 
tal .change  in  him — the  growth  of  an  almost  dis- 
eased sensibility  to  the  spectacle  of  suffering, 
and,  parallel  with  this,  the  rapid  growth  of  a 
certain  capacity  of  fascination  by  bright  colour 
and  choice  form — the  sweet  curvings,  for  in- 
stance, of  the  lips  of  those  who  seemed  to  him 
comely  persons,  modulated  in  such  delicate 
unison  to  the  things  they  said  or  sang, — mark- 
ing early  the  activity  in  him  of  a  more  than 
customary  sensuousne-s,  "the  lust  of  the  eye," 
as  the  Preacher  says,*  which  might  lead  him, 
one  day,  how  far!  Could  he  have  foreseen  the 
weariness  of  the  way!  In  music  sometimes  the 
two  sorts  of  impressions  came  together,  and 
he  would  weep,  to  the  surprise  of  older  people. 
Tears  of  joy  too  the  child  knew,  also  to  older 
people's  surprise;  real  tears,  once,  of  relief 
from  long-strung,  childish  expectation,  when 
he  found  returned  at  evening,  with  new  roses 
in  her  cheeks,  the  little  sister  who  had  been  to 
a  place  where  there  was  a  wood,  and  brought 
back  for  him  a  treasure  of  fallen  acorns,  and 
black  crow 's  feathers,  and  his  peace  at  finding 
her  again  near  him  mingled  all  night  with  some 
intimate  sense  of  the  distant  forest,  the  rumour 
of  its  breezes,  with  the  glossy  blackbirds  aslant 
and  the  branches  lifted  in  them,  and  of  the 
perfect  nicety  of  the  little  cups  that  fell.  So 
those  two  elementary  apprehensions  of  the  ten- 
derness and  of  the  colour  in  things  grew  apace 
in  him,  and  were  seen  by  him  afterwards  to 
send  their  roots  back  into  the  beginnings  of 
life.  Let  me  note  first  some  of  the  occasions 
of  his  recognition  of  the  element  of  pain  in 
things — incidents,  now  and  again,  which  seemed 
suddenly  to  awake  in  him  the  whole  force  of 
that   sentiment   which   Goethe   has   called   the 

•  The    Preachpf    is    EcclesiaBtes,    hut    the    phrase 
"lust  of  the  eyes"  is  in  /  John,  li,  16. 


Weltschmerz,^  and  in  which  the  concentrated 
sorrow  of  the  world  seemed  suddenly  to  lie 
heavy  upon  him.  A  book  lay  in  an  old  book- 
case, of  which  he  cared  to  remember  one  pic- 
ture— a  woman  sitting,  with  hands  bound  be- 
lund  her,  the  dress,  the  cap,  the  hair,  folded 
with  a  simplicity  which  touched  him  strangely, 
as  if  not  by  her  own  hands,  but  with  some 
ambiguous  care  at  the  hands  of  others — Queen 
Marie  Antoinette,  on  her  way  to  execution — we 
all  remember  David 's-  drawing,  meant  merely 
to  make  her  ridiculous.  The  face  that  had  been 
so  high  had  learned  to  be  mute  and  resistless; 
but  out  of  its  very  resistlessness,  seemed  now 
to  call  on  men  to  have  pity,  and  forbear;  and 
he  took  note  of  that,  as  he  closed  the  book,  as 
a  thing  to  look  at  again,  if  he  should  at  any 
time  find  himself  tempted  to  be  cruel.  Again, 
he  would  never  quite  forget  the  appeal  in  the 
small  sister's  face,  in  the  garden  under  the 
lilacs,  terrified  at  a  spider  lighted  on  her  sleeve. 
He  could  trace  back  to  the  look  then  noted  a 
certain  mercy  he  conceived  always  for  people 
in  fear,  even  of  little  things,  which  seemed  to 
make  him,  though  but  for  a  moment,  capable 
of  almost  any  sacrifice  of  himself.  Impressible, 
susceptible  persons,  indeed,  who  had  had  their 
sorrows,  lived  about  him;  and  this  sensibility 
was  due  in  part  to  the  tacit  influence  of  their 
presence,  enforcing  upon  him  habitually  the 
fact  that  there  are  those  who  pass  their  days, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  in  a  sort  of  "going 
quietly."  Most  poignantly  of  all  he  could  re- 
call, in  unfading  minutest  circumstance,  the  cry 
on  the  stair,  sounding  bitterly  through  the 
house,  and  struck  into  his  soul  for  ever,  of  an 
aged  woman,  his  father's  sister,  come  now  to 
announce  his  death  in  distant  India;  how  it 
seemed  to  make  the  aged  woman  like  a  child 
again;  and,  he  knew  not  why,  but  this  fancy 
was  full  of  pity  to  him.  There  were  the  little 
sorrows  of  the  dumb  animals  too — of  the  white 
angora,  with  a  dark  tail  like  an  ermine's,  and 
a  face  like  a  flower,  who  fell  into  a  linger- 
ing sickness,  p.nd  became  quite  delicately  human 
in  its  valetudinarianism,  and  came  to  have  a 
hundred  different  expressions  of  voice — how  it 
grew  worse  and  worse,  till  it  began  to  feel  the 
light  too  much  for  it,  and  at  last,  after  one 
wild  morning  of  pain,  the  little  soul  flickered 
away  from  the  body,  quite  worn  to  death  al- 
ready, and  now  but  feebly  retaining  it. 

So  he  wanted  another  pet;  and  as  there  were         i 
starlings  about  the  place,  which  could  be  taught         i 

1  world-sorrow 

2  Jacques  Louis  David,  court-painter  to  Louis  XVI.         \ 

and  to  Napoleon.  i 


WALTEE  PATER 


727 


to  speak,  one  of  them  was  caught,  and  be  meant 
to  treat  it  kindly;  but  in  the  night  its  young 
ones  could  be  heard  crying  after  it,  and  the 
responsive  cry  of  the  mother-bird  towards  them ; 
and  at  last,  with  the  first  light,  though  not  till 
after  some  debate  with  himself,  he  went  down 
and  opened  the  cage,  and  saw  a  sharp  bound 
of  the  prisoner  up  to  her  nestlings;  and  there- 
with came  the  sense  of  remorse, — that  he  too 
was  become  an  accomplice  in  moving,  to  the 
limit  of  his  small  power,  the  springs  and  han- 
dles of  that  great  machine  in  things,  con- 
structed so  ingeniously  to  play  pain-fugues  on 
the  delicate  nerve-work  of  living  creatures. 

I  have  remarked  how,  in  the  process  of  our 
brain-building,  as  the  house  of  thought  in  which 
we  live  gets  itself  together,  like  some  airy 
bird's-nest  of  floating  thistle-down  and  chance 
straws,  compact  at  last,  little  accidents  have 
their  consequence;  and  thus  it  happened  that, 
as  he  walked  one  evening,  a  garden  gate, 
usually  closed,  stood  open;  and  lo!  within,  a 
great  red  hawthorn  in  full  flower,  embossing 
heavily  the  bleached  and  twioted  trunk  and 
branches,  so  aged  that  there  were  but  few  green 
leaves  thereon — a  plumage  of  tender,  crimson 
fire  out  of  the  heart  of  the  dry  wood.  The 
perfume  of  the  tree  had  now  and  again  reached 
him,  in  the  currents  of  the  wind,  over  the  wall, 
and  he  had  wondered  what  might  be  behind  it, 
and  was  now  allowed  to  fill  his  arms  with  the 
flowers — flowers  enough  for  all  the  old  blue- 
china  pots  along  the  chimney-piece,  making 
fete  in  the  children's  room.  Was  it  some 
periodic  moment  in  the  expansion  of  soul  within 
him,  or  mere  trick  of  heat  in  the  heavily-laden 
summer  air?  But  the  beauty  of  the  thing 
struck  home  to  him  feverishly;  and  in  dreams 
all  night  he  loitered  along  a  magic  roadway  of 
crimson  flowers,  which  seemed  to  open  ruddily 
in  thick,  fresh  masses  about  his  feet,  and  fill 
softly  all  the  little  hollows  in  the  banks  on 
either  side.  Always  afterwards,  summer  by 
summer,  as  the  flowers  came  on,  the  blossom  of 
the  red  hawthorn  still  seemed  to  him  absolutely 
the  reddest  of  all  things;  and  the  goodly  crim- 
son, still  alive  in  the  works  of  old  Venetian 
masters  or  old  Flemish  tapestries,  called  out 
always  from  afar  the  recollection  of  the  flame 
in  those  perishing  little  petals,  as  it  pulsed 
gradually  out  of  them,  kept  long  in  the  drawers 
of  an  old  cabinet.  Also  then,  for  the  first  time, 
he  seemed  to  experience  a  passionateness  in  his 
relation  to  fair  outward  objects,  an  inexplicable 
excitement  in  their  presence,  which  disturbed 
him,  and  from  which  he  half  longed  to  be  free. 
A  touch  of  regret  or  desire  mingled  all  night 


with  the  remembered  presence  of  the  red  flow- 
ers, and  their  perfume  in  the  darkness  about 
him ;  and  the  longing  for  some  undivined,  entire 
possession  of  them  was  the  beginning  of  a  reve- 
lation to  him,  growing  ever  clearer,  with  the 
coming  of  the  gracious  summer  guise  of  fields 
and  trees  and  persons  in  each  succeeding  year, 
of  a  certain,  at  times  seemingly  exclusive,  pre- 
dominance in  his  interests,  of  beautiful  physical 
things,  a  kind  of  tyranny  of  the  senses  over 
him. 

In  later  years  he  came  upon  philosophies 
which  occupied  him  much  in  the  estimate  of  the 
proportion  of  the  sensuous  and  the  ideal  ele- 
ments in  human  knowledge,  the  relative  parts 
they  bear  in  it;  and,  in  his  intellectual  scheme, 
was  led  to  assign  very  little  to  the  abstract 
thought,  and  much  to  its  sensible  vehicle  or 
occasion.  Such  metaphysical  speculation  did 
but  reinforce  what  was  instinctive  in  his  way 
of  receiving  the  world,  and  for  him,  everywhere, 
that  sensible  vehicle  or  occasion  became,  per- 
haps only  too  surely,  the  necessary  concomitant 
of  any  perception  of  things,  real  enough  to  be 
of  any  weight  or  reckoning,  in  his  house  of 
thought.  There  were  times  when  he  could 
think  of  the  necessity  he  was  under  of  associat- 
ing all  thoughts  to  touch  and  sight,  as  a  sym- 
pathetic link  between  himself  and  actual,  feel- 
ing, living  objects;  a  protest  in  favour  of  real 
men  and  women  against  mere  gray,  unreal  ab- 
stractions; and  he  remembered  gratefully  how 
the  Christian  religion,  hardly  less  than  the 
religion  of  the  ancient  Greeks,  translating  so 
much  of  its  spiritual  verity  into  things  that  may 
be  seen,  condescends  in  part  to  sanction  this 
infirmity,  if  so  it  be,  of  our  human  existence, 
wherein  the  world  of  sense  is  so  much  with  us,i 
and  welcomed  this  thought  as  a  kind  of  keeper 
and  sentinel  over  his  soul  therein.  But  cer- 
tainly, he  came  more  and  more  to  be  unable  to 
care  for,  or  think  of  soul  but  as  in  an  actual 
body,  or  of  any  world  but  that  wherein  are 
water  and  trees,  and  where  men  and  women 
look,  so  or  so,  and  press  actual  hands.  It  was 
the  trick  even  his  pity  learned,  fastening  those 
who  suffered  in  anywise  to  his  affections  by  a 
kind  of  sensible  attachments.  He  would  think 
of  Julian,  fallen  into  incurable  sickness,  as 
spoiled  in  the  sweet  blossom  of  his  skin  like 
pale  amber,  and  his  honey-like  hair;  of  Cecil, 
early  dead,  as  cut  off  from  the  lilies,  from 
golden  summer  days,  from  women's  voices;  and 
then  what  comforted  him  a  little  was  the 
thought  of  the  turning  of  the  child's  flesh  to 
violets  in  the  turf  above  him.    And  thinking  of 

1  See  Wordsworth's  sonnet,  p.  427. 


728 


THE  VICTOEIAN  AGE 


the  very  poor,  it  was  not  the  things  which  most 
men  care  most  for  that  he  yearned  to  give 
them;  but  fairer  roses,  perhaps,  ami  power  to 
taste  quite  as  they  will,  at  their  ease  and  not 
task-burdened,  a  certain  desirable,  clear  light 
in  the  new  morning,  through  which  sometimes 
he  had  noticed  them,  quite  unconscious  of  it, 
on  their  way  to  their  early  toil. 

So  he  yielded  himself  to  these  things,  to  be 
played  upon  by  them  like  a  musical  instrument, 
and  began  to  note  with  deepening  watchfulness, 
but  always  with  some  puzzled,  unutterable  long- 
ing in  his  enjoyment,  the  phases  of  the  seasons 
and  of  the  growing  or  waning  day,  down  even 
to  the  shadowy  changes  wrought  on  bare  wall 
or  ceiling — the  light  cast  up  from  the  snow, 
bringing  out  their  darkest  angles;  the  brown 
light  in  the  cloud,  which  meant  rain;  that 
almost  too  austere  clearness,  in  the  protracted 
light  of  the  lengthening  day,  before  warm 
weather  began,  as  if  it  lingered  but  to  make  a 
severer  workday,  with  the  school-books  opened 
earlier  and  later;  that  beam  of  June  sunshine, 
at  last,  as  he  lay  awake  before  the  time,  a  way 
of  gold-dust  across  the  darkness;  all  the  hum- 
ming, the  freshness,  the  perfume  of  the  garden 
seemed  to  lie  upon  it — and  coming  in  one  after- 
noon in  September,  along  the  red  gravel  walk, 
to  look  for  a  basket  of  yellow  crab-apples  left 
in  the  cool,  old  parlour,  he  remembered  it  the 
more,  and  how  the  colours  Struck  upon  him, 
because  a  wasp  on  one  bitten  apple  stung  him, 
and  he  felt  the  passion  of  sudden,  severe  pain. 
For  this  too  brought  its  curious  reflexions ;  and, 
in  relief  from  it,  he  would  wonder  over  it — 
how  it  had  then  been  with  him — puzzled  at  the 
depth  of  the  charm  or  spell  over  him,  which  lay, 
for  a  little  while  at  least,  in  the  mere  absence 
of  pain;  once,  especially,  when  an  older  boy 
taught  him  to  make  flowers  of  sealing-wax,  and 
he  had  burnt  his  hand  badly  at  the  lighted 
taper,  and  been  unable  to  sleep.  He  remem- 
bered that  also  afterwards,  as  a  sort  of  typical 
thing — a  white  vision  of  heat  about  him,  cling- 
ing closely,  through  the  languid  scent  of  the 
ointments  put  upon  the  place  to  make  it  well. 

Also,  as  he  felt  this  pressure  upon  him  of 
the  sensible  world,  then,  as  often  afterwards, 
there  would  come  another  sort  of  curious  ques- 
tioning how  the  last  impressions  of  eye  and  ear 
might  happen  to  him,  how  they  would  find  him 
— the  scent  of  the  last  flower,  the  soft  yellow- 
ness of  the  last  morning,  the  last  recognition  of 
some  object  of  affection,  hand  or  voice ;  it  could 
not  be  but  that  the  latest  look  of  the  eyes, 
before  their  final  closing,  would  be  strangely 
▼ivid;  one  would  go  with  the  hot  tears,  the  cry, 


the  touch  of  the  wistful  bystander,  impressed 
how  deeply  on  one!  or  would  it  be,  perhaps,  a 
mere  frail  retiring  of  all  things,  great  or  little, 
away  from  one,  into  a  level  distance? 

For  with  this  desire  of  physical  beauty 
mingled  itself  early  the  fear  of  death — the  fear 
of  death  intensified  by  the  desire  of  beauty. 
Hitherto  he  had  never  gazed  upon  dead  faces, 
as  sometimes,  afterwards,  at  the  Morgue  in 
Paris,  or  in  that  fair  cemetery  at  Munich, 
where  all  the  dead  must  go  and  lie  in  state 
before  burial,  behind  glass  windows,  among  the 
flowers  and  incense  and  holy  candles — the  aged 
clergy  with  their  sacred  ornaments,  the  young 
men  in  their  dancing-shoes  and  spotless  white 
linen — after  which  visits,  those  waxen,  resist- 
less faces  would  always  live  with  him  for  many 
days,  making  the  broadest  sunshine  sickly.  The 
child  had  heard  indeed  of  the  death  of  his 
father,  and  how,  in  the  Indian  station,  a  fever 
had  taken  him,  so  that  though  not  in  action  he 
had  yet  died  as  a  soldier;  and  hearing  of  the 
"resurrection  of  the  just, "i  he  could  think  of 
him  as  still  abroad  in  the  world,  somehow,  for 
his  protection — a  grand,  though  perhaps  rather 
terrible  figure,  in  beautiful  soldier's  things, 
like  the  figure  in  the  picture  of  Joshua 's  Vision 
in  the  Bible2 — and  of  that,  round  which  the 
mourners  moved  so  softly,  and  afterwards  with 
such  solemn  singing,  as  but  a  worn-out  garment 
left  at  a  deserted  lodging.  So  it  was,  until  on 
a  summer  day  he  walked  with  his  mother 
through  a  fair  churchyard.  In  a  bright  dress 
he  rambled  among  the  graves,  in  the  gay 
weather,  and  so  came,  in  one  corner,  upon  an 
open  grave  for  a  child — a  dark  space  on  the 
brilliant  grass — the  black  mould  lying  heaped 
up  round  it,  weighing  down  the  little  jewelled 
branches  of  the  dwarf  rosebushes  in  flower. 
And  therewith  came,  full-grown,  never  wholly 
to  leave  him,  with  the  certainty  that  even  chil- 
dren do  sometimes  die,  the  physical  horror  of 
death,  with  its  wholly  selfish  recoil  from  the 
association  of  lower  forms  of  life,  and  the 
suffocating  weight  above.  No  benign,  grave 
figure  in  beautiful  soldier's  things  any  longer 
abroad  in  the  world  for  his  protection!  only  a 
few  poor,  piteous  bones;  and  above  them,  pos- 
sibly, a  certain  sort  of  figure  he  hoped  not  to 
see.  For  sitting  one  day  in  the  garden  below 
an  open  window,  he  heard  people  talking,  and 
could  not  but  listen,  how,  in  a  sleepless  hour,  a 
sick  woman  had  seen  one  of  the  dead  sitting 
beside  her,  come  to  call  her  hence;  and  from 
the  broken  talk  evolved  with  much  clearness  the 
notion  that  not  all  those  dead  people  had  really 
1  Luke,  xiv.  14.  3  Joahua,  v,  13. 


WALTEB  PATER 


nQ 


departed  to  the  churchyard,  nor  were  quite  so 
motionless  as  they  looked,  but  led  a  secret,  half- 
fugitive  life  in  their  old  homes,  quite  free  by 
night,  though  sometimes  visible  in  the  day, 
dodging  from  room  to  room,  with  no  great 
goodwill  towards  those  who  shared  the  place 
with  them.  All  night  the  figure  sat  beside  him 
in  the  reveries  of  his  broken  sleep,  and  was  not 
quite  gone  in  the  morning — an  odd,  irreconci- 
lable new  member  of  the  household,  making  the 
sweet  familiar  chambers  unfriendly  and  suspect 
by  its  uncertain  presence.  He  could  have  hated 
the  dead  he  had  pitied  so,  for  being  thus. 
Afterwards  he  came  to  think  of  those  poor, 
home-returning  ghosts,  which  all  men  have  fan- 
cied to  themselves — the  revenants — pathetically, 
as  crying,  or  beating  with  vain  hands  at  the 
doors,  as  the  wind  came,  their  cries  distinguish- 
able in  it  as  a  wilder  inner  note.  But,  always 
making  death  more  unfamiliar  still,  that  old 
experience  would  ever,  from  time  to  time,  re- 
turn to  him;  even  in  the  living  he  sometimes 
caught  its  likeness;  at  any  time  or  place,  in  a 
moment,  the  faint  atmosphere  of  the  chamber 
of  death  would  be  breathed  around  him,  and 
the  image  with  the  bound  chin,  the  quaint  smile, 
the  straight,  stiff  feet,  shed  itself  across  the 
air  upon  the  bright  carpet,  amid  the  gayest 
company,  or  happiest  communing  with  himself. 
To  most  children  the  sombre  questionings  to 
which  impressions  like  these  attach  themselves, 
if  they  come  at  all,  are  actually  suggested  by 
religious  books,  which  therefore  they  often  re- 
gard with  much  secret  distaste,  and  dismiss, 
as  far  as  possible,  from  their  habitual  thoughts 
as  a  too  depressing  element  in  life.  To  Florian 
such  impressions,  these  misgivings  as  to  the 
ultimate  tendency  of  the  years,  of  the  relation- 
ship between  life  and  death,  had  been  sug- 
gested spontaneously  in  the  natural  course  of 
his  mental  growth  by  a  strong  innate  sense  for 
the  soberer  tones  in  things,  further  strength- 
ened by  actual  circumstances;  and  religious 
sentiment,  that  system  of  biblical  ideas  in 
which  he  had  been  brought  up,  presented  itself 
to  him  as  a  thing  that  might  soften  and  dig- 
nify, and  light  up  as  with  a  "lively  hope, "s 
a  melancholy  already  deeply  settled  in  him.  So 
he  yielded  himself  easily  to  religious  impres- 
sions, and  with  a  kind  of  mystical  appetite 
for  sacred  things;  the  more  as  they  came  to 
him  through  a  saintly  person  who  loved  him 
tenderly,  and  believed  that  this  early  pre- 
occupation with  them  already  marked  the  child 
out  for  a  saint.  He  began  to  love,  for  their 
own   sakes,   church   lights,  holy   days,   all  that 

3  /  Peter,  I,  3. 


belonged  to  the  comely  order  of  the  sanctuary, 
the  secrets  of  its  white  linen,  and  holy  vessels, 
and  fonts  of  pure  water ;  and  its  hieratic  purity 
and  simplicity  became  the  type  of  something 
he  desired  always  to  have  about  him  in  actual 
life.  He  pored  over  the  pictures  in  religious 
books,  and  knew  by  heart  the  exact  mode  in 
which  the  wrestling  angel  grasped  Jacob,  how 
Jacob  looked  in  his  mysterious  sleep,  how  the 
bells  and  pomegranates  were  attached  to  the 
hem  of  Aaron's  vestment,  sounding  sweetly  as 
he  glided  over  the  turf  of  the  holy  place.*  His 
way  of  conceiving  religion  came  then  to  be  in 
effect  what  it  ever  afterwards  remained — a 
sacred  history  indeed,  but  still  more  a  sacred 
ideal,  a  transcendent  version  or  representation, 
under  intenser  and  more  expressive  light  and 
shade,  of  human  life  and  its  familiar  or  excep- 
tional incidents,  birth,  death,  marriage,  youth, 
age,  tears,  joy,  rest,  sleep,  waking — a  mirror, 
towards  which  men  might  turn  away  their  eyes 
from  vanity  and  dullness,  and  see  themselves 
therein  as  angels,  with  their  daily  meat  and 
drink,  even,  become  a  kind  of  sacred  transac- 
tion— a  complementary  strain  or  burden,  ap- 
plied to  our  every-day  existence,  whereby  the 
stray  snatches  of  music  in  it  re-set  themselves, 
and  fall  into  the  scheme  of  some  higher  and 
more  consistent  harmony.  A  place  adumbrated 
itself  in  his  thoughts,  wherein  those  sacred  per- 
sonalities, which  are  at  once  the  reflex  and  the 
pattern  of  our  nobler  phases  of  life,  housed 
themselves;  and  this  region  in  his  intellectual 
scheme  all  subsequent  experience  did  but  tend 
still  further  to  realise  and  define.  Some  ideal, 
hieratic  persons  he  would  always  need  to  occupy 
it  and  keep  a  warmth  there.  And  he  could 
hardly  understand  those  who  felt  no  such  need 
at  all,  finding  themselves  quite  happy  without 
such  heavenly  companionship,  and  sacred  double 
of  their  life,  beside  them. 

Thus  a  constant  substitution  of  the  typical 
for  the  actual  took  place  in  his  thoughts. 
Angels  might  be  met  by  the  way,  under  English 
elm  or  beech-tree;  mere  messengers  seemed  like 
angels,  bound  on  celestial  errands;  a  deep 
mysticity  brooded  over  real  meetings  and  part- 
ings; marriages  were  made  in  heaven;  and 
deaths  also,  with  hands  of  angels  thereupon, 
to  bear  soul  and  body  quietly  asunder,  each  to 
its  appointed  rest.  All  the  acts  and  accidents 
of  daily  life  borrowed  a  sacred  colour  and  sig- 
nificance; the  very  colours  of  things  became 
themselves  weighty  with  meanings  like  the 
sacred    stuffs    of    Moses'    tabernacle,^    full    of 

4  Genesis,   xxxli,    24 ;    xxviii,    11 ;    Exodus,   xxvlil, 

33-35. 

5  Exodus,  XX vl. 


730 


THE  VICTOEIAN  AGE 


penitence  or  peace.  Sentiment,  congruous  in 
the  first  instance  only  with  those  divine  trans- 
actions, the  deep,  effusive  unction  of  the  House 
of  Bethany,"  was  assumed  as  the  due  attitude 
for  the  reception  of  our  every-day  existence; 
and  for  a  time  he  walked  through  the  world 
in  a  sustained,  not  unpleasurable  awe,  gener- 
ated by  the  habitual  recognition,  beside  every 
circumstance  and  event  of  life,  of  its  celestial 
correspondent. 

Sensibility — the  desire  of  physical  beauty — 
a  strange  biblical  awe,  which  made  any  refer- 
ence to  the  unseen  act  on  him  like  solemn 
music — these  qualities  the  child  took  away  with 
him,  when,  at  about  the  age  of  twelve  years, 
he  left  the  old  house,  and  was  taken  to  live  in 
another  place.  He  had  never  left  home  before, 
and,  anticipating  much  from  this  change,  had 
long  dreamed  over  it,  jealously  counting  the 
days  till  the  time  fixed  for  departure  should 
come;  had  been  a  little  careless  about  others 
even,  in  his  strong  desire  for  it — when  Lewis 
fell  sick,  for  instance,  and  they  must  wait  still 
two  days  longer.  At  last  the  morning  came, 
very  fine;  and  all  things — the  very  pavement 
with  its  dust,  at  the  roadside — seemed  to  have 
a  white,  pearl-like  lustre  in  them.  They  were 
to  travel  by  a  favourite  road  on  which  he  had 
often  walked  a  certain  distance,  and  on  one 
of  those  two  prisoner  days,  when  Lewis  was 
sick,  had  walked  farther  than  ever  before,  in 
his  great  desire  to  reach  the  new  place.  They 
had  started  and  gone  a  little  way  when  a  pet 
bird  was  found  to  have  been  left  behind,  and 
must  even  now — so  it  presented  itself  to  him 
— have  already  all  the  appealing  fierceness  and 
wild  self-pity  at  heart  of  one  left  by  others  to 
perish  of  hunger  in  a  closed  house;  and  he 
returned  to  fetch  it,  himself  in  hardly  less 
stormy  distress.  But  as  he  passed  in  search  of 
it  from  room  to  room,  lying  so  pale,  with  a 
look  of  meekness  in  their  denudation,  and  at 
last  through  that  little,  stripped  white  room, 
the  aspect  of  the  place  touched  him  like  the 
face  of  one  dead;  and  a  clinging  back  towards 
it  came  over  him,  so  intense  that  he  knew  it 
would  last  long,  and  spoiling  all  his  pleasure 
in  the  realisation  of  a  thing  so  eagerly  antici- 
pated. And  so,  with  the  bird  found,  but  him- 
self in  an  agony  of  home-sickness,  thus  capri- 
ciously sprung  up  within  him,  he  was  driven 
quickly  away,  far  into  the  rural  distance,  so 
fondly  speculated  on,  of  that  favourite  country- 
road. 

6  The  house  of  Simon  the  leper,  where  the  woman 
poured  the  box  of  ointment  on  Jesus'  bead — 
a  "deep,  efTusive  unction."  See  Matthew, 
xxtI,  7. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 
(1850-1894) 

EL  DOKADO* 
It  seems  as  if  a  great  deal  were  attainable 
in  a  world  where  there  are  so  many  marriages 
and  decisive  battles,  and  where  we  all,  at  cer- 
tain hours  of  the  day,  and  with  great  gusto 
and  despatch,  stow  a  portion  of  victuals  finally 
and  irretrievably  into  the  bag  which  contains 
us.  And  it  would  seem  also,  on  a  hasty  view, 
that  the  attainment  of  as  much  as  possible  was 
the  one  goal  of  man's  contentious  life.  And 
yet,  as  regards  the  spirit,  tliis  is  but  a  sem- 
blance. We  live  in  an  ascending  scale  when 
we  live  happily,  one  thing  leading  to  another 
in  an  endless  series.  There  is  always  a  new 
horizon  for  onward-looking  men,i  and  although 
we  dwell  on  a  small  planet,  immersed  in  petty 
business  and  not  enduring  beyond  a  brief 
period  of  years,  we  are  so  constituted  that  our 
hopes  are  inaccessible,  like  stars,  and  the  term 
of  hoping  is  prolonged  until  the  term  of  life. 
To  be  truly  happy  is  a  question  of  how  we 
begin  and  not  of  how  we  end,  of  what  we  want 
and  not  of  what  we  have.  An  aspiration  is  a 
joy  forever,2  a  possession  as  solid  as  a  landed 
estate,  a  fortune  which  we  can  never  exhaust 
and  which  gives  us  year  by  year  a  revenue  of 
pleasurable  activity.  To  have  many  of  these 
is  to  be  spiritually  rich.  Life  is  only  a  very 
dull  and  ill-directed  theatre  unless  we  have 
some  interests  in  the  piece;  and  to  those  who 
have  neither  art  nor  science,  the  world  is  a 
mere  arrangement  of  colours,  or  a  rough  foot- 
way where  they  may  very  well  break  their  shins. 
It  is  in  virtue  of  his  own  desires  and  curiosities 
that  any  man  continues  to  exist  with  even 
patience,  that  he  is  charmed  by  the  look  of 
things  and  people,  and  that  he  wakens  every 
morning  with  a  renewed  appetite  for  work  and 
pleasure.  Desire  and  curiosity  are  the  two  eyes 
through  which  he  sees  the  world  in  the  most 
enchanted  colours:  it  is  they  that  make  women 
beautiful  or  fossils  interesting:  and  the  man 
may  squander  his  estate  and  come  to  beggary, 
but  if  he  keeps  these  two  amulets  he  is  still  rich 
in   the   possibilities   of    pleasure.     Suppose   he 

1  Cp.  Tennyson's  famous  figure,  Ulyaaes,  19-21. 

2  Echoed  from  Keats's  Endymion,  1, 

♦  Spanish  :  The  Gilded,  or  Golden.  The  name  was 
originally  given  to  a  fabulous  king  of  a 
wealthy  city  supposed  to  exist  somewhere  in 
South  America,  tne  object  of  much  search  in 
the  10th  century.  It  was  later  applied  to  the 
city,  and  has  now  become  a  name  for  the 
object  of  anv  visionary  quest.  The  essay  is 
from  Virginibus  Piierisque,  1881,  and  is  re- 
printed, along  with  the  selections  that  follow, 
by  permission  of  Messrs.  Charles  Scrlbner's 
Sons,  who  hold  the  copyright. 


EGBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


ni 


could  take  one  meal  so  compact  and  comprehen- 
sive that  he  should  never  hunger  any  more; 
suppose  him,  at  a  glance,  to  take  in  all  the 
features  of  the  world  and  allay  the  desire  for 
knowledge;  suppose  him  to  do  the  like  in  any 
province  of  experience — would  not  that  man 
be  in  a  poor  way  for  amusement  ever  after? 

One  who  goes  touring  on  foot  with  a  single 
volume  in  his  knapsack  reads  with  circumspec- 
tion, pausing  often  to  reflect,  and  often  lay- 
ing the  book  down  to  contemplate  the  landscape 
or  the  prints  in  the  inn  parlour;  for  he  fears 
to  come  to  an  end  of  his  entertainment,  and  be 
left  companionless  on  the  last  stages  of  his 
journey.  A  young  fellow  recently  finished  the 
works  of  Thomas  Carlyle,  winding  up,  if  we 
remember  aright,  with  the  ten  note-books  upon 
Frederick  the  Great.  "What!"  cried  the 
young  fellow,  in  consternation,  ' '  is  there  no 
more  Carlyle?  Am  I  left  to  the  daily  papers?" 
A  more  celebrated  instance  is  that  of  Alex- 
ander, who  wept  bitterly  because  he  had  no 
more  worlds  to  subdue.  And  when  Gibbon  had 
finished  the  Decline  and  Fall,^  he  had  only  a 
few  moments  of  joy;  and  it  was  with  a  "sober 
melancholy"  that  he  parted  from  his  labours. 

Happily  we  all  shoot  at  the  moon  with  in- 
effectual arrows;  our  hopes  are  set  on  inac- 
cessible El  Dorado;  we  come  to  an  end  of 
nothing  here  below.  Interests  are  only  plucked 
up  to  sow  themselves  again,  like  mustard.  You 
would  think,  when  the  child  was  born,  there 
would  be  an  end  to  trouble;  and  yet  it  is  only 
the  beginning  of  fresh  anxieties;  and  when  you 
have  seen  it  through  its  teething  and  its  educa- 
tion, and  at  last  its  marriage,  alas!  it  is  only 
to  have  new  fears,  new  quivering  sensibilities, 
with  every  day;  and  the  health  of  your  chil- 
dren 's  children  grows  as  touching  a  concern  as 
that  of  your  own.  Again,  when  you  have  mar- 
ried your  wife,  you  would  think  you  were  got 
upon  a  hilltop,  and  might  begin  to  go  down- 
ward by  an  easy  slope.  But  you  have  only 
ended  courting  to  begin  marriage.  Falling  in 
love  and  winning  love  are  often  difficult  tasks 
to  overbearing  and  rebellious  spirits;  but  to 
keep  in  love  is  also  a  business  of  some  im- 
portance, to  which  both  man  and  wife  must 
bring  kindness  and  goodwill.  The  true  love 
story  commences  at  the  altar,  when  there  lies 
before  the  married  pair  a  most  beautiful  con- 
test of  wisdom  and  generosity,  and  a  life-long 
struggle  towards  an  unattainable  ideal.  Unat- 
tainable? Ay,  surely  unattainable,  from  the 
very  fact  that  they  are  two  instead  of  one. 

3  A   twenty-four   years'  labor.      See    Eng.   Lit.,   p. 
213. 


"Of  making  books  there  is  no  end,"  com- 
plained the  Preacher; 4  and  did  not  perceive 
how  highly  he  was  praising  letters  as  an  occu- 
pation. There  is  no  end,  indeed,  to  making 
books  or  experiments,  or  to  travel,  or  to  gather- 
ing wealth.  Problem  gives  rise  to  problem.  We 
may  study  for  ever,  and  we  are  never  as  learned 
as  we  would.  We  have  never  made  a  statue 
worthy  of  our  dreams.  And  when  we  have  dis- 
covered a  continent,  or  crossed  a  chain  of 
mountains,  it  is  only  to  find  another  ocean  or 
another  plain  upon  the  further  side.  In  the 
infinite  universe  there  is  room  for  our  swiftest 
diligence  and  to  spare.  It  is  not  like  the  works 
of  Carlyle,  which  can  be  read  to  an  end.  Even 
in  a  corner  of  it,  in  a  private  park,  or  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  a  single  hamlet,  the  weather 
and  the  seasons  keep  so  deftly  changing  that 
although  we  walk  there  for  a  lifetime  there  will 
be  always  something  new  to  startle  and  de- 
light us. 

There  is  only  one  wish  realisable  on  the 
earth;  only  one  thing  that  can  be  perfectly 
attained:  Death.  And  from  a  variety  of  cir- 
cumstances we  have  no  one  to  tell  us  whether 
it  be  worth  attaining. 

A  strange  picture  we  make  on  our  way  to  our 
chimaeras,  ceaselessly  marching,  grudging  our- 
selves the  time  for  rest;  indefatigable,  adven- 
turous pioneers.  It  is  true  that  we  shall  never 
reach  the  goal;  it  is  even  more  than  probable 
that  there  is  no  such  place;  and  if  we  lived  for 
centuries  and  were  endowed  with  the  powers  of 
a  god,  we  should  find  ourselves  not  much  nearer 
what  we  wanted  at  the  end.  O  toiling  hands 
of  mortals!  O  unwearied  feet,  travelling  ye 
know  not  whither !  Soon,  soon,  it  seems  to  you, 
you  must  come  forth  on  some  conspicuous  hill- 
top, and  but  a  little  way  further,  against  the 
setting  sun,  descry  the  spires  of  El  Dorado. 
Little  do  ye  know  your  own  blessedness;  for  to 
travel  hopefully  is  a  better  thing  than  to  arrive, 
and  the  true  success  is  to  labour. 

THE  MAEOON* 

Of  the  beauties  of  Anaho  books  might  be 
written.  I  remember  waking  about  three,  to 
find  the  air  temperate  and  scented.  The  long 
swell  brimmed  into  the  bay,  and  seemed  to  fill 

4  Ecclesiastes,  xii,  12. 

*  A  maroon  is  one  who  has  been  "marooned,"  or 
abandoned  on  an  island.  This  chapter  is 
taken  from  Jn  the  South  Seas,  1891.  Steven- 
son made  a  cruise  among  the  South  Sea  Islands 
in  the  yacht  Caaco,  which  he  chartered  at 
San  Francisco  in  1888.  Anaho  is  a  native 
village  of  Nuka-hiva,  the  chief  island  of  the 
Marquesas.  Kanaka,  properly  a  Sandwich- 
Islander,  is  a  general  name  for  a  South  Sea 
Islander  or  bis  speech. 


yag 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


it  full  and  then  subside.  Gently,  deeply,  and 
silently  the  Casco  rolled;  only  at  times  a  blocki 
piped  like  a  bird.  Oceanward,  the  heaven  was 
bright  with  stars  and  the  sea  with  their  reflec- 
tions. If  I  looked  to  that  side,  I  might  have 
sung  with  the  Hawaiian  poet: 

Va  niaomao  ka  lani,  ua  kahaea  luna, 

Ua  pipi  ka  maka  o  ka  hoku. 
(The  heavens  were  fair,  they  stretched  above, 
Many  were  the  eyes  of  the  stars.) 

And  then  I  turned  shoreward,  and  high  squalls 
were  overhead;  the  mountains  loomed  up  black; 
and  1  could  have  fancied  I  had  slipped  ten 
thousand  miles  away  and  was  anchored  in  a 
Highland  loch;  that  when  the  day  came,  it 
would  show  pine,  and  heather,  and  green  fern, 
and  roofs  of  turf  sending  up  the  smoke  of 
peats ;  and  the  alien  speech  that  should  next 
greet  my  ears  must  be  Gaelic,  not  Kanaka. 

And  day,  when  it  came,  brought  other  sights 
and  thoughts.  I  have  watched  the  morning 
break  in  many  quarters  of  the  world;  it  has 
been  certainly  one  of  the  chief  joys  of  my 
existence,  and  the  dawn  that  I  saw  with  most 
emotion  shone  upon  the  bay  of  Anaho.  The 
mountains  abruptly  overhang  the  port  with 
every  variety  of  surface  and  of  inclination, 
lawn,  and  cliff,  and  forest.  Not  one  of  these 
but  wore  its  proper  tint  of  saffron,  of  sulphur, 
of  the  clove,  and  of  the  rose.  The  lustre  was 
like  that  of  satin;  on  the  lighter  hues  there 
seemed  to  float  an  eflBorescence ;  a  solemn  bloom 
appeared  on  the  more  dark.  The  light  itself 
was  the  ordinary  light  of  morning,  colourless 
and  clean;  and  on  this  ground  of  jewels,  pen- 
cilled out  the  least  detail  of  drawing.  Mean- 
while, around  the  hamlet,  under  the  palms, 
where  the  blue  shadow  lingered,  the  red  coals 
Of  cocoa-husk  and  the  light  trails  of  smoke 
betrayed  the  awakening  business  of  the  day; 
along  the  beach  men  and  women,  lads  and 
lasses,  were  returning  from  the  bath  in  bright 
raiment,  red  and  blue  and  green,  such  as  we 
delighted  to  see  in  the  coloured  little  pictures 
of  our  childhood ;  and  presently  the  sun  had 
cleared  the  eastern  hill,  and  the  glow  of  the 
day  was  over  all. 

The  glow  continued  and  increased,  the  busi- 
ness, from  the  main  part.,  ceased  before  it  had 
begun.  Twice  in  the  day  there  was  a  certain 
stir  of  shepherding  along  the  seaward  hills. 
At  times  a  canoe  went  out  to  fish.  At  times 
a  woman  or  two  languidly  filled  a  basket  in 
the  cotton  patch.  At  times  a  pipe  would  sound 
out  of  the  shadow  of  a  house,  ringing  the 
changes  on  its  three  notes,  with  an  effect  like 

1  pulley 


Que  le  jour  me  dure^  repeated  endlessly.  Or 
at  times,  across  a  corner  of  the  bay,  two  natives 
might  communicate  in  the  Marquesan  manner 
with  conventional  whistlings.  All  else  was 
sleep  and  silence.  The  surf  broke  and  shone 
around  the  shores;  a  species  of  black  crane 
fished  in  the  broken  water;  the  black  pigs  were 
continually  galloping  by  on  some  affair;  but 
the  people  might  never  have  awaked,  or  they 
might  all  be  dead. 

My  favourite  haunt  was  opposite  the  hamlet, 
where  was  a  landing  in  a  cove  under  a  lianaed^ 
cliff.  The  beach  was  lined  with  palms  and  a 
tree  called  the  purao,  something  between  the 
fig  and  mulberry  in  growth,  and  bearing  a 
flower  like  a  great  yellow  poppy  with  a  maroon 
heart.  In  places  rocks  encroached  upon  the 
sand;  the  beach  would  be  all  submerged;  and 
the  surf  would  bubble  warmly  as  high  as  to 
my  knees,  and  play  with  cocoa-nut  husks  as  our 
more  homely  ocean  plays  with  wreck  and  wrack 
and  bottles.  As  the  reflux  drew  down,  marvels 
of  colour  and  design  streamed  between  my 
feet;  which  I  would  grasp  at,  miss,  or  seize: 
now  to  find  them  what  they  promised,  shells  to 
grace  a  cabinet  or  be  set  in  gold  upon  a 
lady's  finger;  now  to  catch  only  maya*  of  col- 
oured sand,  pounded  fragments  and  pebbles, 
that,  as  soon  as  they  were  dry,  became  as  dull 
and  homely  as  the  flints  upon  a  garden  path. 

1  have  toiled  at  this  childish  pleasure  for  hours 
in  the  strong  sun,  conscious  of  my  incurable 
ignorance;  but  too  keenly  pleased  to  be 
ashamed.  Meanwhile,  the  blackbird  (or  his 
tropical  understudy)  would  be  fluting  in  the 
thickets  overhead. 

A  little  further,  in  the  turn  of  the  bay,  a 
streamlet  trickled  in  the  bottom  of  a  den,!"' 
thence  spilling  down  a  stair  of  rock  into  the 
sea.  The  draught  of  air  drew  down  under  the 
foliage  in  the  very  bottom  of  the  den,  which 
was  a  perfect  arbour  for  coolness.  In  front  it 
stood  open  on  the  blue  bay  and  the  Casco  lying 
there  under  her  awning  and  her  cheerful  col- 
ours. Overhead  was  a  thatch  of  puraos,  and 
over  these  again  palms  brandished  their  bright 
fans,  as  I  have  seen  a  conjurer  make  himself  a 
halo  out  of  naked  swords.  For  in  this  spot, 
over  a  neck  of  low  land  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountains,  the  trade-wind  streams  into  Anaho 
Bay  in  a  flood  of  almost  constant  volume  and 
velocity,  and  of  a  heavenly  coolness. 

It  chanced  one  day  that  I  was  ashore  in  the 
cove  with  Mrs.  Stevenson  and  the  ship's  cook. 

2  "IIow  heavy  hangs  the  day  on  me !" 

3  Covered  with  lianas,  or  tropical  vines. 
*  illusion  (Hindu  philosophy) 

•'•  glen,  dingle 


BOBBRT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


733 


Except  for  the  Casco  lying  outside,  and  a  crane 
or  two,  and  the  ever-busy  wind  and  sea,  the 
face  of  the  world  was  of  a  prehistoric  empti- 
ness; life  appeared  to  stand  stockstill,  and  the 
sense  of  isolation  was  profound  and  refreshing. 
On  a  sudden,  the  trade-wind,  coming  in  a  gust 
over  the  isthmus,  struck  and  scattered  the  fans 
of  the  palms  above  the  den;  and,  behold!  in 
two  of  the  tops  there  sat  a  native,  motionless 
as  an  idol,  and  watching  us,  you  would  have 
said,  without  a  wink.  The  next  moment  the  tree 
closed,  and  the  glimpse  was  gone.  This  dis- 
covery of  human  presences  latent  overhead  in  a 
place  where  we  had  supposed  ourselves  alone, 
the  immobility  of  our  tree-top  spies,  and  the 
thought  that  perhaps  at  all  hours  we  were 
similarly  supervised,  struck  us  with  a  chill. 
Talk  languished  on  the  beach.  As  for  the  cook 
(whose  conscience  was  not  clear),  he  never 
afterwards  set  foot  on  shore,  and  twice,  when 
the  Casco  appeared  to  be  driving  on  the  rocks, 
it  was  amusing  to  observe  that  man's  alacrity; 
death,  he  was  persuaded,  awaiting  him  upon 
the  beach.  It  was  more  than  a  year  later,  in 
the  Gilberts,  that  the  explanation  dawned  upon 
myself.  The  natives  were  drawing  palm-tree 
wine,  a  thing  forbidden  by  law;  and  when  the 
wind  thus  suddenly  revealed  them,  they  were 
doubtless  more  troubled  than  ourselves. 

At  the  top  of  the  den  there  dwelt  an  old, 
melancholy,  grizzled  man  of  the  name  of  Tari 
(Charlie)  CoflSn.  He  was  a  native  of  Oahu,  in 
the  Sandwich  Islands;  and  had  gone  to  sea  in 
his  youth  in  the  American  whalers;  a  circum- 
stance to  which  he  owed  his  name,  his  English, 
his  down-east  twang,  and  the  misfortune  of  his 
innocent  life.  For  one  captain,  sailing  out  of 
New  Bedford,  carried  him  to  Nuka-hiva  and 
marooned  him  there  among  the  cannibals.  The 
motive  for  this  act  was  inconceivably  small; 
poor  Tari's  wages,  which  were  thus  economised, 
would  scarce  have  shook  the  credit  of  the  New 
Bedford  owners.  And  the  act  itself  was  sim- 
ply murder.  Tari's  life  must  have  hung  in  the 
beginning  by  a  hair.  In  the  grief  and  terror 
of  that  time,  it  is  not  unlikely  he  went  mad,  an 
infirmity  to  which  he  was  still  liable;  or  per- 
haps a  child  may  have  taken  a  fancy  to  him 
and  ordained  him  to  be  spared.  He  escaped  at 
least  alive,  married  in  the  island,  and  when  I 
knew  him  was  a  widower  with  a  married  son 
and  a  granddaughter.  But  the  thought  of 
Oahu  haunted  him ;  its  praise  was  for  ever  on 
his  lips;  he  beheld  it,  looking  back,  as  a  place 
of  ceaseless  feasting,  song  and  dance;  and  in 
his  dreams  I  dare  say  he  revisits  it  with  joy. 
I  wonder  what  he  would  think  if  he  could  be 


carried  there  indeed,  and  see  the  modern  town 
of  Honolulu  brisk  with  traflSc,  and  the  palace 
with  its  guards,  and  the  great  hotel,  and  Mr. 
Berger's  band  with  their  uniforms  and  out- 
landish instruments;  or  what  he  would  think 
to  see  the  brown  faces  grown  so  few  and  the 
white  so  many;  and  his  father's  land  sold  for 
planting  sugar,  and  his  father's  house  quite 
perished,  or  perhaps  the  last  of  them  struck 
leprous  and  immured  between  the  surf  and  the 
cliflfs  on  Molokai.i  So  simply,  even  in  South 
Sea  Islands,  and  so  sadly,  the  changes  come. 

Tari  was  poor,  and  poorly  lodged.  His  bouse 
was  a  wooden  frame,  run  up  by  Europeans;  it 
was  indeed  his  official  residence,  for  Tari  was 
the  shepherd  of  the  promontory  sheep.  I  can 
give  a  perfect  inventory  of  its  contents:  three 
kegs,  a  tin  biscuit-box,  an  iron  sauce-pan,  sev- 
eral cocoa-shell  cups,  a  lantern,  and  three  bot- 
tles, probably  containing  oil;  while  the  clothes 
of  the  family  and  a  few  mats  were  thrown 
across  the  open  rafters.  Upon  my  first  meeting 
with  this  exile  he  had  conceived  for  me  one  of 
the  baseless  island  friendships,  had  given  me 
nuts  to  drink,  and  carried  me  up  the  den  "to 
see  my  house" — the  only  entertainment  that 
he  had  to  offer.  He  liked  the  "AmeUcan, " 
he  said,  and  the  *  *  Inglisman, ' '  but  the  ' '  Fless- 
man"  was  his  abhorrence;  and  he  was  careful 
to  explain  that  if  he  had  thought  us  "Fless, " 
we  should  have  had  none  of  his  nuts,  and  never 
a  sight  of  his  house.  His  distaste  for  the 
French  I  can  partly  understand,  but  not  at 
all  his  toleration  of  the  Anglo-Saxon.  The 
next  day  he  brought  me  a  pig,  and  some  days 
later  one  of  our  party  going  ashore  found  him 
in  act  to  bring  a  second.  We  were  still 
strange  to  the  islands;  we  were  pained  by  the 
poor  man 's  generosity,  which  he  could  ill 
afford;  and  by  a  natural  enough  but  quite 
unpardonable  blunder,  we  refused  the  pig.  Had 
Tari  been  a  Marquesan  we  should  have  seen 
him  no  more ;  being  what  he  was,  the  most  mild, 
long-suffering,  melancholy  man,  he  took  a  re- 
venge a  hundred  times  more  painful.  Scarce 
had  the  canoe  with  the  nine  villagers  put  off 
from  their  farewells  before  the  Casco  was 
boarded  from  the  other  side.  It  was  Tari; 
coming  thus  late  because  he  had  no  canoe  of 
his  own,  and  had  found  it  hard  to  borrow  one; 
coming  thus  solitary  (as  indeed  we  always  saw 
him),  because  he  was  a  stranger  in  the  land, 
and  the  dreariest  of  company.  The  rest  of  my 
family  basely  fled  from  the  encounter.     I  must 

1  An   island   on   which   the  lepers  are  isolated,   a 

little  to  the  southeast  of  Oahu. 

2  The  farewell   visit  of  the  natives,  mentioned  in 

a  preceding  chapter. 


734 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


receive  our  injured  friend  alone;  and  the  inter- 
view must  have  lasted  hard  upon  an  hour,  for 
he  was  loath  to  tear  himself  away.  "You  go 
'way.  I  see  you  no  more — no,  sir !  "  he 
lamented;  and  then  looking  about  him  with  rue- 
ful admiration,  "This  goodee  ship! — no,  sir!  — 
goodee  ship !  "  he  would  exclaim :  the  ' '  no, 
sir, ' '  thrown  out  sharply  through  the  nose  upon 
a  rising  inflection,  an  echo  from  New  Bedford 
and  the  fallacious  whaler.  From  these  expres- 
sions of  grief  and  praise,  he  would  return  con- 
tinually to  the  case  of  the  rejected  pig.  "I 
like  give  plesent  all  the  same  you,"  he  com- 
plained ;  ' '  only  got  pig :  you  no  take  him !  ' ' 
he  was  a  poor  man;  he  had  no  choice  of  gifts; 
he  had  only  a  pig,  he  repeated;  and  I  had 
refused  it.  I  have  rarely  been  more  wretched 
than  to  see  him  sitting  there,  so  old,  so  grey, 
so  poor,  so  hardly  fortuned,  of  so  rueful  a 
countenance,  and  to  appreciate,  with  growing 
keenness,  the  affront  which  I  had  so  innocently 
dealt  him;  but  it  was  one  of  those  cases  in 
which  speech  is  vain. 

Tari's  son  was  smiling  and  inert;  his  daugh- 
ter-in-law, a  girl  of  sixteen,  pretty,  gentle,  and 
grave,  more  intelligent  than  most  Anaho 
women,  and  with  a  fair  share  of  French;  his 
grandchild,  a  mite  of  a  creature  at  the  breast. 
I  went  up  the  den  one  day  when  Tari  was  from 
home,  and  found  the  son  making  a  cotton  sack, 
and  madame  suckling  mademoiselle.  When  J 
had  sat  down  with  them  on  the  floor,  the  girl 
began  to  question  me  about  England;  which  I 
tried  to  describe,  piling  the  pan  and  the  cocoa 
shells  one  upon  another  to  represent  the  houses, 
and  explaining,  as  best  I  was  able,  and  by  word 
and  gesture,  the  over-population,  the  hunger, 
and  the  perpetual  toil.  "Pas  de  cocotiers? 
pas  de  popoi?"^  she  asked.  I  told  her  it  was 
too  cold,  and  went  through  an  elaborate  per- 
formance, shutting  out  draughts,  and  crouch- 
ing over  an  imaginary  fire,  to  make  sure  she 
understood.  But  she  understood  right  well; 
remarked  it  must  be  bad  for  the  health,  and 
sat  a  while  gravely  reflecting  on  that  picture 
of  unwonted  sorrows.  I  am  sure  it  roused  her 
pity,  for  it  struck  in  her  another  thought  al- 
ways uppermost  in  the  Marquesan  bosom;  and 
she  began  with  a  smiling  sadness,  and  looking 
on  me  ont  of  melancholy  eyes,  to  lament  the 
decease  of  her  own  people.  "Id  pas  de 
Kanaqves,"*  said  she;  and  taking  the  baby 
from  her  breast,  she  held  it  out  to  me  with  both 
her  hands.     "  Tenezf^—a  little  baby  like  this; 

«  "No  cocoa-paImi«7  no  bread-fruit  trees?" 
4  "Here  no  more  Kanakas  !" 
6  "See  here !" 


then  dead.  All  the  Kanaques  die.  Then  no 
more."  The  smile,  and  this  instancing  by  the 
girl-mother  of  her  own  tiny  flesh  and  blood, 
affected  me  strangely;  they  spoke  of  so  tran- 
quil a  despair.  Meanwhile  the  husband  smil- 
ingly made  his  sack;  and  the  unconscious  babe 
struggled  to  reach  a  pot  of  raspberry  jam, 
friendship's  offering,  which  I  had  just  brought 
up  the  den;  and  in  a  perspective  of  centuries 
I  saw  their  case  as  ours,  death  coming  in  like 
a  tide,  and  the  day  already  numbered  when 
there  should  be  no  more  Beretani,o  and  no  more 
of  any  race  whatever,  and  (what  oddly  touched 
me)  no  more  literary  works  and  no  more 
readers. 

THE  VAGABOND 

Give  to  me  the  life  I  love, 

Let  the  lave'^  go  by  me. 
Give  the  jolly  heaven  above 

And   the   Dyway  nigh  me. 
Bed  in  the  bush  with  stars  to  see. 

Bread  I  dip  in  the  river — 
There's  the  life  for  a  man  like  me, 

There's  the  life  for  ever. 

Let  the  blow  fall  soon  or  late. 

Let  what  will  be  o'er  me; 
Give  the  face  of  earth  around 

And  the  road  before  me. 
Wealth  I  seek  not,  hope  nor  love, 

Nor  a  friend  to  know  me; 
All  I  seek  the  heaven  above 

And  the  road  below  me. 

Or  let  autumn  fall  on  me 

Where  afield  I  linger. 
Silencing  the  bird  on  tree, 

Biting  the  blue  finger: 
White  as  meal  the  frosty  field — 

Warm  the  fireside  haven — 
Not  to  autumn  will  I  yield. 

Not  to  winter  even! 

Let  the  blow  fall  soon  or  late, 

Let  what  will  be  o'er  me; 
Give  the  face  of  earth  around. 

And  the  road  before  me. 
Wealth  I  ask  not,  hope  nor  love. 

Nor  a  friend  to  know  me. 
All  I  ask  the  heaven  above, 

And  the  road  below  me. 

8  I.  e.,  Britanni.  Britons.  The  language  of  the 
Kanakas  being  so  largely  vocalic,  they  find  it 
difficult  to  pronounce  two  consonants  in  suc- 
cession without  interposing  a  vowel. 

7  The  leave,  the  rest;  a  familiar  word  in  Burns. 


EGBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


735 


THE   MORNING   DRUM-CALL  ON   MY 
EAGER  EAR 

The  morning  drum-call  on  my  eager  ear 
Thrills  unforgotten  yet;   the  morning  dew 

Lies  yet  andried  along  my  field  of  noon. 
But  now  I  pause  at  whiles  in  what  I  do, 
And  count  the  bell,  and  tremble  lest  I  hear 

(My  work  untrimmed)    the  sunset   gun   too 
soon. 

EVENSONG 

The  embers  of  the  day  are  red 
Beyond  the  murky  hill. 
The  kitchen  smokes:  the  bed 
In  the  darkling  house  is  spread: 
The  great  sky  darkens  overhead, 
And  the  great  woods  are  shrill. 
So  far  have  I  been  led, 
Lord,  by  Thy  will: 


So   far   I  have  followed,  Lord,  and  wondered 
still. 

The  breeze  from  the  embalmed  land 
Blows  sudden  toward  the  shore, 
And  claps  my  cottage  door. 
I  hear  the  signal.  Lord — I  understand. 
The  night  at   Thy  command 
Comes.     I  will  eat  and  sleep  and  will  not  ques- 
tion more. 

REQUIEM 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky, 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie. 
Glad  did   I  live  and  gladly   die, 

And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 

This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me: 
Here  he  lies  where  he  longed  to  be; 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  sea. 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill. 


INDEX  TO  NOTES,  AND  GLOSSARY 


The  page  number  is  given  first ;  a  superior  numeral  or  character  indicates  the  note.  When  it 
Is  necessary  to  distinguish  columns,  the  letters  a  and  b  are  used.  Occasionally  the  references  are 
to  numbered  lines  on  a  page. 

Not  all  notes  are  indexed.  Notes  upon  authors  and  titles  may  be  found  through  the  indexes  to 
authors  and  titles.  In  general  this  index  has  been  restricted  to  such  notes  as  are  illtely  to  be 
wanted  for  purposes  of  cross-reference  and  comparison  (see  Introduction)  ;  but  a  few  others,  that 
seemed  of  especial  intrinsic  importance,  have  been  added. 

The  glossary  is  inserted  here  in  one  alphabetical  order  with  the  index,  but  the  words  begin 
with  small  letters.  It  has  likewise  been  restricted  to  the  items  of  most  importance.  Since  practically 
every  strange  or  archaic  usage  is  explained  as  it  occurs,  it  seemed  useless  to  repeat  them  all  here, 
especially  those  that  occur  only  once,  or  have  only  a  contextual  significance.  Thus,  the  vocabulary 
of  Chaucer  has  been  largely  omitted  from  the  glossary,  and  so  also  have  the  Scotticisms.  But 
all  such  archaisms  as  are  to  be  found  widely  scattered  through  our  literature  are  given,  with 
nearly  always  one  or  more  references  to  illustrate  their  use. 


Abora,  Mt.  Perhaps  for  Amara,  the  seat  of  a 
terrestrial  paradise  (Dr.  Lane  Cooper).  428 
line  41. 

Academe,  or  Academy,  The,  391*,  '64Si. 

Acheron,  154t. 

aches   (pronunciation  of),  170t. 

Act   of    Relief,  387*. 

Admiral  =  flagship,   238»«. 

admire,  wonder  at,    212'. 

Adonis,  226»     239^3. 

Adriatic,  Espousal  of  the,  427t. 

Aegean,   The,  549*. 

Aeneas,   2812»,  317i. 

Aeolus,   231^.      Cp.    316   line   82. 

Aesculapius,  48b*. 

Aesop,   560«. 

affray,  frighten,  4876  line  4. 

again,   in  return,  100«. 

Aglaia,   227^. 

Albion  =  England,   3506  line  8,  67(F. 

Alcais,   596*. 

Alchemy,  325*.  See  Elixir  vitae;  Philosopher's 
stone. 

Alcibiades's  dog,  366t. 

Ale-stake,  51" 

Alexander  the  Great,  233»,  2SZb\  321'. 

Aloes,   67"'. 

Alphabet,  215*,  467« 

Alpheus,   232»». 

Amadis  de  Gaul,  201^. 

Amaranth,   232« 

Ammon,    226»    32r. 

among,  all  the  time,  everywhere,  806i,  89^ 

Amphion,  157**,  173i'>,  530'. 

an,  an',   and,  if,  70»    201«. 

Anacreon,   466»,  467i«. 

Anagrams,   154«,  154». 

Anapestic  metres,  450*,  609*, 

Andromeda,   663t. 

Angel   gold,   275". 


Angelico,  Fra,  619i»,  683i. 

Angels,  Hierarchy  of,   139". 

Antwerp  bridge,   152t,  666". 

Aphrodite.    See  Venus. 

Apis,   2263S,  3202. 

Apollo,   612,  231".  466«,  569t,  711t. 

Apple  of  Discord,  571". 

Aquinas,  264». 

Arabian   Nights,  553*.  554i,  674*. 

Arcadia,   206*t,  4896  line  7. 

Archangels,  139". 

Archery,   119t,  212". 

Archimago,   130^. 

Areopagus,   2621. 

Arethusa,   231»>,  232». 

Argo,  Argonauts,  305*,  482o  line  13. 

argument  =  theme,   235'". 

Ariadne,  Titian's,   488*. 

Ariel,   164*. 

Aries,  3431,  See  Ram. 

Arimaspians,  254«i. 

Arion,   23253,  28O8. 

Aristotle,  308»,  309". 

Armada,   208^,   662*. 

Artemis.     The  goddess  of  the  moon,   hunt,   etc. 

The  Latin  name  is  Diana.      710t. 
Arthur,  King,  31  ff.,  96  ff.,  241'='. 
Arthur,   Prince,   127*,  1376. 
artist  =  artisan,  237'^,  376». 
as  =  that  (in  clauses  of  result),  214'. 
as  redundant,   101". 
Ascanius,   28128. 

Ashtaroth,  Ashtoreth,  Astarte,  226«,   239^,   623». 
Astraea,   345". 
Astrology,   48*.  291»,  693*. 
atheling,  prince,  26*. 
Athens,   548  ff. 
Atlas,   247". 
Attic  salt,  450*. 
Atropos,  231". 


737 


738 


INDEX  TO  NOTES,  AND  GLOSSAEY 


Augustus,  280'. 

Aurora,  dawn,  227i». 

Ausonian,  242". 

Avalon,    Avilion,    32o    line    18,    110»     577».      See 

Earthly   Paradise. 
ave  (Latin),  hail.  5896  line  21,  596*.     Cp.  467,  st. 

101. 
Avernus  =  Hades,  2056  line  12. 

Baal    (plural,  Baalim),  226"    239»«. 

Bacchantes,   231»*,   258t,  389*,  711»,  714i. 

Bachelor,  44". 

Bacon,  Roger,  153». 

bairn,   child  (of  any  age),  742». 

Baldur  (or  Balder),  709*. 

Ballade,  719a*. 

Barbers,   204". 

Barmecide,  553^ 

Barricades,  Day  of,  664^ 

Bartholomew-tide,  219^2. 

Bashan,  3822,   4553. 

Basset,  277<. 

Bat-fowling,   174«'. 

Bath,  Knights  of  the,  3405. 

Bayard,   Blind,  95t. 

be  =  be  good  for,  4112. 

beads,   prayers,  221*,  353". 

Bear,  The  Great,  229". 

Beauvais,  Bishop  of,  524'. 

Beelzebub,   154t. 

Belial,  240*'. 

Bellerophon,   258t. 

Bellerus,  232»>. 

Bellman,  229". 

Bellona,  253m. 

Bells  rung  backward,   448^ 

Benedictines,  45". 

bent,  dry   grass,    stubble    land,    219=*,    474i,    625», 

706*. 
Beowulf,   1*.  18*. 
B^ranger,  559t. 
Berenice's  Hair,  319^. 
Bermudas,  164*.  les^". 
Bickerstaff,  Isaac,  296*. 
Bliboe,  149'. 

bill  =  prescription,  151",  308'. 
bill  =  sword,   25". 
birk,  birch,  413*. 
Black  art,  152". 

Blank  verse,   first  employed,  125*;  dramatic,  159t. 
Blanket,   Tossing  in,  280^ 
Blenheim,  493t. 
Blue-stocking,   4981. 
Boeotian  dulness,   450*,  549t. 
Bol<thius,  58'. 
Bollngbroke,  Lord,  319>. 
Bonivard,  Frangois  de,  463t. 
bonnet  =  cap  (Scotch),  444*. 
bonny,  bonie,  comely,  blithe,  405*. 
Borgia,   Cesare,  321*. 
Bourne,  Vincent,  392t. 
Bow  bells,  317". 
bower.  Inner  room   (opposed  to  hall),   women's 

apartment,  chamber,  53".    See  402*. 


Brabant,  65^ 

brae,  bank,   hillside,  399». 

Brahma,  519". 

brand,   sword,  27'. 

Branstock,   The,  708*. 

brave   (Scotch  braw),  fine,   165"    402»a. 

brede,  embroidery,  346«,  490*. 

Bridge  of  Sighs,  460i,  678'. 

Broglle,  Due  de,  532',  535*. 

Brutus,   King,  62". 

Buckeen,   561'. 

Buckingham,  Duke  of,  27921. 

Bull,  40««. 

burn,  brook,  399". 

Busirls,  238". 

Buskin  =  Tragedy,   192»,  2292^,  281". 

buxom,  yielding,  supple,  lively,  227',  253». 

byrnle,   corslet,  1  line  40. 

Byron,   529*. 

Cadmus,   263*.  467". 

Caerleon,  Carleon,  9932. 

Caesar,   Stories  of,  463",  605i. 

Qa  Ira,  466*. 

Calendar,   Reformation  of,  323i,  3646*,   662*.     Cp. 

636". 
Caliban,   164*. 
Caliphs,   3841". 
Calliope,   231". 
Camelot,   IO02,  567»,  575". 
Cameron,  Donald,  468=;  Sir  Ewan,  545". 
Cameronians,  503*. 
Campagna,   The  Roman,   685'. 
Campaniles,  677*. 
Campbells,   The,  445'. 
can,   gan,   did,  129'*. 
Candlemas,   98". 
card  =  compass,  323«,  408*. 
carl,   churl,  fellow,  49". 
carl  in,   old  woman,  399",  410",  448'. 
Carmelites,   616*.  618". 
Cashmire,  470'. 
Cassandra,  572^ 
Cassiopea,   228'. 
Castle    Rock,   448". 
Castor  and   Pollux,   141". 
Catiline,  321«. 

Catch    (song),  181",  265>.     Cp.  617». 
Cathay,   5103,  552  line  184. 
Catullus,  5966*. 
Cell,   451'. 
Celtic  race,  659t. 
Centre  =  Earth,   234»,  235*. 
Cerberus,  227*,  25(fiK 
Ceres,   1846,  229« 
Cervantes,   663*. 
Cestus  of  Venus,  459'. 
chair  =  sedan-chair,  311',  335*.  541". 
Champ-de-l\^ars,   533". 
Champs  Elys6es,  532*. 
chapman,   pedlar,  217>*,  40",  408'. 
Chariots  of  war,   224*. 
Charon,  665*. 
Chaucer's  Pronunciation,  42,  289t. 


INDEX  TO  NOTES,  AND  GLOSSARY 


739 


Cheapside,  52^^ 

Cheke,  Sir  John,  123*. 

Chersonese,  467". 

Cherubim,  139i». 

Chesterfield,  Lord,  367*. 

Chevron,   704*. 

Chevy  Chace,  73*. 

Childe,   624*. 

Chosroes,  384^*.  Chosroes  I.  the  Persian  mon- 
arch, reigned  531-579.  The  name  is  a  Greek 
form  of  the  Persian  Khusrau,  a  common 
royal  name.     Cp.  Kaikhosru. 

Chronos,   2862. 

Cimmerians,   227*.  534*. 

Cimon,   5482. 

CIncinnatus,   343^ 

Cinque   Ports,   273'. 

Civil   War,   Beginning  of,  518<,  599t. 

Clan-Alpine,  445*. 

Claude  Lorrain,  544^ 

Claverhouse,  448*,  543*. 

clepe,  to  call,  107". 

clerk,  scholar,  208^ 

Clio,   1275. 

Clootie,  4041. 

close  =  enclose,  477^,  580^. 

Club,   The  Literary,   366*. 

Cock   Lane  Ghost,  534i. 

Coffee,   170*,  314'. 

Coffee  houses,  290t,  541  fE. 

coil,   turmoil,  168'2,  344^ 

Colman,   George,  562» 

Colman,   George,  the  Younger,  511i*,  563». 

Companies  of  players,  202"'. 

Companies,   London,   274t. 

Conceits,   206t,  288^,  309". 

conference,  conversation,   208*,    212". 

Conventionalism,   Reaction  against,  395*. 

Cordovan,  The,  1925. 

Coronach,  444'. 

Cotter,  Cottier,  401*,  560». 

course,   sail,  165  line  52. 

Covenant,  Covenanters,  271t,  448*.  500*. 

Covent  Garden,  510^  540^. 

Cowley,  Abraham,  288». 

Credo,  SS^. 

Croesus,  512". 

Cromwell,  Oliver,  233^  348*.  599'. 

Cuishes,  355'*. 

Curfew,  229". 

Curtius,  324*. 

Cybele,  460«. 

Cyclades.  A  group  of  islands  in  the  -<Egean  Sea. 
482a. 

Cynthia,  131",  224i»,  229i=. 

Cythera,  206t.    Cp.  350  line  2,  459''. 

Dagon,  226»3,  239=5. 

dan  =  don,  sir,  master,  55'. 

Dante,  238*,  453t,  577t,  580",  5961:,  721»,  722". 

Darius,  284«. 

D'Artois,  Prince,  532t,  534>». 

David  Jacques  Louis,  726^. 

Deal,  2711. 

decent,  becoming,  229". 


Decius,  324*. 

Dee,  The,  2311^. 

Delos,  466«. 

Demogorgon,  154t,  254'®.     Compare  Gorgon. 

depart,  part,  separate,  106". 

Dervish,  565t,  637i». 

Diana,  Goddess  of  the  chase,   229".     Introduced 

into    Dryden's    Secular    Masque     (p.    286)    to 

typify  the  sylvan  sports  of  King  James  the 

First.     See  also  Artemis, 
dight,  arrayed,  prepared,  227". 
Dinner  hour,  292t. 
Dis,  161=,  184". 

Divisions,  Musical,  137",  220*. 
doctor,  learned  man,  94*,  194*. 
Doges  of  Venice,  427t,  678^ 
Dog-star,  232«. 
Dolt,  177«». 
Dolphins,  232",  280». 
Dominicans,  618",  618". 
Dominions,  139i'. 
dool,  dule,  sorrow,  400°. 
Doria,  460*. 

Dorian  mood,  240'«.     See  Greek  Music, 
douce,  grave,  406^  4112^,  448^ 
Dove,  Holy  Spirit,  687i. 
Dove,  River,  418i. 
down,  high  plain,  or  pasture,  undulating  upland, 

108^ 
Dreams,  Gates  of,  1325=,  705i. 
Drugget,  280*. 
Druids,  231  lines  52-55. 
Ducal  Palace,  at  Venice,  460i. 
Duddon,  River,  4275. 
Duessa,  132&. 

Dundee.    See  Claverhouse. 
Dunfermline,  77i. 

Earthly    Paradise,    577*,    578t.      Cp.    Hesperides, 
Iram,  Cashmire,  Arcadia,  Avalon,  El  Dorado. 

East  London,  378',  537*. 

Eclipse,  231*,  251*. 

Eden,  234*,  258*. 

Elaine,  567*. 

El  Dorado,  730*. 

Electra,  233=. 

Elements,  The  Four,  257".     Cp.  263t;  and  Evelyn 
Hope,  line  20,  p.  616. 

Elgin   Marbles,  492t 

Elixir  vitae,  1962i,  476». 

Elysium,  154". 

Emblem,  of  papal   power,    232    line    110,    521=;    of 
bishopric,  232'i;  of  sovereignty,  623^ 

engine  =  contrivance,  243'». 

English  vernacular,  Growth  of,  119t. 

Envoi,  719a*. 

Eormenric,  HI. 

Epictetus,  642*.  713". 

Epicurus,  4723,  633*. 

Epimenides,  213*. 

Erebus,  253". 

Erls,  571». 

erne,  earn,  eagle,  25",  445*. 
I  Escurial,  The,  668*. 
I  Estates,  Three,  97«,  532*. 


740 


INDEX  TO  NOTES,  AND  GLOSSABY 


Esthwaite  Vale,  420>. 
Etherege,  George,  282«,  293». 
Eumenides,  285».  622". 
Euphuism,  206*. 

Euripides,  Ancient  admiration  of,  233*,  461". 
Eurydice,  228». 
event,  issue,  241". 

Excalibur,  32*.  98-99,  109.     See  Tennyson's  Morte 
D'Arthur,  p.  575,  lines  36,  103. 

fact  =  deed.  245'.  270*. 

Fairy  rings,  187». 

Fallows,  227'*. 

Farnese,  152*. 

Fata  Morgana,  523t. 

Fates,  The,  231",  306»,  5203. 

Faust  legend,  151*. 

feat,  neat.  deft.  175  line  273,  140«. 

Ferrara,  600*. 

Fidessa,  132&. 

Fifth  Monarchy,  389\ 

figure  =  horoscope,  29P, 

Firth,  Solway.  443». 

Flamens,  226«. 

flashy,  insipid,  212«,  232». 

Fleur-de-lis,  524^. 

Fly-boats,  211=»,  664». 

fond,  foolish,  120*. 

Fortunatus,  529«. 

Foundation,  520i. 

Frankeleyn,  47". 

fray,  to  affray,  to  frighten,  486  line  27. 

Freeman,  198^ 

French  Revolution,  440>,  466*,  532*. 

Freyja,  115,  706». 

Frippery,  186»*. 

Furies,  The,  285»,  5206  line  14.  522". 

Fuseli,  686«. 

Galahad,  lOOb^  102  ff.;  5736. 

Galen,  48  line  431.  151". 

Gallcia,  49*.  6626  line  6. 

Galileo,  237«.  319  line  138. 

Galleass,  665". 

Galliards,  213*.  444*. 

Ganelon,  57*>. 

gar,  cause,  make,  402". 

Gargantua,  205*>. 

Garrick,  David,  379*.  380  lines  93  ft. 

Garter,  Knights  of  the,  325»,  340J. 

Gazette,  296*. 

Geats,  3*. 

Geneva,  Lake  of.  453t,  458*. 

genius,  a  spirit,  225**.  302>. 

gentle,  noble,  of  good  birth,  128  line  1. 

german,  brother,  136*. 

Giaours,  381>. 

GIgantes,  236t. 

Giotto,  619><. 

Glorlana,  127*. 

go  =  walk,  270*. 

Goal,  249«*. 

Godiva.  514*. 

Goethe,  529*,  684>,  674*,  726*. 


Gold,  Medicinal.  196*i. 

Golden  Age,  481*.  596*. 

Gooseberry  fool,  380*. 

Gorgon,  131".    Cp.  Demogorgon. 

Goshen,  238^8. 

gossip,  godmother.  485*. 

Gothic,  296^ 

Graces,  The.  227»,  520  line  9. 

Grail,  The  Holy,  101*.  103  ff. 

gramercy,  great  thanks  (grand  merci),  161*. 

Grammatical  freedom,  164t.  170",  463*. 

Grassmarket,  448". 

Greek  Games,  249<«.   t66*. 

Greek  Music,  Moods  of,  349*.  228*^. 

Green-gown,  221*. 

greet,  weep,  400»*,  408»^ 

Grenville,  Sir  Richard,  208*,  209t,  211J. 

Groom -porter,  275*. 

Grub  Street,  381'. 

grunsel,  groundsill,  239=>*,  536". 

Guenever,  996,  722". 

Guilds,  London,  274t. 

Guinea  grains,  327^ 

Gules,  486'. 

habit  =  costume,  294«    336*. 

Haha,  386*. 

Half  piece  (coin),  214". 

Hallam,  Arthur,  577t,  583*.  584*.  587t,  588*. 

Hampden,  John.  348*.  502i. 

Hampton  Court,  313'. 

Hasdrubal,  59". 

Hautboy,  284*. 

Hays,  510*. 

Hebe,  227". 

Hebrides,  232". 

Hebrus,  231  line  63. 

Hecate,  131*»,  492i. 

Hedge-schools,  560*. 

Helicon,  234",  398»,  488*. 

Helicon,  England's,  140*. 

Helm  of  Aweing,  708". 

Helots,  2086  line  11,  682*. 

hem,  them. 

Heorot,  2*. 

her,  their. 

Hercules,  249«-'. 

Hermes  Trismegistus,  229*0. 

Herodias,  619'^ 

Heroic  measure,  289'. 

Hesperian,  240«*. 

Hesperldes,  466". 

Hides  of  land,  26t. 

hight,  called.  Is  called,  was  called,  99»». 

Hilda,  Abbess,  21t 

hind,  peasant,  346*,  514*. 

Hindu  mythology,  519". 

hir,  their. 

his  (pedantic  possessive),  121«. 

his  =  its,  173". 

Hock,  498J,  528'. 

holt,  wood.  110". 

Holy  Alliance,  462*. 

Homer,  466»,  648t,  642*. 


INDEX  TO  NOTES,  AND  GLOSSAEY 


741 


Hooper,  John.  502«. 

Horeb,  234*. 

Horoscope,  See  Astrolo^i'. 

horrid,  horrent,  rough,  249",  396». 

Hotel-de-Ville,  533". 

Houris,  382". 

Hudibras,  298*. 

Hulks,  210". 

Humours,  48t,  54b  lines  105-149;  extended  sense, 

131%  192*.  294i«. 
Hunt,  Holman.  his  "Light  of  the  World,"  686^. 
Hyacinth,  232**. 
Hyades,  578==. 
Hyde  Park,  SI?"". 
Hymen,  184^  228".    Hymen's  torch,  185  line  97. 

Iambics  =  satire,   282«. 
Icarus,  151'. 

Ida,  Mt.,  228»,  240  line  515,  304S  398»,  569t. 
Ilk,  ilka,  every,  399». 
Images,  48a».  688*. 
Invalides,  Hotel  des,  535*. 
lonians,  548^ 
I  ram,  633t. 
Iran,  645*. 
Iris,  184&,  5703. 
!        Isis,  22638,  51911. 

Islands  of  the  Blest,  466''. 
Islington,  510',  540^. 

Jacobin  Party,  532t.     Cp.  465i. 
Jacobites,  337*,  448*,  543  ff. 
Jamshyd,  633t,   654^. 

Janus,  2861.     From   this   two-faced  deity  is  de- 
rived the  name  January. 
Jeffrey,  Francis,  449*.  661*. 
Jerboa,  610^ 
Jerome's  Bible,  152". 
"Joe  Miller,"  450*. 

John  the  Baptist,  41,  611',   619^,   621». 
Joseph  of  Arimathea,  101*. 
Jotun,  eoten,  giant,  5  line  421. 
Jousts,  97". 
Jubal,  283*. 
Jubilates,  523>. 
Judas  Maccabee,  93^. 
Juno,  184",   570*. 
Jupiter,  Temple  of,  514*. 
Jura,  459  st.  92,  674i. 
Justinian,  152». 

Kalkhosru.  I.  e..  King  Khosrfl,  or  Khusrau,  one 
of  the  legendary  heroes  of  the  Persian  Shah 
Xameh.  634,  stanza  x;  647  line  223.  Cp. 
Chosroes. 

Kanaka,  731*,  734". 

Keats,  622*.  623t. 

Kempenfelt,  Admiral,  392*. 

kenn,  head,  mountain,  504". 

Kennings,  1*. 

Kidron,  613*. 

Killarney,  583t. 

kind,  nature,  183« 

King  at  Arms,  273*. 


King's  Evil,  274t,  367«, 

Kit,   299". 

Knight-errantry  burlesqued,  197*. 

Knighthood,  Orders  of,  340J. 

Knot-grass,  203^^. 

Lamb,  Mary,  504*, 

Lars,  or  Lares.  Spirits  of  the  departed,  wor- 
shiped by  the  Romans  as  household  gods, 
226». 

Latimer,  Bishop,  5022. 

Launcelot  du  Lac,  101,  103,  etc. 

Laurel,  163i",  356t,  463". 

lave,  the  rest.  402=^. 

lawn  =  unfilled  ground,  224". 

lazar,  leper,  46i2.  134i. 

Lazy-tongs,  552*. 

leads  =  roof,  274',  703a  line  7. 

leasing,  lying,  21*,  89^. 

leech,  physician,  98". 

Leicester,  Lord,  127*,  14r. 

Leman,  Lalte.     See  Geneva. 

Lemures.  The  spirits  of  those  who  have  died  in 
sin.     226» 

Lepanto,  460". 

let,  hinder,  hindrance,  117". 

let,  cause,  give  orders  for,  100^'. 

Levant,  The,  331i. 

lewd,  ignorant,  122*. 

Liberals  (of  Italy),  622«,  713*. 

Licentiate,  45*«. 

Lido,  The,  602i. 

lief;  dear,  100»,  575». 

Lilly,  William,  260*. 

Lfmitour,  45*i,  354". 

Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  540*. 

Lingua  Franca,  336*. 

Lion  of  St.  Mark,  460^. 

list  or  lust,  wish,  please  (both  present  and  pret- 
erit, usually  impersonal),  123". 

Liver,  the  seat  of  passion,  184». 

Lochiel.     See  Cameron. 

Locke,  John,  725t 

Locusts  as  food,  41*,   611'. 

London   Bridge,  385*,  540\ 

London  streets,  113*,  385*,  539  ff. 

Louvre,  631*. 

Love-days,  462"'. 

Lovelace,  221*. 

Lucifer,  154t,  224". 

Lucy,  Poems  upon,  418*. 

Lunardi  (a  balloon  bonnet),  407=*. 

lust.     See  list. 

Lyceum  of  Athens,  261",  548t 

Lydia,  304=. 

Lydian  laughter,  5966*. 

Lydlan  measures,  284'.     See  Greek  Music. 

Lyonesse,  574*. 

Lyrical  Ballads  of  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge, 
415t,  428t,  451» 


Mab,  Faery,  228«. 
Mabinogion,  659t. 
I^acgibbon,  Wm., 


S99". 


742 


INDEX  TO  NOTES,  AND  GLOSSARY 


Mackay,  General,  543*. 

Maenad,  471^    See  Bacchantee. 

Maeonldes,  255^ 

make,  mate,  126^. 

Male-sapphires,  611^ 

Mall,  The,  319'. 

Mandevllle,  Bernard,  362^*. 

Manes,  291^ 

Manna,  245^ 

Mantua,  Mantuan,  2312i,  308»,  596b  line  19. 

Marat,  Jean  Paul,  532t.  539". 

March-beer,  159»«. 

marches,  boundaries,  2^ 

Marlus,  512*,  518*. 

Maro  =  Virgil,  308^  343*. 

marry,  an  oath.     See  89"'. 

Mars,  th^  god  of  War.    Introduced  into  Dryden's 

Secular  Masque  to  represent  the  troubled  times 

of  Charles  the  First. 
Martinmas,  79«,  Ibd^. 
Masaccio,  620". 
Mask,  Masque,  228'^ 
maun,  must,  4076^;  mauna,  must  not. 
Maunciple,  49*". 
may,  maid,  38^ 

may,  may-blo'-som,  white-thorn,  221t. 
Mazzini,  Giuseppe   (Joseph),   713*,  715*. 
Mead,  515«. 
Medea,  476^ 
Memnon,  228*. 
Mephlstophills,  154t. 
mere,  sea,  lake,  15  line  1603,  5759, 
Merlin,  96^,  485*.  575*. 
Mermaid  Tavern,  490*. 
Michael  the  Archangel,  258*,   499*. 
Michaelmas,  386'. 
mickle,  properly  =  muckle,  much;   sometimes  by 

corruption  used  for  "little,"  as  in   "many  a 

mickle  makes  a  muckle."     400^1,  409^. 
Middlesex,  544^ 
Milan  =  Duke  of  Milan,  161^. 
Mile-End,  3785,  5439,     cp.  2006,  bottom. 
MInclus,  231^1. 
Mistress  as  title,  331». 
moil,  labor,  344',  401*. 
Moloch,  226". 

Monastic  Orders,  40»«,   45«,   618". 
Monmouth,  Duke  of,  277*. 
Montesquieu,  657^ 
Mordred,  108*. 
Morpheus,  228>. 
Morris,  Sir  Lewis,  655". 
Moses,  238». 
Motley,  46'*. 
Mulclber,  242w. 
Murex,  623t. 
Musaens,  ISS**,  229". 

Napoleon,  427t.  535*. 

nas,  has  not,  was  not. 

natheless,  nathless,  nevertheless. 

National  Assembly,  532*. 

"Natural  piety,"  422».   469>. 

Nature  In  poetry,  342*,  416*,  416t,  428t. 


ne,  not,  nor. 

Necker,  Jacques,  532*. 

Nelson,  Admiral,  494*.  603*. 

Neptune,  231». 

nere,  were  not. 

Nereid,  2312'. 

ness,  headland,  3  line  223. 

Nessus,  249«. 

Newmarket,  552^. 

New  Style.     See  Calendar. 

NIbelungenlled,  705*. 

nicker,  sea-monster,  5  line  422. 

Night-watchman,  229i8. 

NInus,  60». 

NIobe,  461« 

nis,  is  not. 

Nisus,  3188. 

Nobody,  ISl^o. 

Nova  Zembia,  298^  528*. 

Numantia,  Siege  of,  512*. 

numbers  =  verses,  304^. 

Oaten  pipe,  346^  399",  7111:. 

Old  Jewry,  33P,  389'. 

Old  Style.     See  Calendar. 

Olympus,  240  line  516. 

Ombre,  311*,  314^  ff. 

Ophiuchus,  251^,  528=. 

or,  either,  354*. 

or,  or  that,  ere,  before,  101". 

ordain,  prepare,  lOO*" 

Oread,  570^. 

Orgoglio,  137ft. 

Orion,  154*,  2383«,  578ft  line  8. 

Ormus,  2431. 

Orpheus,  228™>,    2292»,    231",    258t,    S05*,   530*.      Cp. 

4508,  603*. 
Orus,  2263». 
Osiris,  22638,  51911. 
other,  early  plural  form,   207=. 
Overbury's  "Characters,"  266t. 
Ovid,  60",  72P. 
owe  =  own,  171". 

Paean,  389*. 

painful  =  careful,  263». 

Palais  Royal,  532ft*. 

Pall,  2292s,  6232. 

Palmers,  39". 

Pan,  224i«,  644»,  711t 

Pandemonium,  243*'. 

Panope,  23128. 

Pantaloon,  555^ 

Paphos,  185  line  93,  571t. 

pardie,  an  oath,  87". 

Pardoner,  40'»,  49«. 

Pariah,  521^. 

Paris  and  Oenone,  144ft,  157",  1572*    569*. 

Parma,  Duke  of,  152*,  662*. 

Parnassus,  307*. 

Parthenon,  492t,  548»,  675' 

Partridge,  John,  319". 

party  =  side,  247»*. 

passing,  exceeding,  surpassing,  96>,  374*. 


INDEX  TO  NOTES,  AND  GLOSSAKY 


743 


passion,  suffering:,  170«".     The  passion  of  Christ, 

91o  line  603,  101'«. 
Patch,  180". 
Paternoster,  33*. 
"Patriotism,"  5325. 
Patronage,  Literary,  357*. 
Pegasus,  258t,  308^ 
Pelion,  Mt.,  305*. 
Pelles,   100*. 
Pelorus,  237». 
Peneus.  A  river  of  Thessaly,  which  flowed  through 

the  Vale  of  Tempe.     4815. 
Pentecost,  100*. 
Percy,  73^. 

perdie,  perdy,  an  oath,  Sl^". 
Periodicals,  290*. 
Persepolis,  654i. 
Perseus,  663t 
Phaethon,  134*,  721». 
Philistines,  659*. 
Philomela,  229i«,  343",  654*,  710^. 
Philosopher's  stone,   215",  325«. 
Phlegra,  241"i. 

Phoebus,   612,  i27".     See  Apollo. 
Phrygian.     See  Greek  Music. 
Pierian  spring,  230«,  309*. 
pight,  pitched,  fixed,  65^ 
Pigmies,   241™.  243»    538^. 
Pilgrims,   147*. 

Pindar,  233*,  349*,  350»,  466»,  549t.  580«. 
Pindaric  ode,  349*. 
Pindus,  3041. 
Pine-apple-trees,  218». 
Pirates,  Hanging  of,  165t. 
Piscator,  264*.  511". 
plain,   complain,  344*. 
Pluto,   1612,  18418. 
"Popish  Plot,"   277*,  286*. 
Popples,   281«. 
Powers,  139". 
Preacher,  The,  726*,  731*. 
Pre-Raphaelitism,  686^  6868,  704*. 
Prester  John,   65*. 

Preterit  form  for  past  participle,  340t. 
prevent,  anticipate,  223^ 
Priam's  curtains,   379',  536">. 
prime,  37^2,  lOl"). 
Prisoner's  base,   208*. 
Prometheus,   526". 
proper,  own,  66',  183  line  3. 
Proserpine,   131**,  184",   711*. 
Prose  style,   Elizabethan,  206*;  Milton's  262t;  De 

Quincey's,  516*;  Pater's,   723^ 
Provence,  488^ 
Psyche,   490^. 

Ptolemaic  Astronomy,  158*,  235*,  255*. 
Punch,   5536,  622». 
Punning,  Word-play,  140*.  241*. 
Pygmies.     See  Pigmies. 
Pyrrhus,   466'*. 
Pythagoras's  doctrine  of  transmigration,  163*. 

Quintessence,  263t. 
Quixote,  Don,  309i»,  663». 
Quorum,   293*. 


Ram   (zodiac),  43",  193i. 

Ratel,  6962. 

rathe,   early,  232**. 

Ratlsbon,  600'. 

Rebecks,  227". 

Recorder,  240". 

rede,  advise,  advice,  109»». 

Reeve,  49*^ 

Regent  Street,  540*. 

Relic  Sunday,   48^. 

Renaissance,  Italian,  600*.  616*,  620". 

Reynolds,   Sir  Joshua,  381  lines  137  ft.;  561". 

Rhodope,  307^. 

Riaito,   The,   460",   678*. 

Ring,  The.  311«,  317» 

Roarers,  164t. 

Robin  Goodfellow,  228*^. 

Romulus,  319». 

Roncesvalles,  24F*. 

rood,   cross,  702»,  435». 

Rosamond,   Fair,  301*,  721». 

Roundel,   719b*. 

Round  Table,   The,  996. 

rout,  gay  party,  380^. 

Rowley   forgeries,   352*. 

"Rules  of  Charles   I.,"  375*. 

Runes,  24t. 

Rustum,  645*. 

Sabbath,  Witch's,  633". 

St.  Agnes,   484*. 

St.  Agnes'  Eve,  483*. 

St.  Augustine,  SS". 

St.  Cecilia,  282*. 

St.    Denis,   5508,     C^.  532a. 

St.  George,   565t. 

St.   Helena,   24t. 

St,  James,   Shrine  of,  39'«,  49^. 

St.  James's  Park,  319*. 

St.  James's  Square,   540«,  543«. 

St.  Julian,  472*. 

St.   Mark   (Venice),  194»,   460\ 

St.   Paul,   529*. 

St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  46<«,  97*.  272». 

St.   Peter,   232*',  521'. 

St.   Veronica,   512*. 

Saki,  6362. 

Salisbury,  Bishop  of,  32*. 

Salmasius,  234t. 

Samite,   9928. 

Sanctus,  523». 

Sangreal.     See  Grail. 

Sansfoy,  132b.     Sansjoy,  1356.     Sansloy,  133&. 

sark,   cuirass,  7  line  550;  shirt,  41025. 

Sarras,  City  of,  103*. 

Saturn,  228»,  240  line  512,  481*. 

Saxon  =  I^owland  or  English,  4452,  458*,  5448. 

scar,  scaur,  a  bare  rock,  or  cliff,  444*. 

School,   119*. 

Schoolmen,   212",  264». 

Scipio's   Dream,  SG**. 

scdp,  poet,  1*. 

Scotus,  264». 

Scottish  Covenant,  271t. 

Scottish  Poetry,  399*. 


lU 


INDEX  TO  NOTES,  AND  GLOSSAEY 


Scylding,  1*. 

Scylla,  251*.     Another  Scylla,  318». 

secular,  marking  or  completing  a  century,  2866. 

Sedge,  231". 

seen,  skilled,  llli. 

Semi -cope,  46*',  354»», 

Semiramis,   60*. 

Seneca,   192«,  529*. 

sensible,   sensitive,  174". 

sentence,   sense,   opinion,  judgment,   95*. 

Sequin,  195i». 

Seraphim,  139^*. 

Sessions,  Courts  of,  293*. 

Setebos,   170»«. 

Seven    Deadly  Sins,  135t. 

Shadwell,   Thomas,  280*  ff. 

Shaftesbury,  Earl  of,  277*. 

Shah    Nameh,   645*. 

Shakespeare,  Epitaph  on,  191t. 

shell  =  lyre,  349i,  35P. 

Shelley,  622*. 

Sher-Thursday,  106»'. 

Shooting-stars,  508^ 

Sicilian   Muse,  232«». 

Siege   Perilous,   101". 

Siegfried,  Sigurd,  705*.  720t. 

Signs,   London,   369=,   541a. 

Sigurd,   The  "Wrath"  of,  705*,  708*. 

silly  (German   selig,    blessed),    innocent,    simple, 

224",  433*. 
Slon,  234^ 

Sinai,   Mt.,  225",  234*,  535i. 
sith,  sithens,  since,  103*. 
Sizar,   56P. 

skills,    (impersonal),    matters,   avails,    113",   625i. 
Slug-horn,   626'. 

Sock  =  Comedy,  192«,  228»    281". 
Soho  Square,   292^ 
Solway  Firth,  443». 
Song   of  Solomon,   588$,  623^ 
Sonnet,   Introduction  of,   125*. 
Sonnet  sequences,   142*,   632*.  693*,   701*. 
sooth,   soth,   sothe,   truth,   87". 
sop,  soupe,  sup,   small  portion  of  a  liquid,   162*, 

402'. 
Sophocles,  642*. 

Souls,   Pictorial  representation  of,  619". 
Spalrges,  404t. 
speir,  ask,  402l^ 
Spheres,   Music    of,    255*,    225=,    3218,    53010.      see 

Ptolemaic  Astronomy. 
Sphinx,   Theban,  482a  line  23. 
Stang,  336>. 
Stella.  362>«. 

stole,   robe.  229»»,  577  line  197. 
Storied,  348^  230«, 
Stothard,  Thomas,  684«. 
Strappado,   299o. 
Straw,  Jack,  59«. 
Stratford  atte    Bowe,   44*. 
style  =  name,   247*». 
sublime  =  uplifted.  249",  350». 
Summoner,  49".  524«. 
Sunlum,  467".  649b. 
8wan-song,  318*. 


"Sweetness  and  light,"  659*. 

Switzerland,   Invasion  of,   440*. 

Sword  of  King  David,   103t. 

Sylvanus,   230». 

syne,   since,  405^. 

Synonyms  in  early  prose  style,  lllj. 

Tabard,  43",  7026  line  30. 

tale,  number,  227". 

Tanaquil,  127^ 

Tara    Hill,  495§. 

Tartarus,   253  line  858. 

Tasso,  460'. 

Taurus,  343i,  578*. 

teen,  grief,  166". 

Telegraph,  521'. 

tell,   count,  227". 

Tempe.    A  vale  in  Thessaly,  near  Mt.  Olympus. 

482a,  4896  line  7. 
Templars,  542'. 

Temple,   The,  50i2,  293",  542',  561i. 
Tethys,   131«>, 
Thalia,  227'. 
Thammuz,  239^3. 

thane,   war-companion,  retainer,  3  line  234. 
that  =  that  which,  what,  212^. 
that  pleonastic  (when  that  =  when,  because  that 

=  because,  etc.),  43*. 
that  serving  to   repeat  a  preceding  connective, 

207'. 
Theatre,   Customs  of   Elizabethan,    197*. 
Thebes,    Walls    of,    1576   line   26,    173>",    5308.    cp. 

569t. 
Theocritus,  231»',  632*. 
Third    Estate,   535*.     See  Estates, 
tho,   then,  136". 
thorough,   through,   483'. 
thou   in  familiar  address,  165**. 
Thresholds,  Blessing  of,  438*. 
Thrones,  139". 
Timotheus,  2836=. 

Titan,  240  line  510;  =  the  sun,  221t. 
Titans,  236t. 
to  intensive:  to-burst,   burst  to  pieces,   936  line 

814. 
Toad-eater,  371». 

Tophet  =  hell  535',  626*.    See  239,  lines  402-405. 
Touchstone,  133*. 
Tournament,  97*'. 
Transubstantiation,  278^. 
Travellers'  Insurance,  182*. 
Treiawny,   Sir  Jonathan,  499*. 
Triple  Alliance,  278**. 
Triton,   231=3. 

Triumphal   processions,   228»,  512*,  514*. 
Trosachs,  445*". 
Troubadours,  488*. 
Tuilerles,  532». 
Tuily,  293*5. 

Tussaud,   Madame,  565". 
Twelfth-day,   98*'. 
Twelve  good  rules,  375*. 
Tyler,  Wat,  59». 
Typhon,   226",  236t. 
Tyrian  purple,  287». 


INDEX  TO  NOTES,  AND  GLOSSAEY 


u& 


Ulysses,   Bow  of,   262*. 

Una,   1288. 

unco,   uncouth,  unknown,   227',   405t. 

Unction,  Extreme,  92»».     Cp.  730«. 

undern,   57»    IOI12. 

Unities,  Dramatic,  309»2. 

unnethe,  uneasily,   scarcely. 

L  rani  a,   234^,  258*. 

use,  to  be  accustomed,  215". 

Utopia,  110*,  563t. 

Valkyries,  705*. 

Vaiiombrosa,  238» 

Vandals,   238« 

Venice,  427*,  460=,  601  ff.,  677  ff. 

Venus,  1852".  570*,  571t,  713i.  Introduced  into 
Dryden's  Secular  Masque  to  represent  the 
licentious  age  of  Charles  the  Second. 

Versailles,   532*,  533",  535^ 

Vers  de  soci6t6,  497§. 

Vesta,  22S«. 

virtue  =  strength,  229". 

Virtues,  Aristotle's  twelve  moral,  127*. 

Volsunga  Saga,  705*. 

Vulcan,    242^. 

vulgar,  common,  215**. 

Vulgate,  152«. 

wade  =  walk,  649*. 

Waits,  19915,  55511. 

Waldenses,  233*. 

Walpole,   Sir  Robert,  339*,  340t,  340§. 

Walsingham,   40*,   146t. 

Waitham,  200&,  51I12. 

Wandering  Jew,  476-. 

Wapping,   299». 

Wax   Image,  Melting  of,  688*. 

Weald,  The,  95a  bottom,  670t. 

Weders,  3*. 

weed,  garment,  127*. 

ween,  think;  wened,  wendc,  went,  thought. 

Weland,  62. 

wench,  girl,  167". 


Westminster,   540». 
Westminster  Abbey,   191t,  505t. 
wnat  time  =  when,  230b^. 
whenas  =  when   (in  Middle  English), 
whereas  =  where  (in  Middle  English), 
whiles,  at  times,  404". 
whilk,  which,  399a 
whilom,   formerly,  127*. 
whist,  silent,  170<",  224". 
Whitehall,  541i2. 
Whitsunday,  100», 
wight,   person,  128". 
wight,  active,  69i">. 
Wigs,   36215. 
Windermere,   421'. 
Windows,   114t. 

Wise  Men  of  the  East;  49»,   223*. 
wit,  wete,  know.     Pres.    indie,   sing.,   wot;   pre- 
terit, wist.     For  I  wis,  see  y-wis. 
wit  =  talent,  etc.,  307*.  3611*. 
Wits,   2762. 

wold,  undulating  upland,  a  down,  567b  line  S. 
Wombat,  6961. 
wood,  mad,   108». 
Woolsack,   561i». 

Wordsworth,   Dorothy,  417  line  12i,  427*. 
Wordsworth,   Mrs.,  423*. 
worship,  worthiness,   honor,   99™. 
Wye,   River,   416t 
Wynkyn  de  Worde,  IO225. 
Wyrd,  1*,  11  line  1233. 

y-,  a  past  participial  prefix;  y-done  =  done,   y- 

dread  =  dreaded,  etc.     63». 
ycleped,  yclept,   called,  48  line  410. 
yede,   went,  102'*. 
you   in  respectful  address,  165". 
your   (indefinite,  generalizing)  =a,  the,  any,  ISS". 
Yvetot,   563t 
y-wis,   certainly,  124'.     Cp.  431". 

ZaI,  647*,  634  stanza  x. 

Zephyr,  the  west  wind,  227  line  19. 


INDEX  TO  TITLES  AND  FIRST  LINES 


Abou  Ben  Adhem 

Absalom  and  Achitophel,  From 

Across  the  empty  garden-beds 

Addison,  The  Charactek  of 

Address  to  the  Deil 

Address  to  the  Unco  Gcid 

Adonais,    From 

Afterthought 

Afton  Water 

Agincourt 

Aglauba,  Song  from 

A  golden  gllllflower  to-day 

A  good  sword  and  a  trusty  hand ! 

Ah  !    County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh 

Ah,  did  you  once  see  Shelley  plain 

Ah  fading  Joy  !  how  quickly  art  thou  past ! . . . 

Ah,  Sunflower 

Ah,   Sunflower,  weary  of  time 

Ah  what  avails  the  sceptred  race 

Alastor 

Alexander's  Feast 

Alfred,  From  The  Proverbs  of  King 

A  little  soul  scarce  fledged  for  earth 

All  along  the  valley,  stream  that  flashest 

white 

All  human  things  are  subject  to  decay 

All  is  Well 

All  Nature  seems  at  work.     Slugs  leave  their 

lair 

All  service  ranks  the  same  with  God 

All  tho  bells  of  heaven  may  ring 

Althea,  To,  from  Prison 

A  Man's  a  Man  fob  a'  That 

Amoretti,    From 

Ancren   Riwle,   From   The 

And  all  is  well,  tho'  faith  and  form 

And  now  Love  sang ;  but  his  was  such  a  song. 

And  the  first  gray  of  morning 

Anglo-Saxon  Chronicle,  From  The 

Apology,  An 

A  povre  widwe  somdel  stope  in  age 

Apple  Gathering,  An 

Arcadia,  From  The  Countess  of 

Pembroke's 

Abeopaoitica,    From 

Arraignment  of  Paris,  Song  From  The.... 
Art  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slumbers? 
Arthur  Makes  the  Saxons  His  Tributabies 

As  I  gaed  down  the  water  side 

As  I  in  hoary  winter's  night 

A  simple  child 

Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows 

A  Slumber  did  my  spirit  seal 

A  Sonnet  is  a  moment's  monument 

As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 


496 
277 
703 
360 
404 
405 
480 
427 
412 
148 
220 
702 
49'J 
448 
622 
285 
398 
398 
496 
468 
283 
35 
719 

587 
280 
640 

443 
598 
719 
221 
414 
142 

32 
587 
694 
645 

25 
705 

53 
701 

200 
2C2 
144 
14S 
31 
400 
145 
415 
220 
410 
693 
639 


Astrophel  and  Stella,  First  Song 144 

Astrophel  and  Stella,  Sonnets  From 142 

As  two  whose  love,  first  foolish,  widening 

scope 694 

A  sunny  shaft  did  I  l)ehold 442 

As  you  came  from  the  holy  land 146 

As  You  Like  It,  Songs  From 147 

Atalanta  in  Calydon,  From 710 

At  Babiloyne  whilom  fll  it  thus CO 

At  Flores  in  the  Azores  Sir  Richard 

Grenville  lay 590 

A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever 483 

At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep- 
time 631 

Auld  Lang  Syne 411 

AuLD  Robin  Gray 399 

Austerity  of  Poetry 643 

Autumn,  To 490 

Avenge,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints, 

whose  bones 233 

Awake,  Aeolian  lyre,  awake 349 

Awake,  my  St.  John!  leave  all  meaner  things  319 

Away,  haunt  thou  not  me 639 

Baby's  Death,  A 719 

Ballad  of  Dreamland,  A 718 

Banks  o'  Doon,  The 412 

Bannockburn 413i 

Bastille,  Storming  of  the 532 

Battle  of  Beal'  an  Duine,  The 445 

Battle  of  Blenheim,  The 493 

Battle  of  Brunanburh,  The 20 

Battle  of  Hastings,  The .S54 

Battle  of  Killiecrankie 543 

Beautiful  EVelyn  Hope  is  dead  ! 616 

Beggar  Maid,  The 57  ^ 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field 422 

Be  it  right  or  wronge,  thes  men  amonge 80 

Beowulf,  From 1 

Better  Answer,  A 304 

Between  the  green  bud  and  the  red 713 

Bible,  From  the  Wyclif  and  the  Kino  James  41 

Blessed   Damozel,   The 686 

Blindness,  On  His 224 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind 147 

Blub  Closet,  The 701 

Bonnie  George  Campbell 79 

Bonny  Dundee 448 

Boot,  saddle,  to  horse  and  away  ! 599 

Borough,  From  The 395 

Boy  and  the  Angel,  The 008 

Break,  Break,  Break 583 

Bright  Star  !     Would  I   were  Stedpast  as 

Thou    Art 493 

Bring  the  bowl  which  you  boast 449 


746 


INDEX  TO  TITLES  AND  FIRST  LINES 


Ul 


Britons  Seek  Succor  from  the  Romaxs, 

THE 20 

Brunanburh,  The  Battle  of 20 

Brynhild,  The  Passing  Away  of 705 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore,  The 494 

Burning  Babe,  The 145 

But  be  contented :  when  that  fell  arrest 144 

By  an  Evolutionist 597 

Caedmon,  The  Stort  of 21 

Calm  was  the  day,  and  through  the  trembling 

air    139 

Canterbury  Tales,  From  The 43 

Captain,  The 5S9 

Captain,  or  Colonel,  or  Knight  in  arms 233 

Care-charmer  Sleep,  son  of  the  sable  night..  .   142 

Carthon,   From 352 

Castaway,  The 394 

Castle  of  Indolence,  from  The 344 

Ca'  the  Yowes 400 

Cavalier  Tunes 599 

Celia,  To 149 

Celtic  Literature,  Natural  Magic  in 659 

Chalk,  From,  On  a  Piece  of 669 

Chamouni,   Hymn   Before    Sunrise    in   the 

Vale    of 441 

Chapman's  Homer,  On  First  Looking  Into  492 

Charge  op  the  Light  Brigade,  The 58.) 

Charles  II,  Coronation  of 272 

Charles,  Return  op  King 271,  274 

Charles  II,  The  Death  of 27G 

Chaucer,   On 288 

Cherry-Ripe     148 

Chesterfield,  Letter  to  Lord 357 

Cheviot,  The  Hunting  op  the 73 

Child,  Upon  A 719 

Childe    Harold,    From 457 

"Childe  Roland  to  the  Dark  Tower  Came"  624 

Child  in  the  House,  The 723 

Child  op  Quality  Five  Years  Old,  To  a.  . . .   303 

Child's  Laughter,  A 719 

Chillon,  Sonnet  on 453 

Chillon,  The  Prisoner  of 453 

Christ,  From  The 24 

Christabel,  Part  First 436 

Christmas  Tree,  A 551 

Chronicle,  From  The  Anglo-Saxon 25 

Chronos,  Chronos,  mend  thy  pace 286 

Citizen  op  the  World,  From  The. 368 

Cllomenes,  Song  from 286 

Cloud,  The 478 

Cloud  Confines,  The 692 

Club,  The 292 

Coliseum,  The 462 

Come  away,  come  away.  Death 147 

Come  back  to  me,  who  wait  and  watch  for  you  701 

Come,  dear  children,  let  us  away 641 

Come,  gentle  Spring,  ethereal  mildness,  come..   342 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud 58S 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love 146 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands 170 

Complete  Angler,  From  The 264 

Compleynt  op  Chaucer  to  His  Purse,  The     62 

Composed  upon  Westminster  Bridge 426 

Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little 578 


Confessions    op   an    English   Opidm-Eater, 

From    516 

Constantinople,  The  Fall  of 381 

Contemplate  all  this  work  of  Time 58/ 

Contented  wi'  Little  and  Cantie  wi'  Mair  413 

Coquette's   Heart,   A 300 

Coronach    444 

CoRiNNA's  Going  A-Maying 221 

Cotter's  Saturday  Night,  The 401 

County  Guy 448 

"Courage !"   he  said,   and  pointed  toward  the 

land    572 

Coverley,  Sir  Roger  de,  at  Church 295 

Cowley,  The  Death  op 276 

Creep   into  thy  narrow   bed 656 

Criticism,  From  An  Essay  On 307 

Cromwell,  To  the  Lord  General 233 

Crossing  the  Bar 598 

Cuckoo    Song 36 

Cuckoo,  To  the 422 

Culture  and  Human  Perfection 650 

Cymbeline,  Song  from 148 

Cyriack  Skinner,  To 234 

Cyriack     this    three    years'    day     these    eyes 

though  clear 234 

daisy.  To  a  Mountain 407 

Dante,    To 596 

Dear  Cloe,  how  blubbered  is  that  pretty  face !  304 

Dear  Native  Regions 415 

Dear  Thomas,  didst  thou  never  pop 304 

Death-Bed,  The 498 

Decline  and  Fall  op  the   Roman   Empire, 

From  The 381 

Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows 572 

Db  Juventute,  From 564 

Delia,  To 142 

Deor's  Lament 18 

Departure  of  ^neas  From  Dido 126 

Descend,  ye  Nine !  descend  and  sing 305 

"Describe  the  Borough." — Though  our  idle  tribe  395 
Description  op  Spring,  Wherein  Each  Thing 

Renews 126 

Deserted  Village,  The 373 

Destruction  op  Sennacherib,  The 452 

Diary  op  John  Evelyn,  From  The 274 

Diary  of  Samuel  Pepys,  From  The 271 

Dirge,  A 483 

Discourse,  Op 212 

Dissertation  upon  Roast  Pig,  A 506 

Does  the  road  wind  uphill  all  the  way  ? 702 

Don  Juan,  From 464 

Doubt    you    to    whom    my    Muse    these    notes 

intendeth? 144 

Dover   Beach 656 

Dream-Children  :  A  Reverie 504 

Dreamland,  A  Ballad  of 718 

Dream-Pedlary    498 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes 149 

Duchess,  My  Last 600 

Duty,  Ode  to 423 

Earthly  Paradise,  From  The 7').'» 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair...  426 
Earth,  ocean,  air,  beloved  brotherhood ! 469 


^48 


INDEX  TO  TITLES  AND  FIRST  LINES 


Ecclesiastical  History,  From  The 20 

Eddcation,  On 259 

El   Dorado 730 

Electba,  To 222 

Elf.oy  on  the  Death  of  Scots  Music 399 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard.   347 

Elene,  From  The 24 

Elgin  Marbles,  On  Seeing  the 492 

Elia,  From 504 

Elia,  From  The  Last  Essays  of 509 

Endymion,  From 483 

English  Bards  and  Scotch  Revieweus,  From  449 
English    Humourists    of   the    Eighteenth 

Century,   From    The 550 

Epilogue    (to  Asolando) 631 

Epitaph  on  Robert  Canynge 352 

Essay   on   Criticism,   From  An 307 

Essay  on  Man,  From  An 319 

Eternal  Spirit  of  the  cliainless  Mind  1 453 

Ethereal  minstrel !  pilgrim  of  the  sky ! 424 

Evelyn    Hope 6H5 

Evensong    735 

Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  The 483 

Everlasting    Yea,    The 526 

Everyman 84 

Evolutionist,  By  an 597 

EXCELENTE  Balade  OF  Charitie,  An 353 

Fables,    From 305 

Faerie   Queene,  From  The 127 

Fair  and  fair,  and  twice  so  fair 144 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France 148 

Fall  of  Constantinople,  The 381 

Farewell,   A 583 

Farewell    to    the    Highlands,    farewell    to    the 

North    412 

Father  of  all !  in  every  age 325 

Faustus,    From    The    Tragical    History    of 

Doctor 151 

Fear  Death  ? — to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat . .  629 

Fire,  The  Great 275 

First  when  Maggie  was  my  care 411 

Five  years  have  past ;  five  summers,  with  the 

length     416 

Flow  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  the  sea. 583 

Flower  in  the  Crannied  Wall 597 

Flow  gently,   sweet  Afton,   among  thy  green 

braes     412 

Forsaken  Garden,  A 717 

Forsaken  Merman,  The 641 

Fha  Lippo  Lippi 610 

France  :  an  Ode 440 

"Fbater  Ave  atque  Vale" 596 

French  Revolution,  From  The 532 

Friend,  To  a 642 

Friendship,   Of 213 

From  child  to  youth  ;  from  youth  to  arduous 

man    694 

From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony 282 

Frozen  Words 298 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies 170 

Oabocms,  From  Or 218 

Gather  ye  rose-buds,  while  ye  may 222 

Get  up,  get  up  for  shame,  the  blooming  morn  221 


I  Gilliflower  of  Gold,  The 702 

Girdle,  On  a 223 

Give  a  Rouse 599 

Give  place,  ye  lovers,  here  before 126 

Give  to  me  the  life  I  love 734 

Glory  of  warrior,  glory  of  orator,  glory  of  song  597 

Goblin    Market 695 

Godiva,  Leofbic  and 514 

God  moves  In  a  mysterious  way 391 

Goethe  in  Weimar  sleeps,  and  Greece 613 

Goldsmith    (in   English  Humourists) 559 

Go,  Lovely   Rose 222 

Gondola,  In  a 601 

Grasshopper  and  Cricket,  On  thi: 492,  496 

Great  Fire,  The 275 

Grecian  Urn,  Ode  on  a 489 

Green  Grow  the  Rashes 411 

Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass 496 

Grow  old  along  with  me ! 626 

Gulliver's  Travels,  From 330 


Had  I  but  plenty  of  money,  money  enough  and 
to  spare 

Hail,  holy  Light,  offspring  of  Heaven  first- 
born     

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league 

Hamelin  Town's  in  Brunswick 

Hamlet,   Song   From 

Happy,  those  early  days,  when  I 

Hark  !  ah,  the  nightingale 

Hark,  hark,  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings. . 

Harp  That  Once  Through  Tara's  Halls, 
The    

Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning-star . . 

Haunch  of  Venlson,  The 

Ha !  whaur  ye  gaun,  ye  crowlin  forlie 

Heart  of  the  Night,  The 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain 

Hellas,  Chorus  from 

Hence,   loathM  Melancholy 

Hence,   vain   deluding   Joys 

Her  arms  across  her  breast  she  ia.d 

Here's  a  Health  to  King  Chaklk.s 

HERVfi   RiEL 

He  that  rules  only  by  terror 

Highland    Mary 

High,  upon  Highlands 

Hill  Summit,   The 

History  of  England,  From  Macaulay's.  . . . 

Hohenlinden 

Home  Thoughts,  from  Abroad 

Home  Thoughts,  prom  the  Sea 

Hound  and  the  Huntsman,  The 

House  of  Life,  From  The 

How  do  I  love  thee?     Let  me  count  the  ways 

How  Roses  Came  First  Into  the  World.  . 

How  Roses  Came  Red 

How  should   I   your  true  love   know 

How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest 

How  sweet  I  roamed  from  field  to  field 

How  the  Earth  and  Sea  Be  of  Round  Form 

How  They  Brought  the  Good  News  fbo.m 
Ghent  to  Aix 

Hunting  of  the  Cheviot,  The 


621 

255 
470 
589 
603 
147 
223 
654 
148 

495 
441 
377 
407 
694 
444 
481 
227 
228 
571 
449 
620 
589 
413 

79 
695 
530 
494 
608 
608 
305 
693 
C33 

64 
222 
147 
346 
397 

64 

600 
73 


INDEX  TO  TITLES  AND  FIRST  LINES 


749 


Hymn    Before    Scnhise    in   the   Vale   of 

Chamouni 441 

Hymn  to  Pkosebpine 711 

I  am  poor  brother  Lippo,  by  your  leave '. 616 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee 477 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers  478 

I  dare  not  ask  a  kiss 222 

Idea   .' 143 

Ideal,  Op  the  True 683 

I  envy  not  in  any  moods 584 

If  all  the  world  and  love  were  young 146 

If  ought  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song 346 

If  there  were  dreams  to  sell 498 

If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  nought.  .  632 

I  hate  the  man  who  builds  his  name 305 

I  have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions  493 
I    have   lived   long   enough,    having   seen    one 

thing,    that   love   hath   an   end 711 

I   heard   a   thousand  blended  notes 416 

I  heard  men  saying.   Leave  hope  and  praying  710 

I  held  it  truth  with  him  who  sings 584 

I  hid  my  heart  in  a  nest  of  roses 718 

IL   Penseroso 228 

Imaginary  Conversations,  From 512 

I  met  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land 476 

Impertinence  at  first  is  borne 303 

I'm  wearin'  awa*,  John 401 

In  a  coign  of  the   cliff  between  lowland  and 

highland     717 

In  a  Drear-nighted  December 491 

In  a  Gondola 601 

In  a  Lecture  Room 639 

In  a  somer  seson,  whan  soft  was  the  sonne. .     39 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp 600 

Indian  Emperor,  Song  from 285 

Indian   Serenade,  The 477 

In   Memoriam,   From 584 

In  somer,  when  the  shawes  be  sheyne 69 

In  the  Garden  at  Swainston 588 

In  the  South  Seas,  From 731 

In  the  Valley  of  Cauteretz 587 

In  this  lone,  open  glade  I  lie 644 

In  those  sad  words  I  took  farewell 585 

Intimations   of    Immortality   from    Recol- 
lections OF  Childhood 424 

In  Virgo  now  the  sultry  sun  did  sheene 353 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 428 

I  plucked  pink  blossoms  from  mine  apple  tree  701 

I  sat  with  Love  upon  a  woodside  well 693 

I  send  my  heart  up  to  thee,  all  my  heart....   601 

Is  it,  then,  regret  for  buried  time 586 

Is  it  this  sky's  vast  vault  or  ocean's  sound. .   695 

Isles  of  Greece,  The 465 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he . .   606 

Is  there  for  honest  poverty 414 

Italia,  mother  of  the  souls  of  men 715 

Ite  Domum  Saturae,  venit  Hesperus 640 

I  thought  of  Thee,  my  partner  and  my  guide  427 
I  thought  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung. . . .  632 
It  Is  a  Beauteous  Evening,  Calm  and  Free  427 

It  is  an  ancient  Mariner 42S 

It  keeps  eternal   whisperings  around 492 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king 577 

I  Travelled  among  Unknown  Men 418 


It  was  roses,  roses,  all  the  way 62S 

It  was  a  summer  evening 493 

I  Wandered  Lonely  As  a  Cloud 423 

Jackdaw,  The 392 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met 496 

Joan  of  Arc,  From ". .  523 

Jock  of  Hazeldean 447 

John  Anderson  My  Jo 411 

JOHNiB  Cock 7 «' 

Johnson  and  Goldsmith 364 

Johnson  at  School 363 

Johnson's  Character 367 

Johnson's    Friends 304 

Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us 607 

Kaiser   Dead 655 

Katharine  Jaffray 79 

Keats,  The  Grave  of 480 

Kensington  Gardens,  Lines  Written  in.  . . .  644 

Kentish  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  king 599 

Killiecrankie,  Battle  of 543 

King  Charles,   and  who'll  do  him   right  now?  599 

King  James  Bible,  From  The 41 

King,  that  hast  reign'd  six  hundred  years  and 

grown     536 

Knight  of  the  Burning  Pestle,  From  The  197 

Knight's  Tomb,  The 442 

Known  In  Vain 694 

Kubla   Khan 428 

La  Bella   Donna 691 

La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci 491 

Lady  Alice,  lady  Louise 704 

Lady  of  Shalott,  The 567 

Lady  of  the  Lake,  From  The 444 

Lake  Leman,  Night  on 458 

L' Allegro  227 

Lament,  A 482 

Lamp  of  Memory,  From  The 674 

Landmark,  The 694 

Land  o'  the  Leal,  The 401 

Last  Fight  of  the  Revenge,  The 208 

Last   Word,   The 656 

Leave-Taking,   a 711 

Legend  of  Good  Women,  From  The 60 

Leir,  The  Story  of  King 29 

Leofric   and   Godiva 514 

Letters  from  Teignmouth,  From 497 

Let  us  go  hence,  my  songs ;  she  will  not  hear  711 

Levana  and  Our  Ladies  op  Sorrow 519 

Life  of  Life,  thy  lips  enkindle 478 

Life  of  Samuel  Johnson,  From  The 363 

Light  Shining  Oct  of  Darkness 391 

Lines  Composed  a  Few  Miles  above  Tintebn 

Abbey    416 

Lines  on  the  Mermaid  Tavern 490 

Lines  on  the  Monument  of  Giuseppe  Mazzini  715 
Lines  Printed  under  the  Engraved  Portrait 

of   Milton 285 

Lines  Written  in  Early  Spring 416 

Lines  Written  in  Kensington  Gardens  ....  644 

Lives  of  the  English  Poets,  From  The.  . . .  360 

lochinvab    443 

Locksley   Hall 578 


760 


INDEX  TO  TITLES  AND  FIRST  LINES 


Lo  I  the  man,  whose  Muse  whilome  did  maske  127 

London,   1802 427 

LoNDON  Coffee  Houses 541 

London   in   1685 539 

Lords,    knights,    and    'squires,    the    numerous 

band 303 

Lost  Leader,  The 607 

Lotos-Eaters,  The 572 

Louse,  To  a 407 

Love  in  my  bosom,  like  a  bee 145 

Love  is  and  was  my  lord  and  king 587 

Love  Is  Enough,  From 705 

Love,  that  is  first  and  last  of  all  things  made  720 

LOVESIGHT     693 

Loving  in  truth,  and  fain  in  veiae  my  love  to 

show     142 

LucASTA,  To,  Going  to  the  Wars 220 

Lucy  Gray 419 

Lycidas 230 

Mac  Flecknoe 280 

Maid  op  Athen.s,  Ere  We  Part 451 

Man,  From  An  Essay  On 319 

Many  a  hearth  upon  our  dark  globe  sighs  after 

many  a  vanish'd  face. 597 

Marching  Along 599 

Maroon,  The 731 

Mary  in  Heaven,  To 412 

Mary !  I  want  a  lyre  with  other  strings 394 

Maud,  Song  from , 588 

Mazzini,    Lines    on    the    Monument    of 

Giuseppe 715 

Measure  for  Measure,  Song  from 147 

Mediaeval  and  Modern  Workmen,  The 681 

Melancholy,  Ode  on 490 

Memorabilia    622 

Memorial   Verses 643 

Memories    291 

Mermaid  Tavern,  Lines  on  the 490 

Mbtellus  and  Marius 512 

Milton    596 

Milton,  Lines  Printed  Under  the  Engraved 

Portrait  of 285 

Milton !  thou  should'st  be  living  at  this  hour  427 

Minstrel  Boy,  The 495 

Modern  Painters,  From 683 

MONNA    Innominata 701 

Monochord,    The 965 

Moore,  To  Thomas 453 

Morning  and  evening 695 

Morning  Drum-Call  on  My  Eager  Ear,  The  735 

Morning,  evening,  noon  and  night 608 

Morning  of  Christ's  Nativity,  On  the 223 

Morte  Darthur,  From  Lb 96 

Mohtb  D'Arthur 574 

Mouse,  To  a  406 

Mrs.  TJnwin,  To 394 

Much  have  I  travelled  in  the  realms  of  gold. .  492 

Muses,  To  the 398 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die 482 

My  boat  is  on  the  shore 453 

My  first  thought  was,  he  lied  In  every  word. .  624 

My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men 573 

My  hair  is  gray,  but  not  with  years 453 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains  488 


My  Heart  Leaps  up  When  I  Behold 

My  Heart's  in  the  Highlands 

My  Last  Duchess 

My  lov'd,  my  honour'd,  much  respected  friend ! 

My  lute,  awake,  perform  the  last 

My  soul  is  an  enchanted  boat 

My  spirit  is  too  weak — mortality 

Natural  History  of  Selborne,  I<"rom'  The 

Natural  Magic  in  Celtic  Literature 

Natural    Supernaturalism 

Ned   Softly 

New    Year's    Hymn 

Nightingale,  Ode  to  a 

Nightingales  warbled  without 

Nobly,   nobly   Cape   Saint   Vincent   to   the 

Northwest  died  away 

NoNNE  Preestes  Tale,  The 

No,  no,  go  not  to  Lethe,  neither  twist 

No,    no,    poor   suff'ring   heart,    no    change 

endeavour    

Northern  Farmer  (Old  Style) 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note.  . . . 

Now  fades  the  last  long  streak  of  snow 

Nutbrown  Mayde,  The 

Nymph's  Reply  to  the  Shepherd,  The 


O  blithe  New-comer  !     I  have  heard. 

Obscurest  night    involved   the  sky 

Ocean,    The 

O  days  and  hours,  your  work  Is  this 

Ode,    An 

I  Ode  (How  sleep  the  brave) 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn 

Ode  on   Intimations   of   Immortality  from 
Recollections  of  Early  Childhood.  . . 

Ode  on  Melancholy 

Ode  on  St.  Cecilia's  Day 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale 

Ode  to  Duty 

Ode  to  Evening 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind 

Oenone    

Of  Heaven  or  Hell  I  have  no  power  to  sing. . 
Of  His  Love  That  Pricked  Her  Finger..  .. 
Of  man's  first  disobedience  and  the  fruit.... 

Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights 

Of  old,  when   Scarron  his  companions  invited 

Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven 

Of  the  Cross  of  Our  Lord  Jesus  Christ.. 

Of  the  Paradise  Terrestrial 

Of  the  Trees  That  Bear  Meal,  Honey,  Wine 

AND   Venom  

Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray 

Oft  in  the  Stilly  Night 

Oh,  talk  not  to  me  of  a  name  great  in  story 

Ohthehe's   Narrative 

Oh,  to  be  in  England 

Oh,  young  Lochinvar  la  come  out  of  the  west 

Oina-Morul    

Old  China 

Old  Familiar  Faces,  The 

Old  father  Ocean  calls  my  tide 

Old  Mortality,  From 

Olnry  Hymns,  From 


422 

412 
600 
401 

125 
478 
492 

384 
659 
529 
296 
598 
488 
588 

608 

53 

490 

286 
592 
494 
586 
80 
146 

422 
394 
463 
586 
304 
346 
489 

424 
490 
305 
488 
423 
346 
476 
569 
705 
125 
234 
574 
379 
719 
63 
67 

66 
419 
495 
453 

27 
608 
448 
351 
509 
495 
286 
500 
391 


INDEX  TO  TITLES  AND  FIEST  LINES 


761 


O  mighty-mouth'd  Inventor  of  harmonies....   596 

O  mortal  man,  who  livest  here  by  toil 344 

ON  A  Girdle 223 

On  a  Piece  of  Chalk,  From 669 

Once  did  She  hold  the  gorgeous  east  in  fee . . .   427 

On  Chaucer 288 

On  Education 259 

On  either  side  the  river  lie 567 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned 482 

On  First  Looking  Into  Chapman's  Homer.  .   492 

On  His  Blindness 234. 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low 494 

On  Scotia's  plains,  in  days  of  yore 399 

On  Seeing  the  Elgin  Marbles 492 

On  the   Extinction   of  the   Venetian 

Republic     427 

On  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket 492,  496 

On  the  Late  Massacre  in  Piedmont 233 

On  the  Loss  of  the  Royal  George 392 

On  the  Morning  of  Christ's  Nativity 223 

On  the  Receipt  of  My  Mother's  Picture..   392 

On  the  Sea 492 

On  the  sea  and  at  the  Hogue,  sixteen  hundred 

ninety-two 629 

Opium-Eater,   From   Confessions    of   an 

English    516 

O   that    those   lips   had   language !      Life    has 

passed    392 

Others  abide  our  question.     Thou  art  free. . .   642 

O  thou  that  rollest  above 352 

O  Thou  !  whatever  title  suit  thee 404 

OssiAN's  Address  to  the  Sun 352 

Our  Ball 497 

O  WERT  Thou  in  the  Cauld  Blast 414 

O  what  can  ail  thee,  Icnight-at-arms 491 

O  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's 

being    476 

O  world  !  O  life  !  O  time  ! 482 

O,  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good 58-1 

O  ye  wha  are  sae  guid  yoursel' 405 

O  ye,  all  ye  that  walk  in  Willowwood 694 

Ozymandias    476 

Pains  of  Opium,  The 516 

Parable  of  a  Man's  Life,  A 21 

Paradise   Lost,   From 234 

Paraphrase  of  the  Scriptures,  From  The..  18 

Passionate  Shepherd  to  His  Love,  The.  . . .  146 

Patient  Grissell,  Song  from 148 

Patriot,  The 623 

Peace ;  come  away  :  the  song  of  woe 585 

l»EARL,  From  The 37 

Philomela   654 

Pied  Piper  op  Hamelin,  The 603 

Piers   the   Plowman,   From  The  Vision   of  39 

Pilgrims,    The 716 

Pilgrim's  Progress,  From  The 267 

Pilgrim  to  Pilgrim 146 

Piping  down  the  valleys  wild 398 

PIPPA  Passes,  Songs  from 598 

Plague,  The  Great 275 

Plan  of  an  English  Dictionary,  From  The.  355 

Poet  and  the  Rose,  The 305 

Popularity 623 

POPUI.AB  Pastimes 276 


Praise  of  His  Love,  A 126 

Preface   to   an    Edition   or   Shakespeare's 

Plays,  From  The 358 

Preface  to  the  English  Dictionary,  From 

The    357 

Preface  to  the  Fables,  From  The 288 

Prelude  of  Songs  before  Sunrise 713 

Prelude,  From  The 420 

Princess,  Songs  from  The 583 

Prisoner  of  Chillon,  The 45S 

Progress  of  Poesy,  The 340 

Prologue  to  the  Canterbury  Tales 43 

Prometheus  Unbound,  Songs  from 478 

Prospectus  to  the  Tatleb 290 

Prospice 629 

Proth.\lamion  139 

Proud    Maisie 448 

Proverbs  of  King  Alfred,  From  The 35 

Qua  Cursum  Ventus 639 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra 626 

Rape  of  the  Lock,  The 310 

Recuyell  of  the  Histories  of  Troy,  From 

The    93 

Reflections  on  the  Revolution  in  France, 

From    388 

Requiem 735 

Requiescat     644 

Retaliation,  From 379 

Retreat,    The 223 

Revenge,  Of 217 

Revenge,    The 590 

Revenge,  The  Last  Fight  of  the 208 

Riches,    Of 216 

Riddles,  From  Cynewulf's 23 

Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner,  The 428 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky 586 

RizPAH     594 

Roast  Pig,  A  Dissertation  upon 506 

Robin  Hood  and  the  Monk 69 

Robinson  Crusoe,  From 326 

Roman  Virgil,  thou  that  singest 596 

Roman  Wall,  The 20 

Rome    461 

Rondeau    496 

Rosalind's  Madrigal 145 

Rose   Aylmeb 496 

Roses  at  first  were  white 222 

Rough  wind,  that  meanest  loud 483 

Roundabout  Papers,  From 564 

Row  us  out  from  Desenzano,  to  your  Sirmione 

row !     596 

RubAiyAt  of  Omar  KhayyAm 633 

Rule,  Britannia 345 

Said  Abner,  At  last  thou  art  come 609 

Runes  From  The  Christ 24 

Sailing  of  the  Sword,  The 703 

Saint   Agnes'   Eve 572 

St.  Agnes'  Eve — Ah,  bitter  chill  It  was ! 483 

St.  Cecilia's  Day,  Ode  on 305 

St.  Cecilia's  Day,  Song  for 282 

Sartor  Resartus,  From 526 

Saul 600 


752 


INDEX  TO  TITLES  AND  FIRST  LINES 


Savannah-la-Mah    522 

Say,  is  it  day,  Is  It  dusk  In  thy  bower 692 

Say  not  the  struggle  nought  availeth 640 

Schoolmaster,  From  The 122 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled 413 

Sea,  On  the 492 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  frultfulness 490 

Seasons,  From  The 342 

Secular  Masque,  The 286 

See  the  chariot  at  hand  here  of  Love 150 

Self- Dependence    643 

Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture,  From 674 

Shakespeare    642 

Shakespeare,   On 226 

Shakespeare,  To  the  Memory  of  My  Beloved 

Master  William 191 

She  Dwelt  among  the  Untrodden  Ways...  418 
She  sat   and  sewed,   that  hath   done   me  the 

wrong 123 

She  Walks  In  Beauty 452 

She  Was  a  Phantom  of  Delight 423 

She  wept,  sweet  lady 691 

Shipwreck,    The 464 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot 411 

Sigurd  the  Volsung,  From 705 

Silent   Noon 693 

Silent  Toweb  of  Bottreau,  The 500 

Simile,  A 304 

Since  brass,  nor  stone,  nor  earth,  nor  boundless 

sea    143 

Since   there's   no   help,   come   let   us   kiss   and 

part    143 

Sir   Galahad 573 

Sir  Patrick  Spens 77 

Sir  Roger  at  Church 295 

Sister   Helen 688 

Site  op  a  University 548 

Sky-Lark,  To  a 424 

Skylark,  To  a 479 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roll'd 574 

"So  careful  of  the  type?"  but  no 585 

SOHRAB    AND    RUSTUM 645 

Soldier,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er 444 

Solitary  Reaper,  The 422 

Song 397 

Song  for  Music 705 

Song  from  Cleomenes 286 

Song  from  Shakespeare's  Cymbeline,  A . . . .   346 

Song  of  Thamesis 286 

Song  of  the  Bower,  The 692 

Song  of  the  Shirt,  The 498 

Song  of  the  Western  Men,  The 499 

Songs  before  Sunrise,  Prelude  of 713 

Songs  of  Innocence,  Introduction  to 398 

Sonnet,  The 693 

Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese 632 

So  sang  he  ;  and  as  meeting  rose  and  rose. . . .   694 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone 490 

So  We'll  Go  No  More  a  Roving 452 

Spanish  Armada,  Defeat  of 663 

Spanish  Armada,  The  Sailing  of  the 602 

Spectator,   From   The 292,  295,  300,  801 

Speech  at  Bristol,  From  The 387 

Splendour  Falls,  The 583 

Stand  still,  true  poet  that  you  are  ! 623 


Stanzas    Written    on    the    Road    between 

Florence  and  Pisa 453 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God ! 423 

Stones  of  Venice,  From  The 677 

Strange  Fits  of  Passion  Have  I  Known...  418 

Strew  on  her  roses,  roses 644 

Studies,  Of 212 

Summer  is  y-comen  in 36 

Sunset  and  evening  star 598 

SuspiRiA  db  Profundis,  From 519 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low 583 

Sweet  Auburn !   loveliest  village  of  the   plain  373 

Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright 220 

'Sweet,   thou  art  pale' 701 

Sweetness  and  Light,  From 656 

Take,  O,  take  those  lips  away 147 

Talk  at  the  Club,  1778 366 

Tam  O'  Shanter 408 

Tatler,  From  The 290,  291,  296,  298 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean  584 

Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind 220 

Tempest,  The 164 

Thanks,  my  Lord,  for  your  venison,  for  finer 

or   fatter 377 

That's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall . .  600 

That  son  of  Italy  who  tried  to  blow 643 

That  time  of  year  thou  may'st  in  me  behold.  144 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined 223 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the 

fold     452 

The  blessed  damozel  leaned  out 686 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day....  347 

The  day  is  dark  and  the  night 692 

The  embers  of  the  day  are  red 735 

The  glorious  image  of  the  Maker's  beauty. . .  .  142 

The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls 495 

The  Isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece 466 

The  king  sits  in  Dumferllng  toune 77 

The  Lord  let  the  house  of  a  brute  to  the  soul 

of  a  man 597 

The  Lover  Complaineth  the  Unkindness 

OF  His  Love 125 

The  Lover  Having   Dreamed 125 

The  merchant,  to  secure  his  treasure 304 

The  minstrel-boy  to  the  war  Is  gone 495 

The  morning  drum-call  on  my  eager  ear 735 

The  Perse  owt  off  Northombarlonde 73 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead 492 

There  is  a  bird,  who,  by  his  coat 392 

There  Is  a  garden  in  her  face 148 

There  lies  a  vale  in  Ida,  lovelier 569 

There  lived  a  lass  in  yonder  dale 79 

There  lived  a  wife  at  Usher's  Well 79 

There's  nought  but  care  on  ev'ry  han' 411 

There  was  a  Boy :  ye  knew  him  well,  ye  cllflf. .  421 
There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and 

stream 424 

The  sea  Is  calm  to-night 656 

The  skies  have  sunk,  and  hid  the  upper  snow.  640 
The  soote  season  that  bud  and  bloom  forth 

brings 126 

The  splendour  falls  on  castle  walls 583 

The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ 685 

The  wind  flapped  loose,  the  wind  was  still ....  692 


INDEX  TO  TITLES  AND  FIRST  LINES 


753 


The  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole 585 

The  World  Is  Too  Much  with  Us 427 

The  world's  great  age  begins  anew 481 

The  year's  at  the  spring 599 

Thisbe  op  Babylon,  Martyr,  The  Story  of.     60 

This  feast-day  of  the  sun,  his  altar  there 695 

This  Is  the  month,  and  this  the  happy  morn. .   223 
Thou  hast  thy  calling  to  some  palace-floor. . . .   632 

Thou  ling'ring  star,  with  less'nlng  ray 412 

Thou  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness 489 

Three  Enemies,  The 701 

Three  poets  in  three  distant  ages  born 285 

Three  Years  She  Grew  in  Sun  and 

Shower 418 

Throne,  The    (  Venetian) 677 

Thys  Momeynge  Starre  of  Radcleves 

rysinge    Rale 352 

Tiger,  Tiger,  burning  bright 398 

Tiger,  The 398 

Tintadgel  bells  ring  o'er  the  tide 500 

TiNTERN  Abbey,  Lines  Composed  a  Few 

Miles  above 416 

'Tis  hard  to  say,  if  greater  want  of  skill 307 

'Tis  the  middle  of  night  by  the  castle  clock. . .   436 

To 482 

To  A  Child  of  Quality  Five  Years  Old.  . . .   303 

To  A  Friend 642 

To  A  Louse 407 

To  Althea,  from  Prison 221 

To  a  Mountain  Daisy 407 

To  a  Mouse 406 

To  a  Sky-lark 424 

To  A  Skylark 479 

To  Autumn : 490 

To  Celia 149 

To  Dante 596 

To  Delia 142 

To  draw  no  envy,  Shakespeare,  on  thy  name. .   191 

To  Electra 222 

To  fair   Fidele's  grassy  tomb 346 

Toil,  The  Voice  of 710 

Toll  for  the  brave 392 

To  Lucasta,  Going  to  the  Wars 220 

To  Mary  in  Heaven | 412 

To  Mrs.  Unwin 394 

To  the  Cuckoo 422 

To  the  Lords  of  Convention  'twas  Claver'se 

who  spoke 448 

To  the  Lord  General  Cromwell 233 

To    the    Memory   of    my    Beloved    Master, 

William    Shakespeare 191 

To  the  Muses 398 

To  the   Virgins,  to   make   much   of  their 

Time    222 

To  Thomas^  Moore 453 

To  Virgil.  '. 596 

Toxophilus,  From 119 

To  you,  my  purse,  and  to  noon  other  wyght. .     62 

Tractate  on  Education,  From 259 

Tragical  History  of  Doctor  Faustus,  From 

The    

Travels  op  Sir  John  Mandeville,  From  The.     63 

Tristram  and  Iseult 720 

Tristram  of  Lyonesse,  From 720 

Triumph  of  Charis,  The 150 


'Twas  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won 283 

Twelfth  Night,  Song  from 147 

Ulysses 577 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 147 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky 735 

Universal  Prayer,  The 325 

University,  Site  of  a 548 

Unlike  are  we,  unlike,  O  princely  Heart ! 632 

Unstable  dream,  according  to  the  place 125 

Up  at  a  Villa  —  Down  in  the  City 621 

Up-Hill 702 

Up  Johnie  raise  in  a  May  morning 77 

Upon  a  Child 719 

Up  with  me  !  up  with  me  into  the  clouds  ! . . . .  424 

Usher's  Well,  The  Wife  of 79 

Utopia,  From 110 

Vagabond,   The 734 

Vastness 597 

Venetian  Republic,  On  the  Extinction  of.  427 

Venice 460 

Verse,  a  breeze  mid  blossoms  straying 442 

Virgil,  To 596 

Virgins,  To  the.  To  Make  Much  op  Time.  . .  222 

Virtue 220 

Vision  op  Mirza,  The 301 

Vision  of  Piers  the  Plowman,  From  The..  39 

Voice  of  Toil,  The 710 

VOLPONE ;  OB  THE  Fox,   From 192 

Wages 597 

Wailing,  wailing,  wailing,  the  wind  over  land 

and   sea 594 

Wake!   For  the  Sun,  who  scatter'd  into  flight.  633 

Wanting    Is  —  What  ? 631 

Was  that  the  landmark?     What  —  the  foolish 

well 694 

Waterloo 457 

We  Are  Seven 415 

Weary  of  myself,  and  sick  of  asking 643 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tippM  flow'r 407 

Wee,  sleekit,  cowrin,  tim'rous  beastie 406 

Western  Men,  The  Song  of  The 499 

Westminster  Bridge,  Composed  upon 425 

West  Wind,  Ode  to  the 476 

We  watched  her  breathing  through  the  night.  498 

Whan  that  Aprille  with  his  shoures  soote....  43 
What  dire  offence  from  amorous  causes 

springs 310 

Whate'er  you  dream,  with  doubt  possessed. ..  .  640 

What  ever  I  have  said  or  sung 587 

What  guile  is  this,  that  those  her  golden 

tresses 142 

What,  Kaiser  dead?    The  heavy  news 655 

What  needs  my  Shakespeare  for  his  honoured 

bones 226 

Wheer  'asta  beSn  saw  long  and  meS  liggin 

'ere   aloiin  ? 592 

When  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command....  345 

When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street 408 

When  do  I  see  thee  most,  beloved  one? 693 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 2.34 

When    I    Have    Fears    that   I    mat    Cease 

TO    Be 492 


754 


INDEX  TO  TITLES  AND  FIRST  LINES 


When  I  have  seen  by  Time's  fell  hand  defaced.  143 
When  In  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes.  143 

When  Love  with  unconflned  wings 221 

When  our  two  souls  stand  up  erect  and  strong  633 
When  the  Assault  Was  Intended  the  City.  233 
When  the  hounds  of  spring  are  on  winter's 

traces 710 

When  the  Lamp  Is  Shattered 482 

When  the  sheep  are  In  the  fauld  and  the  kye 

at   hame 399 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought..  143 
Where  is  the  grave  of  Sir  Arthur  O'Kellyn?..  .  442 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  1 188 

Whether  on  Ida's  shady  brow 398 

Whistle  O'er  the  Lave  O't 411 

Who  is  your  lady  of  love,  O  ye  that  pass 71<i 

Who  prop,  thou  ask'st,  in  these  bad  days, 

my    mind? 642 

"Why?"    Because  all  I  haply  can  and  do 631 

Why  did  you  melt  your  waxen  man 68S 

Why  I  Am  a  Liberal 631 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover? 220 

"Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladle? 447 


Wife  of  Usher's  Well,  The 79 

WiLLOWWOOD    693 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn 498 

With  how  sad  steps,  O  moon,  thou  climb'st 

the   skies  ! 142 

WooDSPURGE,   The 692 

Wordsworth 660 

Work  without  Hope 443 

Wyclif  Bible,  From  The 41 

Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around 413 

Ye  Clouds!  that  far  above  me  float  and  pause.  440 

Ye  flowery  banks  o'  bonle  Doon 412 

Ye  Mariners  of  England 494 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and  once  more. . .  230 

Ye  tradeful  merchants  that  with  weary  toil. . .  142 

You  ask  me,  why,  tho'  ill  at  ease 574 

You  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon 600 

You'll  come  to  our  ball;  —  since  we  parted..  497 

Your  hands  lie  open  In  the  long  fresh  grass. . .  693 

Youth  and  Age 442 

Zapolya,  Somg  from 442 


INDEX  TO  AUTHORS 


Addison,  Joseph 

Alfred  the  Great 27, 

Arnold,  Matthew 

AscHAM,  Roger 

Bacon,    Francis 

Beaumont,  Francis   

Beddoes,  Thomas  Lovell   

Beds 

Blake,  William 

BoswELL,  James 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett 

Browning,  Robert 

BUNYAN,  John 

Burke,  Edmund 

Burns,    Robert 

BxRON,  Lord 

Caedmon 

Campbell,  Thomas 

Campion,  Thomas 

Cakew,  Thomas 

Carlyle,    Thomas 

Caxton,  William 

Chatteuton,  Thomas 

Chaucer,   Geoffrey 

Clough,  Arthur  Hctjh 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Tatlob 

Collins,    William 

Cowper,  William  . . .' 

Crabbe,   George 

Cynewulf 

Daniel,    Samuel 

Defoe,    Daniel 

Dekker,   Thomas 

Deob 

De  Quincey,  Thomas 

Dickens,   Charles 

Drayton,    Michael 143, 

Dbyden,  John 

EvKLTN,  John 

Fehousson,  Robert 

Fitzgerald,  ETdward 

Fletcher,  John 

Froude,   James   Anthony 

Gay,    John 

Geoffrey  of  Monmouth 


295 

35 

641 

119 

212 
197 
498 
20 
397 
363 
632 
598 
267 
387 
401 
149 

18 
494 
148 
220 
526 

95 
352 

43 
639 
428 
346 
391 
39.-) 

23 

142 
326 
148 
18 
516 
551 
148 
277 

274 

390 
633 
197 
662 

305 


I  Gibbon,  Edward 

I  Goldsmith,   Oliver 

I  Gray,  Thomas 

I  Hawker,  Robert  Stephen 

j  Herbert,  George 

I  Hebbick,   Robebt    

j  Hood,  Thomas 

I  Howard,  Henry,  Earl  of  Surrey. 

Hunt,   Leigh 

Huxley,  Thomas  Henry 


Johnson,  Samuel 

Jonson,    Ben 149,  191, 


381 

368 
347 
499 
220 
221 
498 
126 
496 
669 

355 

192 


Keats,   John 483 


Lamb,  Charles 495, 

Landor,  Walter  Savage 496, 

Langland,  William 

Lindsay,  Lady  Anne 

Lodge,  Thomas 

Lovelace,  Richard 

Macaulay,  Thomas  Babington,  Lord 

Macpherson,  James 

Malory,  Sir  Thomas 

Mandeville,  Sir  John 

Marlowe,  Christopher 146, 

Milton,   John 

Moore,  Thomas 

More,  Sir  Thomas 

Morris,   William 


Nairne,  Carolina,  Lady 

Newman,  John  Henry,  Cardinal. 


504 
512 
39 
399 
145 
220 

539 
351 
96 
63 
151 
223 
495 
110 
702 

401 
548 


"Ossian" 351 


Pagan,  Isobel 

Pater,    Walter 

Peele,  George 

Pepys,    Samuel 

Poor,  Richard  (?) 

Pope,  Alexander 

Praed,  Winthrop  Mackworth. 
Prior,  Matthew 


Raleigh,   Sir   Walter 146, 

RossETTi,  Christina 

RossETTi,  Dante  Gabriel 


29  JRusKiN,  John. 
755 


400 
723 
144 
.271 
32 
305 
497 
303 

208 
695 
686 
674 


756 


INDEX  TO  AUTHOBS 


Scott,  Sir  Walter 443,  500 

Shakespeare,    William 143,  147,  104 

Shellet,  Percy  Bysshe 468 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip 142,  144,  206 

Southey,    Robert 493 

Southwell,    Robert 145 

Spenser,    Edmund 127,  142 

Steele,  Sir  Richard 290 

Stevenson,  Robert   Louis 730 

Suckling,  Sir  John 220 

Surrey,  Henry  Howard,  Earl  of 126 

Swift,   Jonathan 330 

Swinburne,  Aloebnon  Charles 710 


Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord 507 

Thackeray,  William  Makepeace 559 

Thomson,  Jasies 342 

Vacqhan,    Henry 223 

Waller,    Edmund 222 

Walton,    Izaak 264 

White,    Gilbb.rt 384 

Wolfe,  Charles 494 

Wordsworth,  William 415 

Wyatt,  Sir  Thomas 125 

WYciiiF,  John , 41 


USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED  , 

LOAN  DEPT.  ^ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 
on  the  date  to  -which  renewed, 
newed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 

EC'D  LD 


AUG  1 3  {959 


\f> 


r^ 


6^ 


Rpr-n  i-D 


ftUG  2  3  t 


'oEPll'61  .1 


it=V 


"QJ 


SfPllSdl 


M7   '32  0 


pEC'D  ^^ 


MPrPl362r 


LD  21A-50m-4,'59 
(A1724sl0)476B 


U15t»cl>^\-u 


General  Library 

Univenity  of  California 

Berkeley 


27AUG'59DF 


LD  21-100m-7,'40(6936«) 


yo  03i04 


ivi30OS78 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  UBRARY 


8B{ 


